Sweep: Eclipse Part 5

"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. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l.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, partic.i.p.ate in, or use such evil is the very ant.i.thesis 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 cla.s.s-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.

pulled Sarah Curtis's Book of Shadows from under my bed and then got the small pile of letters. Since Tuesday, I had read all of them. It was like trying to absorb the news that a huge meteor was hurtling toward Earth-on some level, I just couldn't comprehend it. I mean, until a month or two ago I hadn't even known that real blood witches existed, and I kind of hadn't even believed it until I had seen Morgan Rowlands and Hunter Niall do things that couldn't be explained any other way. And now, surprise! I was half of something weird myself. Not only that, but my mom had pretty much felt the same way about being a witch-it had scared her, too, and before she met my dad, she had actually stripped herself of her powers.Which would explain why he didn't know she was a witch.

I had a lot to take in-my mother being a witch, her stripping herself of her powers, which I didn't even know you could do, and also about her family. Dad had always said that Mom had a falling-out with her family before he met her. He'd never known any of them. From the Book of Shadows and Sam Curtis's letters, it was starting to look more like they had disinherited her when she stripped herself of her powers. So unless they had all been wiped out by a freak accident after my mother left Gloucester, there might actually still be some relatives living there. I guessed it was possible they were all dead-GLOUCESTER FAMILY DECIMATED BY ROGUE TORNADO-but that seemed kind of unlikely.

Mom had been a Rowanwand. I knew from what Hunter had said in circles that Rowanwands in general had a reputation for being the "good guy" witches. They were dedicated to knowledge, they helped other witches, they had all sworn to do no evil, to not take part in clan wars.That didn't fit me at all. Dedicated to knowledge? I hated school. Sworn to do no evil? It seemed like every ten minutes, I was harshing out on someone. So I didn't feel very Rowanwandish. Which was a good thing, in my opinion.

Maybe being a witch was like a recessive gene, and you had to have copies from both parents in order for it to kick in. That would be cool. I breathed out, already feeling relieved. Since Dad was normal, maybe I only carried the witch gene, but it wouldn't be expressed. I frowned, thinking back to last semester's biology cla.s.s. Pea plants and fruit flies popped into my mind, but what about recessive witch genes? Or was it even a gene? But what else could it be?

I groaned and leaned back against my pillows. Now I really did have a headache. I went to the bathroom and took some Tylenol and was just climbing back into bed when I heard the front door shut again downstairs. Feeling my nerves literally fraying, I pushed the letters and and book under my covers and picked up The Crucible, which we were studying in soph.o.m.ore English, ironically enough.

was just making a mental note to pick up the CliffsNotes for it when, lo and behold, Hilary popped her head around my door because I had forgotten to lock it. She was carrying a tray that had a sprout-filled sandwich on it and some teen magazines that had articles like "Are You Over Your Ex? Take This Quiz and Find Out!"

For those of us who are too dumb to figure it out ourselves.

"Alisa? I thought you might be hungry. When I was sick, my mom always brought me lunch and some fun magazines."

"Oh. Thanks," I said unenthusiastically. At the risk of stating the obvious, you're not my mom. "I think I really just want to be left alone, though."

Her face fell, and I immediately felt a pang of guilt.

"I know I'm not your mom," she said, obvious hurt in her voice. "But would it be so hard for us to be friends? In a little while we're going to be related. I mean, like it or not, Alisa, your dad and I are getting married, and this baby I'm having is your half brother or half sister."

She set the tray down on my bed, and at that moment my CD player popped loudly. I smelled an electric burning smell and jumped up to unplug it. It was practically brand new! Why did everything keep self-destructing around me? Hilary gave me a long-suffering look, then swirled out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I looked down at the plug in my hand, beginning to feel like a walking destructive force: just a few days ago, the b.u.t.ter dish at Mary K.'s, then my jewelry box, now the CD player. . . .

Oh my G.o.d. My breath froze in my throat. I stood stock-still, petrified by a sudden thought. I had just read about this kind of stuff in my mom's journal.When she'd been younger, she'd caused weird telekinetic things to happen-things fell off shelves, radios quit working, car horns wouldn't stop honking. Watches never worked on her-or on me, either. The batteries died instantly.

A grin that would have melted Alaska. He's usually kind of serious, so when he does smile, everyone's knees go weak. Or at least I'm a.s.suming I'm not the only one. "I would say congratulations, but I understand you don't feel that way."

My cheeks burned, and I looked away."No."

He immediately sobered and leaned closer so only I could hear. "I know it must have been a shock. And I understand how you've been feeling about magick and witches. I'd like to talk to you about it, try to help if I can."

