Seeker

12. Trust

Today is Saturday, but I feel so incredibly bizarre that I need to come up with a whole new name for this day. “Saturday” doesn’t cover it.

Last night, to take my mind off things, I agreed to go ice-skating with Mary K., Aunt Eileen, and Paula at the big outdoor rink outside of Taunton. I had’nt seen Eileen and Paula in ages—I’ve been busy saving my grades, and they’ve been fixing up their new house.

It was one of the last times we could go skating—spring is coming, and soon they won’t be able to maintain the outdoor ice. I felt like a little kid, lacing my skates. Mary K. bought a caramel apple. Eileen and Paula are happy and light-hearted, and all four of us were being incredibly silly and goofy. I felt happy, and I didn’t think about Hunter more than about a thousand times, so that was good.

Then Paula was zipping along backward when she lost her balance and went down hard. The back of her head slammed against the ice with a crack so loud, it sounded like a branch breaking. Immediately Eileen and I were there, and Mary K. rushed up a few seconds later.

I watched in horror as a spreading, lacy design of blood seeped across ice.

A little crowd had gathered around, peering over our shoulders, trying to see what was happening, and Aunt Eileen rose on her knees and shooed them back. I could tell she was starting to freak out, so I took hold of one of her shoulders and told her to go call 911.

Her eyes took a second to focus on mine, then she nodded, got shakily on her feet, and skated carefully to the side of the rink.

Mary K. was trying not to cry and failing. She asked me if Paula was going to be okay.

I told her I didn’t know and gritted my teeth at the amount of blood I was seeing. Paula’s eyes fluttered open once, and I took her hand, patting it and calling her name. She didn’t respond and closed her eyes again. I had seen that one of her pupils was tiny, like a pencil point, and one was wide open, making her iris look black. I didn’t know what that meant, but I had watched TV often enough to know it was bad. Crap, I thought. Double crap.

I stroked Paula’s cheek, cool beneath my hand. My hands felt so warm, even without gloves. My hands… a couple of weeks ago, Alisa Soto had been very ill. I had tried to touch her, and all hell had broken loose. Did I dare try to touch Paula now? The situation with Alisa had been really weird, way different from this one. But what if I made Paula worse?

Cautiously, I traced my fingers over Paula’s hair, now cold and wet. I hoped no one was paying attention to what I was doing. Beneath my fingers, I felt Paula’s life force pulsing unsteadily, becoming overwhelmed by a cascading flood of injuries it couldn’t recover from.

I closed my eyes and concentrated. It took me a moment to orient myself, to feel my consciousness blend with Paula’s. But then I was at home in her body, and I could tell what was wrong. There was bleeding inside Paula’s skull. The blood on the ice was from her skin being split, but there was also bleeding inside her skull, and it was pooling at the back of her head. It was compressing her brain, which had nowhere to go. Her brain was swelling dangerously, pressing against her unmovable skull, and it was starting to shut down. Paula was going to die before the ambulance got there.

My eyes blew open at this knowledge. Eileen was white-faced, crying, trying to be brave. I saw Mary K., stroking Eileen’s arm and weeping.

Very slowly and quietly, hoping no one would stop me, I closed my eyes again and rested my fingers lightly beneath Paula’s head. In moments I had sunk into deep meditation, had sent my senses into Paula again. Now I could see all the damage. Without having to search for them, ancient words came into my mind. It was a spell from Alyce, I realized. Silently I repeated them as they floated toward me, hearing their powerful, singsong melody. I pictured the pooled blood dissipating, seeping away; I thought about gently opening the collapsed veins, branching off smaller and smaller, ininitely delicate and perfect and beautiful.

As Paula’s system steadied—her breathing more even, her heart pumping more strongly, her brain returning to its pre-accident state—I felt a wave of exhilaration that almost took my breath away. This was beautiful magick, perfect in its intent, powerful in its form, and gracefully expressed by the ancient voices through me. There was nothing more wonderful, more satisfying, more joyful, and I felt my heart lighten and a smile come to my face.

