“I contacted the council,” Hunter answered me. “They were no help at all, as usual. They’re looking for Ciaran, and now that they know he’s here, they’ll surround Widow’s Vale.”
“For me it means I’ll devote all my time and energy to crafting a spell that could combat a dark wave,” said Hunter’s father. “I’ve been able to decipher a lot of the hidden writing in Rose’s book. I’ve started to sketch out the basic form of the spell, its shape. I wish I had more time, but I’ll work as fast as I can.”
The weight of this hung over my head like an iron safe. This was happening because of me. I had caused this to happen. Ciaran was my biological father—and because of that, everything I held dear would be destroyed. “What if I left town?” I suggested wildly. “If I left town, Ciaran would come after just me and leave everyone else alone.”
“No!” Hunter and his father cried at the same time.
Taken back by their vehemence, I started to explain, but Mr. Niall cut me off.
“No,” he said. “That doesn’t work. I know that all too well. It won’t really solve anything. It wouldn’t guarantee the town’s safety, and you’d be as good as dead. No, we have to face this thing head-on.”
“What about the rest of Kithic?” I asked. “Shouldn’t they know? Could they help somehow? All of us together?”
Looking uncomfortable, Hunter said, “I don’t think we should tell Kithic.”
“What? Why not? They’re in danger!”
Hunter stood and put the kettle to boil on the stove. When he turned back, his face looked pained. “It’s just... this is blood witch business. We’re not supposed to involve nonwitches in our affairs. Not only that, but there’s truly nothing they can do. They might have strong wills, but they have very little power. And if we tell them, they probably wouldn’t believe us, anyway. But if they did, then everyone would panic, which wouldn’t help anything.”
“So we just have to pretend we don’t know everyone might die,” I said, holding my head in my hands, my elbows on the table.
“Yes,” Hunter said quietly, and once again I was reminded of the fact that he was a council Seeker and that he’d had to make hard decisions, tough calls, as part of his job. But I was new to it, and this hurt me. It was going to be literally painful not to tell my own family, or Bree, Robbie. I swallowed hard.
“There’s something else,” Mr. Niall said. “I haven’t mentioned this to you yet,” he told Hunter. “With this type of spell, actually, as with most spells, the person who casts it will have to be a blood witch and will also have to be physically very close to where the dark wave would originate. My guess is that Ciaran would use the local power sink to help amplify the wave’s power.”
I nodded slowly. “That makes sense.” At the edge of town is an old Methodist cemetery where several magickal “leys” cross. That made that area a power sink: any magick made there was stronger. Any inherent blood witch powers were also stronger there.
“The problem, of course,” Mr. Niall went on, “is that to be close enough to cast the spell, a witch is in effect sacrificing herself or himself because it will most likely cause death.”
“Even if the spell works and the wave is averted?” I asked.
Hunter’s dad nodded. The sudden whistle of the kettle distracted us, and Hunter mechanically made three mugs of tea. I gazed numbly at the steam rising from mine, then flicked my fingers over it widdershins and thought, Cool the fire. I took a sip. It was perfect.
“Well, that’s a problem,” Hunter said.
“No, it isn’t,” said Mr. Niall. “I’ll cast the spell.”
Hunter stared at him.“But you just said it would probably kill the caster!”
His father seemed calm: his mind had been made up for a while. “Yes. There are only so many blood witches around Widow’s Vale. I’m the logical choice—I’m crafting the spell, so I’ll know it best—and I would once again be with my mùirn beatha dàn.”
Hunter had told me the loss of his mother, just a few months ago, had almost destroyed his father.
“I just got you back!” Hunter said, pushing away from the table. “You can’t possibly do this! There has to be some other witch who would be a better choice.”
Mr. Niall smiled wryly. “Like a witch with terminal cancer? All right, we can look for one.” He shook his head. “Look, lad, it’s got to be me. You know it as well as I do.”
“I’m stronger,” Hunter said, wearing the determined look that I knew so well. “I should cast it. I’m sure I could survive. You could teach me the spell.”
Mr. Niall shook his head.
“Dammit, I won’t let you!” Hunter’s loud voice filled the small kitchen. If he’d yelled at me like that, I would have been appalled, but his father seemed unmoved.
“It’s not your decision, lad,” he said. Calmly he picked up his mug of tea and drank.
“How long do we have?” I whispered, running my hands over the worn surface of the tabletop. “Is it tomorrow, or next week, or...”
Mr. Niall put down his mug. “It’s impossible to say for certain.” He looked at Hunter. “I would say, given the level of decay in the air and what I’ve read about the effects of an oncoming wave... perhaps a week. Perhaps a little less.”
“Oh, Goddess!” I put my head down on the table and felt tears welling up behind my eyes. “A week! You’re saying we might have one week left on this planet, a week before our families all die? All because of me? All because of my father?”
Mr. Niall surveyed me with an odd, grave expression. “I’m afraid so, lass.” He stood. “I’m going back to work.” Without a good-bye he left the room, and I heard him go upstairs.
“I just got him back,” Hunter said, sounding near tears. I looked up from the table and realized, all at once, that no matter what happened to my family, Hunter was certainly going to lose his father. I stood up and wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close. So many times he had comforted me, and now I was glad to have the chance to give some back to him.
“I know,” I said softly.
“He’s got years left. Years to teach me. For me to get to know him again.”
“I know.” I held his head against my chest.
His body was tight with tension. “Bloody hell. This can’t get any worse.”
“It can always get worse,” I said, and we both knew it was true.
6. Alisa
“It is the International Council of Witches’ considered opinion that the phenomenon of the ‘dark wave of destruction’ is without question the most evil spell a witch can perpetrate. To create, call on, participate in, or use such evil is the very antithesis of what being a witch should be.”
— Dinara Rafferty, ICOW Elder, Loughrea, Ireland, 1994
“Can I get you anything? I’m running to the store.” Hilary’s voice interrupted my reading, and I glanced up as the door to my room opened. There she was, in black leggings and a red tunic, her artificially streaked hair held back by a red Alice band.
“No. I’m okay,” I said, raising my voice so she could hear me over my CD player.
“Ginger ale? That’s what I like when I’m sick.”
“No thanks.”
I won the stare-down contest, and when Hilary finally broke, I went back to my reading. A minute later I heard the front door close with a little more force than necessary. I had elected to take a mental health day—going to school, having PE, eating lunch with people, paying attention in class—it all seemed ridiculous compared to finding out I was half witch. Thus my “illness” that Hilary was trying to treat. But she was gone now, and I had peace and quiet.