I nodded. "Thanks." I stood very still, waiting for a picture to fall off the wall, the door to fly open, or a window to crack. Nothing happened, and I held my breath, determined to stay very, very calm this evening.

Hunter went back to Morgan's side, and I saw that she looked pretty bad, too. They must have been pa.s.sing germs back and forth.Yuck.

"We can get started," said Hunter. "I think everyone's here. Is there any coven business first? I think Simon has volunteered to host next Sat.u.r.day, right? Good. Okay, now. Tonight I'd like to talk a bit about magick."

Hunter knelt and drew a large circle on Thalia's living room floor. He always started by drawing a circle, but this time he added another circle around it and then one more circle around that. Then he took a small cloth bag of stones and placed different-colored stones around the outside circle. Standing, he gestured us into the little "door" he had left, and once we were all in the smallest circle, he closed the circles with chalk, stones, and also some runes that he traced in the air. I wondered what was going on.

"Now, magick," he said, rubbing the chalk off his hands. He looked pale and tired. "Magick is basically energy, life force, chi, whatever you want to call it.The same magick that makes a flower bloom, produces fruit on a tree, brings a baby into the world is the exact same magick that can light fires spontaneously, move objects, and work invisibly within the universal construct in order to effect change-such as casting a protective spell, a fertility spell, or a healing spell. Now, can I have each of your impressions about magick?"

He nodded to Sharon Goodfine.

She frowned thoughtfully, her shiny dark hair brushing her shoulders. "To me, magick is potential-the possibility of doing something."

"That's a nice thought," said Hunter."Thalia?"

"It's just cool," she said, shrugging. "It's different, out of the ordinary."

Ethan said, "It's like a different kind of control, a different way of getting a handle on things."

"It's being connected with the life force," said Jenna.

"It's beautiful," Bree said.

Next was Morgan. "It's . . . another dimension to life, an added meaning to regular life. It's a power and a responsibility."

Hunter nodded again."Robbie?"

"It's mysterious," said Robbie.

"Alisa, how about you?" Hunter asked.

"It's scary," I said abruptly, thinking of my own experiences with it. As soon as I said that, all my feelings came rushing out. "It's uncontrollable. It's dangerous. It's awful, like having some genetic error. You never know when it's going to wreck your life."

My fists were clenching, and my mouth felt tight. I realized I was surrounded by silence and looked up to see eleven pairs of eyes watching me. Nine pairs were surprised. Hunter was calm, accepting. Morgan looked understanding.

"Oh. Did I say that out loud?" I said, feeling embarra.s.sed.

"It's all right," Hunter said. "Magick strikes everyone differently. I understand how you feel." He turned to the others. "Now, since we have stones of protection, I won't call on earth, air, fire, or water. But I do cast this circle in the name of the G.o.ddess and the G.o.d and ask them to join us and bless our power tonight. Join hands."

I took hold of Simon's hand and Raven's, feeling an impending sense of doom. If I was in this circle and it got all magicky, what would happen? What would I destroy?

Slowly we began to walk deasil, clockwise. Hunter started a chanting kind of song. It was incredibly pretty and easy to follow, and soon all of us were joining in. It was kind of like aural Prozac, because soon I began to feel calmer and more cheerful than I had I had in days. I felt like everyone here was my friend, that I was safe, that we were singing the most beautiful song, that I was filled with a light that made all my troubles seem bearable.

I was processing these feelings, and suddenly I realized that this was magick, too. This was a positive, gentle kind of magick. As the chant rose and grew, I felt better and better. It was like I was trying to worry about it being magick but just couldn't. I knew it was weird, but it all felt okay. When we threw our hands apart and raised our arms to the sky, I was smiling widely, feeling loose and open instead of tight and upset.

Our circle broke apart then, and people were hugging and patting one another's backs. Morgan came over to me and took my hand. She put her own palm on top of mine and held it there for a moment. She looked at her hand, and I felt a gentle heat. I took my hand away, and there was a rose-colored rune imprinted on my skin.

I grabbed her hand and looked at her palm. Nothing was there. I rubbed at my hand and realized that the rune was raised, it was my skin, raised up, like a scar. I stared at it, and Morgan gave a little smile. "That's Wynn," she said. "Happiness. Peace." She said. "Happiness. Peace." She caught my expression and added, "It'll go away in a little while. It's just something to take away from here."

She went back to join Hunter, and I looked at my hand again. This was visible magick, right here on me. Peace, happiness. Did she just mean the rune or the actual feelings, too?

7.

Morgan.