Then Paula’s eyes fluttered open, and my happiness increased.

I sat back on my heels, exhausted, and glanced at my watch. My had was covered with blood; I wiped it hastily on my jeans. I had done everything in three minutes. Three crucial minutes that meant the difference between life and death for someone I cared about. It was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to me, and I couldn’t even take it in.

The ambulance came almost ten minutes later. Paramedics raced out onto the ice, stabilized Paula’s neck and head, then moved her carefully to a stretcher. Aunt Eileen went with the stretcher, promising to call us later with news. I said I’d take her car back to my mom’s house, and she could come get it later. She tossed me the keys and then ran to catch up.

After the flashing red lights had disappeared and the crowd of anxious bystanders had drifted away, Mary K. and I got stiffly to our feet. We were chilled through and bought some hot chocolate from the stand, then walked back to Aunt Eileen’s car.

As I unlocked the door, I told Mary K. I thought Paula was going to be all right. She had stopped crying but still looked very upset. She got into the passenger seat without saying anything; and I looked over at her before I started the engine.

Mary K.’s large brown eyes met mine and she asked me what I had done.

I looked out the windshield into the salt-strained street—winter was ending, and it seemed like I was seeing the bare ground, bare trees, bare sidewalks for the first time. I thought of Alisa and her brief illness, how Mary K. still seemed to think I healed her.

I didn’t know what to say.

“Nothing,” I whispered.

— Morgan

On Saturday morning I finished writing my Justine Courceau report for the council. I’d spent quite a bit of time with her, discussed all the different facets of true names, had further interviews with the people in Foxton, and gone through her library. The summary of my report was that she needed reeducation but wasn’t dangerous and that no serious action need be taken, once I witnessed her destroying her written list of true names.

I signed it, addressed an envelope, put the report inside, and sealed it. Da was sitting in the room’s one chair. I told him what the report said, and to my surprise, he looked like he was actually listening. He rubbed his hand across his chin, and I recognized the gesture as one I make myself when I’m thinking.

“Reeducation, eh?” he said. “You think so? I mean, you think that will be enough?”

“That and destroying her list,” I said. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

He shrugged. “I think there’s more to Justine than meets the eye.”

I gave him my full attention. “Please explain.”

He shrugged again. “You don’t really know her. You might not want to accept her at face value.”

“Do you have anything concrete or specific that should change what I said in my report?”

“No,” he admitted. “Nothing more than I feel suspicious. I feel she’s hiding something.”

“Hmmm,” I said. On the one hand, the report was written, and I didn’t want to redo it, though of course I would if I turned up new information. On the other hand, Da, despite his many enormous faults, was still nobody’s fool, and it would be stupid of me not to pay attention to what he said. On the third hand, Da had just spent eleven years on the run and was probably pretty likely to be suspicious of everyone.

“Right, well, thanks for telling me that,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind this afternoon.”

“Yup,” Da said. “Anyway, she’s got a nice library.”

“Hunter! Welcome back. Come in,” Justine said.

“Hello. I’ve wrapped up my report, and I wanted to give you the gist of it before my father and I take off.” I got out of my coat and draped it over the back of the sofa, then sat down across from her.

“Oh, great. Where is your father?”

“Back at the B and B. He gets tired very easily, though he definitely seems better since you did the healing rite.”

“I’m glad. Okay, now tell me about your frightening report on the evil and dangerous Justine Courceau.”

She was openly laughing at me, and I grinned back. Not many people feel safe teasing me—Morgan and Sky are the only ones who came to mind. And now Justine.

Briefly I filled her in on what I had reported to Kennet, expecting her to be relieved and pleased. But to my surprise, her face began to look more and more concerned, then upset, then angry.

“Reeducated!” she finally burst out, her eyes glittering. “Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said? Have our talks meant nothing?”

“Of course I’ve heard what you said,” I responded. “Haven’t you heard what I’ve said? I thought you’d come to agree with the council’s position on true names of living beings.”

