Changeling

8. Longing

Brother Colin, I have doubts that I have not been able to confess to good Father Benedict. MY brother, I fear I am possessed by an evil spirit. Since the night of Brother Thomas's healing, Nuala Riordan has haunted my waking moments and my dreams. Only during prayer does she not intrude upon my mind. I have mortified my flesh, I have prostrated myself before God. I have spent days and nights in prayer until I am half feverish.

My brother, if you have any hope for my immortal soul, please remember me in your prayers.

—Brother Sinestus Tor, to Colin, July 1768.

My alarm went off at six-thirty on Thursday morning, I felt like I was trapped in an unending nightmare.

I pawed at the clock until the hideous noise stopped. Almost forty minutes later I woke again, wondering if it was time to get up for school. Then I salt bolt upright. Eoife!

I threw some food at Dagda, scrambles into jeans and a sweatshirt, quickly braided my hair, and was out of the house in less than twenty minutes. I was already late. My heart was pounding as I drove to Hunter's house, and not even the pinkish morning light soothed me. My life was out of control. Last night I'd gotten home after eleven. I had taken out my textbooks, then stared at them uncomprehendingly as me bed beckoned. Five minutes later I was asleep, with Dagda kneading the comforter next to me.

So for the last four days I hadn't done any homework, hadn't gotten enough sleep, hadn't gotten Ciaran to Widow's Vale. I was late for a meeting with Eoife, I wasn't checking in with her often enough, I'd made illegal magick… What the hell was I doing?

I pulled up fast in front of the somewhat shabby little house that Hunter and Sky shared. The back deck that Cal had sabotaged had been rebuilt. There was an ugly ligustrum hedge in front that had been ignored for many years that it was just a gnarled collection of half-leaved branched. My breath was coming in little puffs of smoke, I trotted up the walkway and rang their doorbell.

As I did, it occurred to me that I was at my ex-boyfriends house at seven-thirty in the morning, looking like total hell. True, I had broken up with him, and for very good reasons, but that didn't mean I had to make him glad about it when he saw me by looking like a wreck.

Eoife opened the door, her small face looking solemn as she looked at me, and I wondered if Sky had mentioned the sparks-and-flowers incident of the night before.

"Sorry, I'm late," I said. Without thinking I cast my senses through the house and discovered that Sky was asleep upstairs but Hunter wasn't in the house. Good. A reprieve.

"Do you always do that?" Eoife said as I followed her into the kitchen in back.

"Do what?" I took off my coat as Eoife poured boiling water into a waiting teapot.

"Cast your senses." She brought the teapot to the table, and smoky plumes of fragrance swirled above us. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent.

"Um…" I tried to think. "Yes, I guess so. I don't really think about it. But if I feel like I need to know what's going on, who's around, that kind of thing, then yeah, I guess I usually cast my senses."

She poured the tea into two delicate cups with saucers. "Who taught you how to do that?"

"No one, it just came to me." I circled my left hand over my tea, widdershins, and thought, Cool the fire. Now the tea was the perfect temperature, and I took a long sip. Aaahh.

Frowning, not angrily but as if perplexed, Eoife looked at me from across the table. "You cooled your tea."

"Uh-huh. It's great. Thanks for making it," Another big swallow, hoping this tea had caffeine in it. I couldn't tell.

"Morgan—" Eoife began, but then she shook her head. "Never mind."

I took a packet of Pop-Tarts out of my backpack and opened it. They're better toasted but perfectly edible cold if necessary. I offered one to Eoife and thought I detected a faint shudder as she refused.

Holding her teacup with both hands, Eoife said, "I'm sorry to tell you, Morgan, that Suzanna Mearis is still in a coma."

I looked at Eoife, and sudden guilt crashed down on me. The truth was, I had barely though of Suzanna in the last couple of days. I had been there to see her fall, I had witnessed the taibhs, I knew that her coven was destined for destruction, yet I had spent the last two days partying and abusing my power. What kind of witch was I? "Has anything else happened?"

"Not as of this morning, thank the Goddess." She put down her cup and gazed at me. "Has Killian spoken to Ciaran?"

"Not yet," I admitted. "He said I'm more eager to see him Ciaran than he is. I guess Ciaran is angry at him, and Killian wants to delay having to deal with it." I looked up at Eoife's chestnut-colored eyes, remembering again Suzanna's warm house and serene expression. "I feel like I should press harder," I admitted. "I know that you said not to make Killian suspicious, but Imbolic is getting closer and closer. Maybe if I told Killian I was desperate to meet my father again…"

I felt tension tightening Eoife's slight body. "No, Morgan," she said, leaning over the table. Her eyes burned in her porcelain face. "We have to tread cautiously. I know that this is difficult, but we mustn't destroy the mission by acting in haste."

I nodded slowly and looked deep into my teacup. "Okay," I murmured. "I'll keep working. Ciaran will come here, and I'll get information out of him."