*"The first time I saw one was in Scotland. I didn't take part, of course-I wasn't strong enough yet. But I watched from a distance as it rolled across the countryside, purging the land of everything unclean. I almost wept with the glory of it."

-Molly Shears, Ireland, 1996*

On Sunday, I went to church with my family, despite feeling definitely ill. Afterward we went to the Widow's Diner, where I could manage to choke down only a few bites of my BLT.

At home I tossed down some sinus/allergy stuff, then changed, grabbed my keys, and yelled that I was going to Hunter's. When Sky had gone to France and then England, my parents had known that left Hunter with the house to himself. For a while they had given me squirrel eyes whenever I went there and again when I got back. Now that his father lived there, they were less suspicious. Of course, they hadn't met Mr. Niall and had no clue as to how different he was from their vision of a father.

Fatherly or not, his presence was enough to make me feel weird about being alone with Hunter anywhere in his house. I sighed and got into Das Boot. Outside it was horrible-after a few misleading days of decent springlike weather, we had taken a big step backward, and it was in the mid-thirties, overcast, and smelling like snow. Before I reached Hunter's, tiny, icy raindrops starting pinging against my windshield.

"Hullo, my love," said Hunter as I approached the front door. He gave me a critical glance, then said, "How about some hot tea?"

"Do you have any cider?" I asked. "With spices in it? Or lemon?"

He nodded and I went in, glad to see the fireplace in the living room had been lit. I dropped my coat and stood before the fire, holding out my hands. The dancing flames were soothing. On his way to the kitchen, Hunter stopped in back of me, wrapped his his arms around my chest, and held me close. I leaned back and let my eyes drift shut, feeling his warmth, the strength in his arms. One of his hands came up to stroke my hair, melting the few bits of ice crystal that lingered there. He leaned down and kissed my neck. I tilted my head to give him better access. Slowly he put careful kisses up my neck and across my jaw. I turned to face him and smiled wryly-he looked as bad as I felt. It seemed kind of pathetic, how bad we were both feeling, yet we still had such a strong desire to be in each other's embrace. His lips were very soft on mine, moving gently, afraid to make either of us feel worse.

When I heard Mr. Niall's footsteps on the stairs, Hunter and I untangled and headed toward the kitchen. Moments later Mr. Niall joined us, and Hunter started mulling cider on the stove. I sat glumly at the table, my pounding head resting in my hands.

"Why do we all feel so bad?" I asked. Mr. Niall looked pale and drawn.

"It's the effect of an oncoming dark wave," Hunter's father said with little energy. "It isn't even in force yet, but the spells to call it have been started and the place and people targeted. It isn't going to be long now.A matter of days."

"Oh, G.o.ddess," I muttered, a fresh alarm racing through my veins.

"We'll feel sicker and sicker as the dark wave draws closer, and we'll grow irritable. Which is unfortunate, because we'll need to work with one another now more than ever."

Hunter sighed. "You talked to Alyce this morning?" he asked his father, and Mr. Niall nodded.

"She and the other members of Starlocket have been holding power circles, aiming their energy at Widow's Vale and at Kithic in particular. They're hoping to help in any way they can, but there's been so little doc.u.mented evidence about anyone even trying to resist a dark wave." He ran his long-fingered, bony hand over his face.

"Have you had any progress?" I asked.

He let out a breath heavily, and his shoulders sagged. "I've been working day and night. In some ways I'm making progress. I'm crafting the form of the spell, its order, its words. But it would be much stronger if I could give it more specificity. If only I had more time."

I looked up and caught Hunter's eye. I knew we were feeling the same desperation, the same frustration: If only we could help Mr. Niall or speed him along. But we were helpless; we just had to hope that his father was up to the task.

"What do you mean by specificity?" I asked as Hunter put a mug of cider in front of me, and I inhaled.The spices of ginger and cinnamon rose up to meet me. I drank, feeling its warmth soothing my stomach.

"The spell is basic," Mr. Niall said, sounding frustrated."It's designed to cover a certain area, at a certain time, in a certain way. It's designed to combat a dark wave, to dismantle it. But it would be so much more powerful if I could use something particular against its creator."

"What would that do?" I needed a cold cloth for my forehead.

"Spells are just as personal as the way someone looks, like their fingerprints," Hunter explained. "If you're trying to dismantle or repel another witch's spell, your own spell greatly increases in power if you can imbue it with something in particular that identifies the spellcrafter you're working against. That's why in spells, you so often need a strand of hair or an item of clothing of the person who's the focus of the spell. It gives the spell a specific target."