“I said I understood it,” Justine cried, getting to her feet. “Not that I agree with it! I thought I’d made that perfectly clear.”

I stood up also. “How can you not agree? How can you possibly defend keeping a written list of the true names of living beings? Don’t you remember that story I told you, about the boy in my village and the fox?”

She threw her arms out to the sides. “What has that got to do with anything? That’s like saying don’t go to Africa because I knew someone who tripped and broke their leg there. I’m not an uneducated child!”

Before I realized it, we were shouting our views and shooting the other’s down. It turned out that all week we had been dancing around each other, skirting the issues, avoiding openly confronting each other and, in so doing, had made incorrect assumptions about what we agreed on, how we felt, what we were willing to do. I had thought I was being a subtle but influential Seeker, but Justine had chosen not to be influenced.

Ten minutes into it, our faces were flushed with heat and anger, and Justine actually put out her hands and shoved against my chest, saying, "You are being so pigheaded!”

I grabbed her arms below her shoulders and resisted the temptation to shake her. “Me pigheaded? You have pigheaded written all over you! Not to mention self-centeredness!”

At that very instant, as Justine was drawing in a breath to let me have it again, I became aware that someone was watching me, scrying for me. I blinked and concentrated and knew that Justine had just picked up on it, too. It was Morgan, trying to find me. She must not have cast concealing spells. As soon as I made that connection, she winked out, as if she were only trying to locate me to see where I was. I looked down at Justine, saw what we looked like, with her hands pressed against my stomach and me holding her arms, both of us arguing passionately, and realized what it might have looked like to Morgan. “Oh, bloody hell,” I muttered, dropping my hands.

“Who was that?” Justine asked, her anger, like mine, deflated.

“Bloody hell,” I repeated, and without warning, my whole life came crashing down on me. I loved Morgan, but she’d been spying on me! I was a Seeker but growing increasingly uncomfortable with the council’s secrecy and some of its methods. And my da! I didn’t even want to go there. My father who wasn’t a father; my mother who was dead. It was all too much, and I wanted to disappear up a mountain-side, never to be seen again. I rubbed my hand against my face, across my jaw, feeling about forty years old and very, very tired.

“Hunter, what is it?” Justine asked in a normal voice.

I raised my head to look at her, her concerned eyes the color of oak leaves in fall, and the next thing I knew, she had pressed herself against me and was pulling my head down to kiss me. I was startled but could have pulled back. But didn’t. Instead my head dipped, my arms went around her, and our mouths met with an urgency as hot as our argument had been. Details registered in my mind: that Justine was shorter and curvier than Morgan, that she was strong but less aggressive than Morgan, that she tasted like oranges and cinnamon. I drew her closer, wanting her to turn into Morgan, then realized what I was doing and pulled back.

Breathing hard, I looked down at Justine, horrified by what I had just done, even as I acknowledged that I had liked it, that it had felt good. She smiled up at me, her lips full, her eyes shining.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the first moment I saw you,” she said, her voice soft. “I haven’t been this attracted to anyone in I don’t know how long.” She reached for me again and spread her hands across my chest, splaying her fingers and pressing against the muscle there. Gently I covered her hands with mine and pulled them away from me.

“Justine,” I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I shouldn’t have kissed you, for several different reasons. I don’t know what came over me. But I apologize.”

She laughed—a light, musical sound—and tried to pull me close again. “Don’t apologize,” she said, her voice drawing me in without a spell. “I told you, I’ve been wanting to kiss you. I want you.” Her eyes took on more intent, and she stepped closer to me so we were touching from chest to knees. I felt her full breasts pillow against me and the width of her hips against mine. It felt terrific, and I felt awful, guilty.

“I’m sorry, Justine,” I said again, stepping back. I crossed the room with big strides and grabbed my coat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Then I was out the door like a dog turned loose and rushing toward my car.

