Next to Grania, Killian had worn a pained expression-he hadn't joined in his mother's accusations, but neither would he defend Morgan against her. Killian mostly just took care of Killian. But Iona and Kyle-Ciaran's other children-had been another matter, Iona resembled Grania in looks-she was pale, dumpy, and had none of Ciaran's handsomeness, charisma, or grace. She'd stared at Morgan with plain hatred, but then her expression had turned to something else, something sly and knowing, almost like satisfaction: a smug, triumphant look that Morgan didn't understand. Could Iona have been glad that Ciaran was dead? He hadn't made her life easy, but she had professed to love him.
Then Kyle had surged toward her, hissing a spell. He looked more like Ciaran, but where Ciaran's features had been classical and chiseled, Kyle's were softer, more doughy. He had Ciaran's coloring, as Morgan did, and Killian.
His attack had been useless. Morgan had been initiated-she was far from an untrained teenager, unaware of her powers. Not only that, but she had already lost Hunter. Life had honed her, made her harder. Morgan, sitting there at her father's funeral, had been as hard and sharp and deadly as an athame. Kyle's power was undisciplined, unfocused, and Morgan had flicked his spells aside with a wave of her hand as if they were gnats.
This wasn't what she had come for. It gave her no pleasure to antagonize or hurt her father's other family. Sighing, Morgan had gathered her things and threaded her way through the crowd. She'd walked back toward the village and caught the next train out. Since then she'd heard about Kyle or Iona only seldom, usually from Killian, whom she continued to see maybe once a year or so, whenever she was in his area on business. Killian had changed little, despite a surprisingly early marriage and, at last count, three children. He was still happy-go-lucky, held no grudges, and managed to skip through life like an autumn leaf, tossed here and there by the wind.
Killian had told her of the political marriages of both Kyle and Iona, who had each chosen to ally themselves with powerful Woodbane families, Iona had taken her father's legacy seriously and had been studying intensively-though whether she could ever come close to filling Ciaran's shoes was unknown. Kyle had continued to soften, like an overripe cheese, and now it sounded as if he mostly played the role of country gentleman, managing extensive estates in western Scotland, supported by his wealthy wife.
Morgan sighed to herself. Okay, well, now she had managed to thoroughly depress herself. But at least she'd gathered everything she needed for the spell.
Back in the living room she lay down on the couch. It was dark outside now, and the rain had just started, Moira still wasn't back Morgan was tempted to scry for her daughter but instead sent a witch message to Moira, asking her where she was. Thankfully, Moira sent back that she was on her way home.
Rubbing her forehead again, Morgan lay in the shadowed room, trying to keep a lid on her anxiety. Moira was safe. She was coming home. And tomorrow Morgan and Keady would ask Christa, Katrina, and Will Fereston to join them in performing a spell to trace the black smoke from last night. Morgan was also considering taking the hex pouch and confronting Lilith with it, possibly making some ambiguous counterthreats. Maybe she could scare Lilith into leaving her alone.
Yawning, Morgan stretched, then went "oof!" as Bixby jumped up on her. Absently she stroked his orange fur, watching his eyes drift lazily shut. With Bixby purring comfortably on her stomach, Morgan gradually let herself be taken by sleep.
She and Hunter were making love. It felt oddly unfamiliar and at the same time as easy and regular as breathing. She could smell his skin, his hair, feel his short, white-blond bangs brush her forehead. It was as if he had been on a long trip and had just gotten home. Maybe this was one of their infrequent meetings: they were coming together in some city, somewhere, whenever they could.
"I thought you were going to settle down, come live with me," Morgan murmured against his shoulder, holding him tight. The sheer delicious joy of being with him, the feeling of connection, of rightness. This was where home was: wherever they could be together, for however long.
"I am," he whispered back, kissing her neck. "Just not as soon as I thought."
Morgan smiled against him, closing her eyes, relishing the moment, feeling gratitude for how much she loved him, that one person was able to love another person so completely. "Make it soon," she told him. "I need you with me."
"Soon," he promised. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long."
"I forgive you." Morgan sighed, kissing his shoulder.
He grinned at her, the edges of his eyes crinkling. His eyes were so green, so pure and full of light "Ta," he said. "And I forgive you."
"For what?" Morgan demanded, and the light faded from his eyes.
"For believing I've been dead all this while."
Morgan woke up crying.
Finnegan came over to the couch and gave her hand a tentative lick. Still sobbing, Morgan patted his head and tried to sit up, dislodging Bixby. Oh, Goddess, oh, Goddess. With a rough movement she pushed her hair out of her eyes. She coughed, tried to hold back a sob, and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
What time was it? Only five-twenty. She'd been asleep twenty minutes. Morgan quickly cast out her senses. Moira wasn't home yet but surely would be soon. Standing shakily, Morgan went to the hearth and threw some small logs sloppily onto the andirons. Her nerves were jangled by the dream, but kindling fire with magick was almost second nature by now. She huddled by the fire for several minutes, and she could feel the first tongues of flame trying to break through her intense coldness, the coldness that seemed to crack her bones.
What had that dream meant? she wondered miserably. She'd just had a startling, realistic dream about Hunter the same day someone had left a piece of spelled morganite on her garden path. There were no coincidences. In the days, weeks, months, years after his death, nightmarish Hunter dreams had haunted Morgan so that she'd often been afraid to sleep. How many times had she dreamed he was alive, only missing, not dead? How many times had she dreamed he had simply left her for another woman-then woken up with tears of happiness on her face because even his leaving her to be with someone else was infinitely preferable to his being dead?
But it had been ages since she'd dreamed of him so vividly, dreamed that he was still alive. This, the morganite, the face in the window, the black smoke-it was all adding up to something. Someone was haunting her with her past-someone who knew her well enough to know about Hunter. She needed to find out who, and how, and, most importantly, why.
Morgan looked down at her shaking hands almost with detachment, as if she were in the middle of a science experiment and this was a side effect. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. She hadn't felt this way in twenty years. My world is no longer safe.
I need help.
Standing, Morgan walked over to the phone. She flipped through her address book and found Sky Eventide's latest number. Sky was Hunter's cousin and, after Morgan, had probably known him better than anyone. All these years she and Sky had kept in touch, some years more than others. They'd never had a close or comfortable relationship, but they'd been united in their mutual love of and grief over Hunter and made an effort to keep track of each other. Sky had never married, though she and Raven Meltzer had gotten back together for a stretch and shared an apartment in London for several years before Raven moved to New York when her career as a fashion designer took off. These days it seemed like Sky usually had some cute guy or girl hanging around adoring her, until they annoyed the crap out of her and she cut them loose.