"Like using an arrow instead of a club," said Mr. Niall.

I sat for a few moments, thinking. I had no strand of Ciaran's hair, none of his clothes. My head felt fragile, made of china that had been broken and poorly mended. It was a struggle to put two thoughts together.

Wait-I rubbed at my eyes, catching the elusive thought. I had . . . I had something of Ciaran's. I didn't even think of it as his anymore-it was completely mine now. But it had once been his. He had handled it. I drained my mug and stood up, feeling my muscles ache naggingly.

"I'll be back," I said, and left before either Hunter or Mr. Niall could open his mouth.

It was still raining sullenly as I climbed behind the wheel of my car. Inside, the vinyl seats were freezing, and I immediately cranked the heater. I pulled away from Hunter's curb and headed toward the road that would take me out of town.

Widow's Vale was surrounded by what had once been prosperous farmland and was now only a few small family holdings, bordered on all sides by abandoned fields, overgrown orchards, and woods of tall, second-growth trees.

There was a place along here, a patch of woods completely unmarked by any physical sign but still a place I recognized at once, as if there were a large arrow spray-painted on a line of tree trunks.There it was. I pulled well over onto the road's shoulder, feeling the slipperiness of the ice-crusted gravel at the road's edge. Reluctantly I climbed out of my car, leaving its cozy warmth for the inhospitable sting of icy rain.

I pulled my collar up as far as I could and headed straight across a rough-cut field of withered gra.s.s stalks. At the first break in the woods I paused for a moment, then headed straight between two beech trees. This place was mine alone. I could feel the presence of no other human, witch or nonwitch. I felt safe here, safer than in town.

In the woods there was no path, no marked trail, but I slogged steadily forward, unerringly headed for the place that bore my spell and contained my secret. It was a good ten-minute walk-my clogs slid on the wet, decaying leaves, and tiny branches, still unbudded, whipped across my face and caught at my hair.

Then, in a small clearing, I lifted my face to the patch of bare, leaden sky. It was here, it was still here, and though animals had crisscrossed this place with any number of trails, no human had been here since my last time. Pausing, I closed my eyes and and cast my senses out strongly, taking my time, going slowly, feeling the startled heartbeat of small animals, wet birds, and, farther out, the still, wary eye of an occasional deer. At last I was quite sure I was still alone, and I walked out into the clearing and knelt on the sodden forest litter.

I'd brought no shovel with me, but Das Boot had a jack and a crowbar, and it was the crowbar I used, chucking it into the cold ground and twisting it. It didn't take long. I felt layer upon layer of my amateurish spells of protection, the best I had had been able to do at the time.Then, feeling close, I used my fingers to claw at the freezing earth.Another two inches and my fingers scrabbled at wet cloth. I cleared the dirt away around it and soon lifted up a silken bundle. I didn't untie the knot that held the scarf's contents in place. I didn't need to. Instead, I kicked the dirt back in place and lightly scattered some leaves and pine needles and twigs over the area until it again looked untouched. Picking up my crowbar, holding my cold, damp bundle, I headed back to my car.

"Where did you go?" Hunter asked when I returned. "Where have you been? I was worried sick! Don't go anywhere like that without telling me, all right?"

"I'm sorry." I was still chilled, my fingernails dirt-packed and broken. It seemed too hard to explain when my errand had taken so much effort. Instead, I walked into Hunter's circle room, where Mr. Niall was kneeling on the floor, his eyes closed, surrounded by papers and books and candles. He felt me come in and looked up.

I knelt beside him, the knees of my jeans soaked. "Here," I said, pulling the silk-wrapped package from my coat pocket. My fingers were cold and stiff as I picked at the knot, but I finally pulled it loose and the cloth fell open. I reached in to pick up the only thing of Ciaran's I had: a beautiful gold pocket watch, engraved with his initials and my mother's. Not only that-it had my mother's, Maeve's, image spelled into it.To be able to see my mother's face was a gift.To me, it was a concrete reminder of the relationship my blood parents had once had-the only thing that was part of both of them. My mother was dead-the spell against Ciaran couldn't rebound on her. But Ciaran's vibrations ran all through it.

When Mr. Niall reached for it, I surprised myself by pulling my hand back. Embarra.s.sed, I pushed the watch forward again. He could use it more than I. Maybe it was better not to have any reminders of a love that had ended so tragically-even though that same love had had resulted in my birth. It suddenly struck me that my parents' relationship was the epitome of magick itself: darkness and light. A great, great love and a great, great hatred. Pa.s.sion, both good and bad. A powerful joining followed by an irrevocable tearing apart. The rose and the thorn.