I was back at the bed-and-breakfast hours before I had expected to be. All I wanted was to lie on my bed and figure out what the hell had just happened. I knew I loved Morgan sincerely and truly, and I knew I was intensely attracted to her. The fact that we hadn’t slept together didn’t seem to have any bearing on this—I was sure we would, when it was right. No, this was a freak occurrence, and I needed to figure it out so I could make sure it never happened again. I also just needed to get my head clear about the council and my father. A daunting task.

Groaning to myself, I turned my key in the lock and tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. I tried the key a couple of times, then realized that the damned door was spelled from the inside! Working as quickly as I could, I dismantled all the blocking spells, then crashed into the room. Da was on the floor, hastily brushing a white substance under his bed. I lunged for it, dabbed my fingers in it, and tasted it. Salt.

“What have you been doing?” I demanded while he got up and sat on his bed, brushing off his hands. He was silent, and I looked around the room. Now I saw a small section of the concentric circles of power he had drawn on the floor with salt, and I also found a book, written in Gaelic. Written Gaelic is a struggle for me, but I could read enough to decipher that there was a chapter on creating a sort of artificial bith dearc, far from a power sink. I wanted to throw the book across the room.

“Did Justine give you this, or did you take it?” I demanded, holding the book out to him.

He looked at me. “I took it,” he said without remorse.

I shook my head. “Why am I even surprised?” I asked no one. Suddenly feeling angry seemed pointless. Instead a deep sadness came over me as I accepted the fact that I wasn’t enough of a reason for Da to want to live. I flopped down on my bed and looked at the ceiling. “Why am I disappointed? You don’t want to stop contacting Mum. You don’t care that it hurts her, that it hurts you, that it hurts me. You don’t care that you’re going to take away the only parent Alwyn and I have left. I just—I don’t know what to do. You need a father, a father of your own. I’m not up to it.”

“Son, you don’t understand,” Da began.

“So you say,” I interrupted him, turning on my side, my back to him. “No one understands how you feel. No one has ever lost anyone they cared about, except you. No one has felt your kind of pain, except you. You’re so bloody special.” I didn’t try to hide my bitterness. I hated the fact that I cared enough to be disappointed. I hated Da for being who he was, and who he wasn’t.

“No, I mean you don’t understand what I was doing,” Da said, a stronger tone in his voice. “I was trying to help you.”

“Help me?” I laughed dryly. “When have I ever mattered enough for you to want to help? I know I’m nothing to you. The only good thing about me is that I’m half Mum.”

Silence dropped over the room like a curtain. My father was so still and quiet that I turned over to see if he was still there. He was. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at me, a stunned, confused expression on his face. “You are,” he whispered. “You are half Fiona. You, and Alwyn both. Fiona lives on in you.”

I sighed. “Forget it, Da. I’m not going to hassle you anymore. I’m giving up.”

“Wait, Hunter,” he said, using my common name. “I know you won’t believe this, but you, Linden, and Alwyn were the most precious things in my life, after your mother. You three were our love personified. In you I saw my strength, my stubbornness, my wall of reserve. But I also saw your mother’s capacity for joy, her ability to love deeply and give freely. I had forgotten all that. Until just now.”

I rolled over to face him. He looked old, beaten, but there was something about him, as if he’d been infused with new blood. I felt a more alive sense coming from him.

“I liked being a father, Gìomanach,” he said, looking at his hands resting on his knees. “I know it may not have seemed like it. I didn’t want to spoil you, make you soft. My job was to teach you. Your mother’s job was to nurture you. But I was happy being a father. I failed Cal and left him to be poisoned by Selene. You and your brother and sister were my chance to make that up. But then I left you, too. Not a day has gone by since then that I haven’t regretted not being there to watch my children grow up, see your initiations. I missed you.” He gave a short laugh. “You were a bright lad, a bulldog, like I said. You were fast to catch on, but you had a spark of fire in you. Remember that poor cat you spelled to make the other kids laugh? I was angry, you misusing magick like that. But that night, telling Fiona about it, I could hardly stop laughing. That poor cat, batting the air.” Another tiny chuckle escaped, and I stared at him. Was this my father?