Eoife sat back in her chair, her eyes still on me. "I'm sorry," she said again. "You make it easy to forget that you're young and uninitiated."

"I can do this," I said firmly, pushing aside my tea. Looking vaguely sympathetic, Eoife nodded back at me, and I picked up my coat and left.

School seemed more surreal then usual that morning since I had just come from a meeting with Eoife. I felt schizophrenic: high school student by day, undercover ICOW agent by night. In my first period I had barely sat down when my American history teacher, Mr. Powell, pulled out an ominous sheaf of papers. "As I mentioned last Friday," he said, starting to hand them out, "this is a test on what we've learned since the winter holiday's."

I stared at him in horror, then mentally said every bad word I could think of. Tara Williams handed the pile of papers back to me, and I took one and passed the rest to Jeff Goldstein. Just this morning I had worried about my life being out of control. Here was my proof. My grades had been slipping, and in three months I had gone from a straight-A student to straight-B student with maybe a couple if Cs, which my parents were going to freak about. Now I was about to get a big fat F on this test.

Unless…

Unless. I thought about Killian, about his charm, his skill, the easy comfort with which he did things. Life had not come pleasantly for my half brother, but he'd gone a long way to making it easier and more fun. What would he do in this situation?

I looked up at Mr. Powell. All it would take was a simple spell that would make Mr. Powell forget he'd intended to give us this test. Or to think this one was the wrong test, and he'd bring another one tomorrow. Or to think we were supposed to have the test next week.

I bit my lip. What was I thinking? This was exactly what Hunter always talked about: making the wrong decision, making the decision that benefits only yourself, making the decision that doesn't take other people into account. He always said that was why the council had introduced regulations and guidelines back in the early 1800s. Because it's so easy to make the wrong small decision. And once you do, it's even easier to make the wrong big decision. And then, boom. You're part of the darkness.

I made choices every day, all day long. I needed to be more aware of all of them, needed to consciously try to make the right decision, a decision for good. I resigned myself to the fact that the only thing I would get right on this test was my own name.

When Killian wasn't waiting for me after school, I felt relief as well as disappointment. I could try sending him a witch message, I knew—but maybe that would make him suspicious. After all, we had seen each other almost everyday this week. Would I seem to clingy if I called him today, too?

"Want to come hang out?" Bree asked as I walked toward Das Boot. "Robbie and I are going to my house for a while."

"Thanks," I said. "But I've been letting a lot of things slide. I better go home and crank."

"Okay. See you later."

I started my car and turned the heater up. I wondered where Bree and Robbie were in their relationship and how it was going. Although I had been seeing my friends every day this week, I felt oddly disconnected from them. Being with Killian had meant only fun and magick. Unfortunately for my mission, it hadn't meant really talking to each other, sharing our feelings, getting closer.

Okay. Now I was all touchy-feely. This was getting me nowhere. I had to focus: concentrate on getting Killian to call Ciaran, getting closer to both of them, saving Starlocket. There wasn't any time to think about my own problems. And probably, I thought as my heart sank into my stomach, that was a good thing.

When I got home, I cleaned the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher for the first time since my parents have left, fed Dagda and cleaned his litter box, and called Aunt Eileen.

"Yep, everything is fine," I told her, trying to sound like that was true. "No—no coed sleepovers. At least not yet. Ha ha." After we hung up, I headed upstairs to my room and determinedly sat down at my desk. I would study for a while, then send a witch message to Killian, asking him about Ciaran.

I started with American history, reviewing chapters and making notes. I hoped that I could undo some of the damage of today's test with extra credit. Dagda came and settled himself on my desk right under the heat of the lamp.

"You have it good," I told him. "No school, no parents, no choices between good and evil. No history test."

Ugh. If only I could do a tàth meànma brach with Mr. Powell and just absorb all his knowledge. Then I could ace this class.

A couple of hours later I ate an apple with peanut butter for dinner and got ready to send a witch message to Killian. I was just calming my thoughts to do it when my senses tingled: Hunter was coming up the walk. I still seemed to be able to pick up on his vibrations more easily than I could almost anyone else's.

It occurred to me that the last time I saw him, I'd been throwing up my guts. So I felt really lovely and feminine, waiting for him to come to the door. At least this time my face was clean.

"Hi," I said as he stepped onto the porch.

"Hi." His green eyes swept me from head to foot. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Thanks for your help the other night," I said, not looking at him.

"You're welcome," he said, just as coolly. "I'm here to receive your report. Can we go inside?"

What report? I wondered. I'd given my report to Eoife this morning. Had he not heard it from her? Or was there some other reason he wanted to come over? Puzzled, I frowned at him for a second before realizing he had asked me a question.

"No, you're not supposed to be in the house. Here, let's sit in Das Boot," I said, digging in my pocket for the keys. It was frigid inside my car, and the vinyl seats didn't help any. But I blasted the heater, and a few minutes later we were comfortable.

"You met with Eoife this morning?" he asked, taking off his gloves and shoving them in his pocket.

