I nodded, brushing my hand against the fabric of the different robes. The variety was astounding. Some were plain; some were painted or sewn with magickal symbols and runes. But I didn't see any that I felt I absolutely had to have, though they were all beautiful. That was okay, though; Imbolc wasn't until the end of January. I had plenty of time to find one.
"Do you wear a robe?" I asked.
"Uh-huh," he said. "Whenever I do a circle with my mom or by myself. Mine is white, a really heavy linen. I've had it a couple of years. I sort of wish I could wear it all the time," he added with a grin. "But I don't think the people of Widow's Vale are ready for that."
I laughed, picturing him casually walking into Schweickhardt's drugstore in a long, white robe.
"Sometimes robes are passed down from generation to generation," Cal continued. "Like tools. Or sometimes people weave the cloth and sew them themselves. It's like anything else—the more thought and energy you put into something, the more it stores up magickal energy and the more it can help you focus when you do spells."
I was beginning to understand that, although I knew I would spend a lot of time meditating on how I could start applying it to my own magickal doings.
Cal stepped across the aisle and reached for something on an upper shelf. It was an athame: a ceremonial dagger, about ten inches long. The blade was made of silver, so brightly polished, it looked like a mirror. It's handle was carved with silver roses. There was a skull joining the handle and the blade together.
"It's beautiful isn't it?" Cal murmured.
"Why does it have a skull on it?" I asked.
"To remind us that in life, there is always death," he said quietly, turning it in his fingers. "There is darkness in light, there is pain in joy, and there are thorns on the rose." He sounded solemn and thoughtful, and I shivered.
Then he glanced up at me. "Maybe a certain lucky someone will get it for her birthday."
I wiggled my eyebrows, looking hopeful, and he laughed.
It was getting late, and I had to get home. Cal checked out, buying some green candles, some incense, and the book for me. I felt Alyce's eyes on me.
"Nothing for you?" she asked in her gentle way.
I shook my head.
She hesitated, then cast a quick glance at Cal. "I have something I think you should read," she said to me. Moving with surprising grace for a short, round person, she left the counter and walked down the aisle of books. I shrugged at Cal—and then Alyce was back, her lavender skirts swishing. She handed me a plain, dark brown book.
"Woodbane, Fact and Fiction," I read aloud. A chill shot through my body. The Woodbanes were the darkest of the seven ancient Wiccan clans, notorious for their quest for power at any cost. The evil ones. I looked at her, baffled. "Why should I read this?" I asked.
Alyce met my gaze squarely. "It's an interesting book that debunks many of the myths surrounding the Woodbanes," she said, ringing it up. "It's useful for any student of the craft."
I didn't know what to say, but I pulled out my wallet and counted out money, pushing the bills across the counter. I trusted Alyce. If she thought I should read this, I would. But at the same time I was aware of tension tightening Cal's body. He wasn't angry, but he seemed hyperalert, watching Alyce, watching me, measuring everything. I put my arm around his waist and gave him a reassuring squeeze. He smiled.
"Good-bye, Alyce," I said. "Thanks."
"My pleasure," she replied. "Good-bye, Morgan. Goodbye, Cal."
I held my two new books under my arm as we walked to the door—one book I wanted to read, one I didn't. Yet I would read them both. Although I had been studying witchcraft for barely two months, I had already learned a valuable lesson: Everything had two sides. I had to take the good with the bad, the fun with the discomfort, the excitement with the fear. The thorns with the rose.
Cal pushed open the door, and the bells jingled.
He stopped so suddenly that I walked right into his back.
"Oof," I said, steadying myself. I peeked around him.
That was when I saw what had made him pause.
It was Hunter Niall, crouched in the street, looking under Cal's car.
CHAPTER 4
Spell
Litha, 1990
I'm frightened. I woke up this morning to the sound of weeping. Alwyn and Linden were in my room. They were crying because they could not find Mum and Dad. I was angry and told them that they weren't babies anymore. I said that Mum and Dad would be back soon. I thought they must have run into town for something we needed.
But night has fallen and we are still alone. I've heard no word from our neighbors, none from Mum and Dad's coven, I went to Siobhan's house, and to Caradog Owens's house over in Grasmere, to ask if they knew where Mum and Dad were. But there was no one home.
And there's something else. When I was making my bed I found Dad's lueg under my pillow—the stone he uses to scry with. How did it get there? He always keeps it safe with the rest of his magick tools. He never even let me touch it before.
So how did it get under my pillow? I have a bad feeling….
Dad has often told me that when he and Mum are on their errands, I am master of the house. It is my job to watch over my brother and sister. But I am not a man like him. I am only eight years old. I won't be a witch for many years yet. What can I do if there is trouble?
What if something happened to them? They have never left us alone like this. Did someone take them away? Are they being held prisoner somewhere?
I must sleep, but I can't. Alwyn and Linden can sleep for me. I must be strong for them.
Mum and Dad will come back to us soon. They will. I know it.
Goddess, bring them home.
— Giomanach
As if he sensed our approach, Hunter stood quickly. His green eyes were puffy and bloodshot. His face was pale from the cold, and snowflakes had settled on his hat. But aside from the redness of his eyes, he looked like he was carved of marble—still and somehow dangerous. Why was he looking under the car? More important, why did I find him so threatening? I didn't know the answers, but I knew that as a blood witch, I should trust my instincts. I shuddered inside my coat.
"What are you doing, Niall?" Cal demanded. His voice was so low and steady that I hardly recognized it I looked at him and saw that his jaw was tight His hands were clenched at his sides.
"Just admiring your big American car," Hunter said. He sniffed, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He must have a cold, I thought. I wondered how long he'd been out here in the snow.
Cal flicked his gaze to the Explorer, sweeping it from bumper to bumper, as if scanning for something out of place.
"Hello, Morgan," Hunter murmured. With his sickly nasal voice the greeting sounded like an insult. "Interesting company you keep."
The falling snowflakes were cold against my hot skin. I shifted my books to my other arm and gazed at Hunter, confused. Why should he care?
Hunter stepped onto the sidewalk. Cal turned to face him, placing himself between me and Hunter. My hero, I thought. But a part of me still felt a palpable fear as well. Hunter scowled, his cheekbones so sharp that snowflakes seemed to glance off them.
"So Cal is teaching you the secrets of Wicca, is he?" he asked. He leaned nonchalantly against the hood of the car, and Cal didn't take his eyes off him for a second. "Of course, he has quite a few secrets of his own, eh?"
"You can leave now, Niall," Cal spat.