"No, I think not," Hunter replied evenly. "I think I'll be around for a while. Who knows, I might have to teach Morgan a thing or two myself."
"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked.
Hunter just shrugged.
"Get away from me," Cal commanded.
Hunter stood back with a slight smile, his hands in the air as if to show he was unarmed. Cal glanced from him to the car. I'd never seen Cal so angry, so on the verge of losing control. It frightened me. He was like a tiger, waiting to pounce.
"There is one thing you should learn, Morgan," Hunter remarked. "Cal isn't the only blood witch around. He'd like to think he's a big man, but he's really just small fry. One day you'll realize that. And I want to be there to see it."
"Go to hell," Cal spat.
"Look, you don't know me," I told Hunter loudly. "You don't know anything about me. So shut up and leave us alone!" I stomped angrily to the car. But as I pushed past Hunter, barely brushing against him, a sickening rush of energy hit me in my stomach—so hard that I gasped. He's put a spell on me, I thought in a panic, groping for the door handle. But he'd said nothing, he'd done nothing that I could see. I blinked hard.
"Please, Cal," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Let's go."
Cal was still staring at Hunter as if he'd like to rip him apart. His eyes blazed, and his skin seemed to whiten.
Hunter stared back, but I felt his concentration break: he was shaken for a moment. Then he steeled himself again.
"Please, Cal," I repeated. I knew something had happened to me; I felt hot and strange and desperate to be gone, to be at home. My voice must have alerted Cal to my distress because he took his eyes off Hunter for a second. I stared at him pleadingly. Finally he pulled his keys from his pocket, slid into the car, and opened my door.
I collapsed inside and put my hands over my face.
"Good-bye, Morgan!" Hunter called.
Cal gunned the engine and sped backward, shooting snow and ice toward Hunter. I peeked through my fingers and saw Hunter standing there with an indecipherable expression on his face. Was it… anger? No. Snow swirled around him as he watched us leave.
It wasn't until we were almost at my house that it suddenly hit me.
The look on his face had been hunger.
CHAPTER 5
Dagda
Beltane, 1992
I feel like punching everyone and everything. I hate my life, hate living with Uncle Beck and Aunt Shelagh. Nothing has been the same, not since Mum and Dad disappeared that day two years ago, and it never will be.
Today Linden fell off Uncle Beck's ladder and bloodied his knee. I had to clean him up and bandage the wound, and all the while he wept. And I cursed Mum and Dad while I did it, I cursed them for leaving us and leaving me to do their job. Why did they go? Where did they go? Uncle Beck knows, but he won't tell me. He says I am not ready. Aunt Shelagh says he's only thinking of my good. But how can it be good not to know the truth? I hate Uncle Beck.
In the end, when I was finished with Linden, I made a face, and he laughed through his tears. That made me feel better. But only for a while. No happiness lasts very long. That's what I've learned. Linden would do well to learn it, too.
— Giomanach
Mom came into my room that night as I was getting dressed to go to Jenna Ruiz's for the circle. "Are you guys going to a movie?" she asked. She automatically began straightening the pile of rejected clothes on my bed.
"No," I said, and left it at that. When it came to Wicca, silence was the best policy. I turned in front of the mirror, frowning. As usual, I looked hopeless. I pulled open the bathroom door and yelled, "Mary K.!" Having an endlessly trendy sister had its perks.
She appeared at once.
I held out my arms. "Help."
Her warm brown eyes skimmed me critically, then she shook her head. "Take it all off," she ordered. I obeyed meekly. Mom grinned at us. While Mary K. pawed through my closet, Mom tried to wheedle more information from me. "You said you were going to Jenna's? Will Bree be there?"
I paused for a moment. Both Mary K. and Mom had mentioned Bree today. I wasn't really surprised; she had been a virtual fixture at our house for years—but talking about her was painful. "I don't think so," I finally said. "It's just going to be our regular group, getting together. You know, I've never been to Jenna's house before." A lame attempt to change the subject, I knew. Mary K. threw a pair of skinny jeans at me, and I obediently shimmied into them.
"We never see Bree anymore," Mom commented as Mary K. disappeared into her room.
I nodded, aware of Mom's eyes on me.
"Did you guys have a fight?" Mom asked straight out. Mary K. returned, holding an embroidered cotton sweater.
"Kind of," I said with a sigh. I really didn't want to get into this, not now. I pulled off my sweatshirt and tugged on the sweater. It fit smoothly, to my surprise. I'm taller and thinner than Mary K., but she inherited my mom's curvy chest. My adoptive mom, that is. I wondered fleetingly if Maeve Riordan had been built like me.
"Did you fight over Wicca?" Mom pried with the subtlety of an ax. "Does Bree not like Wicca?"
"No," I said, pulling my hair out of the sweater and examining my new look. It was a big improvement, which lifted my mood a little. "Bree does Wicca, too." I sighed again, finally giving in to Mom's interrogation. "Actually, we fought over Cal. She wanted to go out with him, but he wanted to go out with me. Now she pretty much hates me."
Mom was quiet for a moment. Mary K. stared at the floor. "That's too bad," Mom said after a moment. "It's sad when friends fight over a boy." She laughed gently, reassuringly. "Usually the boys aren't worth it."
I nodded. A lump had formed in my throat. I didn't want to talk about Bree anymore; it hurt too much. I checked the clock. "I wish it didn't have to be like this. Anyway, I'm late; I better go." My voice was strained. "Thanks, Mary K." I kissed the air beside Mom's cheek—then I was down the stairs and out the door, pulling on my coat and shivering in the cold.
In a few moments, though, the sadness over Bree began to melt away. I felt a tingle of anticipation. It was circle night.
Jenna lived not far from me in a small, Victorian-style house. It was charmingly run-down, with an overgrown yard. The paint was peeling, and one shutter was missing a hinge.
As soon as I walked up the steps to the porch, a cat greeted me. It meowed and rubbed its head against my legs.
"What are you doing out here?" I whispered as I rang the doorbell.
Jenna opened the door right away, her cheeks flushed, blond hair pulled back, a big smile on her face.
"Hi, Morgan!" she said, then looked down at the cat squeezing its way inside. "Hugo, I told you it was freezing out there! I called you! You ignored me. Now your paws are cold."
I laughed and glanced around to see who was here. No Cal, not yet. Of course, I knew that already; I hadn't seen his car outside, hadn't felt his presence. Robbie was examining Jenna's stereo system, which had a real turntable. A stack of old vinyl records was piled haphazardly next to the fireplace.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi," I answered. I was amazed that this was Jenna's home. Jenna was by far one of the most popular girls in school and thoroughly up-to-date, like Mary K. — but her house looked like a throwback to the 1970s. The furniture was comfortably shabby, with plants hung in front of every window, some needing water. There seemed to be dust and cat hair everywhere. And dog hair, I amended, seeing two basset hounds snoring on a dog bed in a corner of the dining room. No wonder Jenna has asthma, I found myself thinking. She'd have to live in a plastic bubble in this house to breathe clean air.