"Yes. Is Suzanna Mearis still in a coma?"

He shook his head. "They did healing spells all day, and she woke up a little while ago."

I sighed in relief. "Thank the Goddess."

"Yes." Hunter nodded somberly, then turned his green eyes back to mine. "So tell me about Killian."

I shrugged. "I saw him yesterday at Bree's. Practically everyone from Kithic was there. I asked him if he had contacted Ciaran, and he said he hadn't. Didn't Eoife tell you this?"

Hunter frowned, and I got it: he was here because he had an excuse to be here, with me. Oh, Hunter, I thought longingly.

"Anyway," I said, looking at my hands, "I was about to send him a witch message, asking to get together."

"He's unbelievably slippery," Hunter said, almost to himself.

"Excuse me?"

"He gets out of everything, like an eel," Hunter went on. "He got out of New York before the ritual, he got off scot-free the night you were sick. He careens through life, having a good time and not worrying about anyone else."

"I think that's a little harsh," I said. "Killian's—incredibly fun. He's irresponsible, but I don't think he's hurtful. There's no reason to think he's deliberately keeping Ciaran from meeting me."

Hunter looked at me, and all at once I remember other times sitting in my car, with our hands all over each other and our mouths joined fiercely. I swallowed and looked away.

"Give up the mission," Hunter said quietly.

"No. I'm getting it done."

"I don't think anyone can do it. It's too dangerous. I think Starlocket needs to disband and get out of town."

"Why don't they?" I asked.

He sighed. "Covens never do. When they're in danger, they stay together, no matter what. A coven never splits up if they can help it. Almost never," he paused, and I knew he was thinking about his parents. "Most covens feel they're less at risk if they stay together—the dark wave can't divide and conquer them."

Thinking about what Starlocket was facing, I once again felt the fear that I was sickeningly inadequate for this job. But somehow Hunter was thinking that, too, was enough to make me go forward.

"We still have nine days. This could still work," I said.

Hunter shook his head, looking out the car window at the darkness. "Want to go have something to eat?" he surprised me by saying.

"I already ate. I've been studying all afternoon, trying to get caught up."

"Deities? Correspondences? Basic forms of spell craft?"

"Uh, American history. For school."

Hunter nodded and looked away, and I felt that once again I had disappointed him somehow. Sometimes it seemed like everything I did was wrong.

"I flunked a test today, so I'm trying to catch up." Hoping to make Hunter smile, I said, "I'm so tempted to do a tàth meànma on my teacher so I wouldn't have to study the rest of the year."

His eyes flicked to me. "Morgan. Doing a tàth meànma with a regular human would likely leave that person an drooling vegetable."

"I was just kid—"

"Rules about things like that exist for a reason," he went on. "Witches have been using magick for thousands of years. Witches far more experienced than you have created these guidelines to benefit everyone. They saw what could happen if magick was unchecked."

"I was just kidding," I said stiffly. Sometimes Hunter seemed so inflexible and humorless. He wasn't, I knew, but he definitely seemed that way sometimes.

"Things are very clear for you, aren't they?" I asked almost wistfully. "Decisions seem clear, the right path is in front of you, you don't have to agonize over what's right or wrong."

He was silent for a few minutes. I cracked a window so we wouldn't die of carbon monoxide poisoning. "Is that how I seem to you?" he asked softly, his words barely reached me.

I nodded.

"It isn't true." His words were like velvety leaves, falling between us in the darkness. "Sometimes nothing is clear. Sometimes there is no right path, no correct decision. Sometimes I absolutely want what I shouldn't have and do what I shouldn't do. Sometimes I want to reach out, grab power from the air; and bend everything around me to my will." He gave a slight smile as I reacted to his words. "So far I haven't," he said more lightly. "Most of the time I do all right. But not always, and not without a struggle."

I'd never known this about him, and of course it made me fall even more in love with him than I already had. He had vulnerabilities. He wasn't perfect. Oh, Goddess, I wanted him so much.

"That's what magick is," he said. "Many choices, through your lifetime. How you are determines how you make them."

Wicca is full of pithy sayings like that. I was tempted to write them all down in a book and watch it become a bestseller: Chicken Soup for the Witch's Soul.

But I knew what he meant. I got it. I rubbed my hands down on my jeans. "I'll go call Killian."

"All right. Be careful. Call me if you need me. Don't do anything that feels unsafe."

I smiled wanly. "Yes, Dad."

In a move so fast I didn't see it, Hunter was across the seat, his arm around my back, holding me against him, hard. As I gasped in surprise, he slanted his mouth across mine and kissed me with a hunger and urgency that rocked me to the core. Yes, yes, yes. Just as suddenly he pulled back, leaving me wide-eyed and breathing fast and awash in a desire so strong, I didn't know what to do with it.

"I'm not your dad," he said, looking at me. Then he opened his door and got out. Agape, I watched him head to his own car, his long wool coat billowing around his legs like a cape. I was shaking, and my arms felt empty because he wasn't in them.