“Anyway,” Da said. “I’m sorry, son. I’m a disappointment to you. I know that. That’s bitter to me. But this seems to be where my life has brought me. This is the spell I’ve written.”

“Maybe so, up till now,” I said, sitting up and swinging my feet to the floor. “But you can change. You have that power. The spell isn’t finished yet.”

He shook his head once, then shrugged. “I’m sorry. I’ve always been sorry. But—you make me want to try.” These last words were said so softly, I could hardly hear them.

“I want you to try, too, Da,” I said. “That’s why I’m so disappointed today.” I gestured at the circles, smudged on the floor, the salt crunching underfoot.

“I really was trying to help you,” he said. “I didn’t trust Justine. How is she acquiring the true names of living beings? Of people?”

I frowned. “She told me she inherited some of them from her mother. Others she found by accident. Two names have been contributed by their owners, in the interest of her research.”

“Maybe so,” said Da, not sounding convinced. “But she also gets a lot from the shadow world.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t contacting Fiona this time,” Da explained. “I have no wish to harm her further. But the shadow world does have its uses. One of them is that people on the other side have access to knowledge that not many can get otherwise.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, afraid of where this was going.

“Justine acquires many of the true names of living beings, including people, from sources in the shadow world,” Da explained.

I blinked. “How do you know this?”

“Sources in the shadow world. Reliable sources.”

I was quiet for several minutes, thinking it all through. Obviously if Da’s sources were correct, I had to come up with a whole new game plan. The situation had developed a new weight, a new seriousness that would require all my skill as a Seeker. Da had gotten this information for me. He had risked his own health—not to mention the irresistible temptation of calling my mother—in order to help me in this case.

Finally I looked up. “Hmmm.”

Da examined my face. “I have—a gift for you. To help you.”

“Oh?”

He went to the room’s small desk and took out a sheet of paper. With slow, deliberate gestures he wrote a rune in the center of the paper. Then, concentrating, he surrounded the rune with seven different symbols—an ancient form of musical notes, sigils denoting color and tone, and the odd, primitive punctuation that was used in one circumstance only. Da was writing a true name. At the end he put the symbol that identified the name as belonging to a human.

I read it, mentally transcribing it as I had been taught, hearing the tones in my mind, seeing the colors. It was a beautiful name, strong. Glancing up, I met Da’s eyes.

“She is more dangerous than she seems. You may need this.”

The paper in my hand felt on fire. In my life, I had known only five true names of people. One was mine, three belonged to witches whose powers I had stripped, doing my duty as a Seeker, and now this one. It was a huge, huge thing, a powerful thing. My father had done this for me.

“I have an idea,” I said, feeling like I was about to throw myself into a river’s racing current. “I think you need to get away from Saint Jérôme du Lac—far away. It has bad memories for you. Not only that, but Canada is too bloody cold. You need to start fresh. I think you should come back to Widow’s Vale with me. Sky and I have room, and I know she’d be glad to have you. Or we could get you your own place. You could be around other witches, be back in society. You need to rejoin the living, no matter how much you don’t think you want to.”

For a long time Da sat looking at a blank spot on the wall. I prayed that he had heard me because I didn’t think I’d be able to repeat the offer.

But at last my father’s dry croak of a voice said, “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know how long I can resist the pull of the bith dearc. I don’t want to hurt your mother anymore. I can’t. But I need help.”

I was amazed and wondered what I had just gotten myself into. I would have to deal with it as it came. “Right, then,” I said. “We’ll leave tomorrow, after I clear up a few matters with Justine Courceau.” I looked again at the true name and memorized it. “We’ll stop in Saint Jérôme du Lac, get what you need from the cabin, and be in Quebec City by nightfall.”

My father nodded and lay down on his bed with the stiff, jerky movements of an old man.