Across the table, Ian looked frozen. Moira immediately felt horrified that he was here, listening to this stuff. It couldn't possibly be true. If it were true…
"Because it isn't true," Moira said firmly. "You're making it up. Why in the world would you think Ciaran MacEwan could be my mum's father? This is nonsense. I'm going." She stood up abruptly and grabbed her book bag. Ian got up also, moving his chair so she could get out. "Come on," he said. "I'll see you home." He glanced at the stranger, but it wasn't a glance of revulsion or distrust. More like awe, Moira thought, and that upset her even more. How could Ian be so stupid? Ciaran MacEwan was evil personified. That's his son! She was so overwhelmed right now, she couldn't handle worrying about Ian and his motives. She had to be able to trust him, at least.
She pushed out of Margath's Faire into the street, to see that the rain had stopped and the sun had gone down and she had a long bicycle ride in the dark. Dammit. She'd just leave her bike at school and take the bus home.
"Hi, Morgan's daughter," came a voice from behind them: Killian's. "Can I offer you a lift? I'm going to your mother's now."
He had to be kidding. Like she hadn't heard enough horror stories about strangers in general and the MacEwans in particular. This guy's dad had helped develop the dark wave that had killed hundreds and hundreds of innocent witches and nonwitches.
"No," she said firmly, glancing back. "I can get home myself, thank you."
8. Morgan
Morgan answered Katrina's gentle tap on the door. Rain and wind gusted in with her mother-in-law.
"Hi," Morgan said. "Where did this storm come from? Moira's caught in it in Cobh."
"It's not a natural storm," said Katrina, sitting stiffly in a chair at the dining table. "You didn't work it, did you?"
"Me?" Morgan looked at her in surprise as she put the teakettle on the stove. "No, of course not. Why?"
Katrina shrugged. "Someone did. No one I recognize. But it is magickal."
Uneasy, Morgan filled the teapot and fetched two mugs. She'd been so deep in her thoughts she hadn't even sensed the magick behind the storm. Now someone was working weather magick. Was it Ealltuinn? Were they behind all of the things that had been happening? "I didn't sense it," she murmered
"You could, if you were outside for a minute," said Katrina.
Something in the older woman's voice made Morgan look up. "What is it, Katrina?" She slid into a chair and started to pour the tea.
"Morgan-have you been working magick I don't know about?" Katrina looked uncomfortable and concerned. "I don't mean herb spells and practice rites. I mean big magick, dangerous magick, that none of us know about."
"Goddess, no, Katrina! How can you ask that?"
Katrina's blue eyes met Morgan's over the table. She hesitated, circling her hand widdershins over her mug to cool the tea. "I don't know," she said finally. "I just feel… off. I feel like something is off somewhere. Out of balance. And then that black smoke."
Nodding, Morgan said, "Keady Dove and I are trying to trace it. We need more people, though. Perhaps tomorrow you, Christa, and Will can help us."
"Yes, of course," said Katrina. "That's a good idea." She fidgeted in her chair, looking around. "I just feel-off balance." She seemed frustrated about not being able to explain it better.
"It isn't because of anything I've been doing," Morgan said. "But there's been some odd stuff happening, that's a fact."
She told Katrina about the face in the window, the chunk of morganite, and even her dream. "Plus there was the hex pouch and the black smoke. Now a worked storm." She listened and realized that the storm had already blown over.
"Odd, odd." Katrina shook her head. "Let's try to scry now. Maybe if we join our powers, we can begin to figure out what's going on. It doesn't seem like we can afford to wait until tomorrow." Morgan glanced at the clock. It was almost six, but when Moira was with Ian, time seemed to have no meaning. She nodded.
Morgan generally scried with fire, which spoke the truth and could be very powerful, but often showed only what it wanted you to see. Colm had only rarely scried-it didn't work well for him. Some people used water or stone. Hunter had used stone. It was difficult and gave up its knowledge only reluctantly, but what it told you could be relied upon.
Morgan fetched a short pillar candle from her workroom. It was a deep cream color, and Morgan had carved runes into it and laid spells upon it to help clarify its visions.
Morgan set the candle in the center of the table, dimmed the room's lights, and sat down across from Katrina. They linked hands across the table.
"Goddess, we call on thee to help us see what we should know," Morgan said. "We open ourselves to the knowledge of the universe. Please help us receive your messages. Someone is working against us-please show us their face and their reasoning."
"We ask it in the name of goodness," Katrina murmured.
Morgan looked at the candle's blackened, curled wick. Fire, she thought, and pictured the first spark igniting. With a tiny crackle the wick burst into flame, coiling more tightly in the fire's heat. A thin spire of joy rose steadily in Morgan's chest: magick. It was the life force inside her.
Breathe in, breathe out. Relax each muscle. Relax your eyelids, your hands, your calves, your spine. Release everything. Release tension, release emotion of all kinds. Release your tenacious grip on this world, this time, to free yourself to receive information from all worlds, from all times. Scrying was a journey taken within. The fire called to her, beckoned. The candle released a slow, steady scent of beeswax and heat. Show me, Morgan whispered silently. Show me.
A tannish blotch formed before her, blotting out some of the candle's light. Morgan squinted, and the splotch widened and narrowed. It looked like a… beach. The image pulled back a bit, and Morgan could see a thin rim of blue-green water, cloudy and cold-looking, pelted by rain, crashing against the narrow spit of sand that flowed horizontally across her vision. The coastline was dotted with gray-blue rocks, pebbles, boulders, thick, sharp shards of shale pushing upward through the beach, thrust there by some prehistoric earthquake, now clawing the sky like clumsy fingers of stone.
A beach. A beach with cold gray water and stones. Where was it? It was impossible to say. But there was no southern sunshine, no pure white sand, no clear water showing rays and corals. It was a northern beach, maybe at the top of Ireland or off the coast of Scotland?
A dim, slight figure started wandering toward the water. Morgan knew better than to look directly at it: like many optical illusions, if you stared straight at a vision, it often disappeared. She kept her gaze focused on the center, feeling the slight warmth of the candle on her face. The figure became clearer. It, too, was the color of bleached sand, tan and cream, and it had splotches of crimson on its chest, the top of its head. It was tall, thin, and it was staggering. A man.
Breathe in, breathe out. Expect nothing: accept what conies. Show me.
The man approached the water, then dropped to his hands and knees, his head hanging low. Who? Morgan didn't ask the question, just let the word float gently out of her consciousness. Soon the figure seemed larger, closer. Morgan tried not to look, tried only to see without looking.
The man raised his head and looked into Morgan's eyes, and her heart stopped with one last, icy beat.
Hunter.
A much older, ragged Hunter. His hair was long and wispy and so was his darker beard. His eyes were dark, haunted, like an animal's, full of pain. His rag of a shirt was tannish, the color of the beach, except for a rust-colored stain sprayed across the chest-blood. His head, too, was marked with blood, old blood, from an old wound, and in that instant Morgan saw in her mind a jagged chunk of shale clipping Hunter across the head, leaving that blood, that wound. Scents rushed toward her: the bitter saltiness of the waves, the coldness of the wind, the metallic tang of blood, the heat of Hunter's skin. Seaweed, wet stone. Illness.