Down at the harbor the driving rain obscured vision, and at first Morgan could see only people running around and men starting the engines in their fishing boats. Then the local fire truck screamed up, looking ridiculously small and inadequate for this disaster. Morgan grabbed an older man's arm, hard, and hung on. "What happened?" she shouted, the wind tearing her voice away.
"The ferry went down!" he shouted back, trying to tug his arm free so he could go help.
"Which ferry?" An icy hand was slowly closing around Morgan's heart. She forced herself to have hope.
The man stared at her. "The only ferry! The eight-oh-five to Wexford!" Then he yanked his arm free, and Morgan watched numbly as he ran down a pier and jumped onto a fishing boat that was just pulling out into the choppy, white-capped waves.
This isn't happening. I'm going to wake up any minute. I know I'll wake up soon. Slowly Morgan turned in a circle, the rough wet stones beneath her feet making her feel off balance. Silently she begged for Hunter to come running toward her, a bag in his hand, having missed the ferry because he'd stopped to get a muffin, or tea, or anything. She cast out her senses. Nothing. She sent a witch message. Hunter, Hunter, come to me, come to me, I'm here, waiting. Nothing.
Rain soaked her hair, and the harsh wind whipped strands of it across her face. Morgan stood at the edge of the concrete pier, a heavy, rusty chain making a bone-chilling scraping sound as the wind pushed it to and fro. She closed her eyes and let her hands fall open at her sides. With experience born of years of practice, she sank quickly into a meditative state, going beneath the now, the outside, time itself, going deep to where time and thought and energy and magick blended to become one.
Gomanach. Her whole being focused on Hunter's name, his eyes, his scent, the feel of his skin, his smile, his laugh, his anger, his passion. In seconds she relived years of memories with him — Hunter fighting Cal, herself throwing an athame at Hunter's neck, him toppling over the cliff to the cold river below. Hunter placing sigils of protection around her parents' house, his fair hair glinting in the moonlight. Hunter holding her, wrapping his coat around her after she had shape-shifted. She had lain weeping in his arms, feeling as if her bones had snapped their joints, her muscles ripped in half. His voice, murmuring soothing spells to take away her pain and fear. She and Hunter, making love for the first time, the wonder of it, the beauty, the shock of pain and discomfort as they joined their bodies and their hearts. His eyes, wide and green above her. Other snatches of memories flew past, image after image; a remembered laugh, an emotion; a scent; the phase of the moon; circles of magick; witches wearing robes; Hunter's glowing aura; Hunter arguing, angry; Hunter crying silently as Morgan broke down.
"An nail nathrac," Morgan whispered into the rain. "An di allaigh, nail nithben, holleigh rac bier…." And on the spell went, the strongest spell she could weave with no preparation. She called on the wind and the rain and the clouds. She opened her hands and the clouds lightened and began to part. She threw up her hands and the rain lessened, backing off as if chastised. Morgan didn't care if anyone was watching or not. Everything in her wrought a spell that would snatch Hunter back from the very brink of his grave. When she opened her eyes, the rain had slowed to a repentant drizzle; the seas had begun to calm. Morgan felt weak, nauseated, from working such powerful magick. Slowly she forced her legs to take her to the crowd of people huddling on the dock. Voices floated to her over the sounds of sobbing, like chunks of debris on water.
"Never seen nothing like it."
"Unnatural, that's what it was."
"Wave reached up and pulled them down."
"And then like that, the storm stopped."
Morgan froze when she saw the line of sheet-covered bodies on the ground. Men and women were crying, arguing, denying what had happened. Some ferry passengers had been saved, and they sat huddled, looking shocked and afraid.
Hunter wasn't among them. Nor among the dead, lying on the ground.
Morgan gathered every ounce of strength and power within her and sent it out in the world. If Hunter is alive, I will feel it. If any part of his spirit is there, I will feel it I will know. She stayed perfectly still, eyes closed, hands out. Her chest expanded and was aching with her effort. Never had she cast her senses, her powers with so much strength before. Never had everything in her striven to sense someone. She almost cried out with the strain of it, feeling as if she would fly apart. Hunter, are you alive? Where are you?
Suddenly Morgan dropped to her knees on the sharp cobblestones, feeling as if she'd been knocked to the ground. She saw the dock, the rain, the covered bodies, but the scene seemed muted, all sounds muffled, all objects leached of color. It was like the whole world had lost something, some element that made it clear and rich and full. And then she understood.
Oh my God. Oh my God. He's really gone. Hunter's gone.
She stared unseeingly at the churning, gray-green water. How could the sea dare to take the one she loved, her soul mate, her muirn beatha dan? Anguish poured out of her, and she howled, "Give him back!" She flung her arms wide, and then, to her astonishment, her silver claddagh ring- Hunter's ring-flew off her rain-slick finger and sailed through the air. Unbelieving, Morgan watched the silver shine dully in the thin gray sunlight, then drop into the sea without a sound. It disappeared in an instant, sinking quickly and silently into the opaque water.
Her ring, Hunter's ring. It, too, was now gone forever. No, no.
Her world collapsed around her in a furious whirl of gray despair. Hands out, Morgan fell forward onto her face, not caring if she ever got up again.
1. Moira
"So I said, 'Oh, Mum, don't get your knickers in a twist," Moira Byrne said, licking the steamed milk of her latte off the spoon. She smiled angelically at her friends and took a big, slurping sip. Finally the long «regular» school day was over, and she, Tess, and Vita had headed to Margath's Faire, on the outskirts of Cobh. The first floor was an occult book and supplies shop; the second floor was a cafe, where they sometimes had readings or music; and the third floor was for various Wiccan classes or study groups. The three girls had grabbed a table in the cafe, in the back corner.
"Away with ya," said Tess Summerall, laughing in disbelief.
"Right, I can see you being cheeky to Morgan of Belwicket, mum or no," Vita O'Shaunessy agreed, grinning. "Are you grounded, then?"
Moira took another sip and shook her head. Her light, reddish-gold hair, with its three green streaks on the left side, swung over her shoulders. "Amazingly, no," she admitted. "I turned on the famous Moira Byrne charm and convinced her it was for my spellcraft class."
Tess's blue eyes widened. "I can't believe your charm works on your own mum, and you know, spelling your initials with ladybugs on the garden wall was not what Keady meant for spellcraft class."
Moira laughed, remembering again how astonished she had been when her spell had worked. It had been the most complicated one she had ever tried, and watching the tiny, red-winged ladybugs slowly spell out MB had been incredibly satisfying. Until her mother had come home and caught her. "It was brilliant," she said. "I really should get top marks for it."
Vita rolled her eyes. "You probably will. Especially if you use the famous Moira Byrne charm."
Moira giggled. Keady Dove, their spellcraft teacher, was as traditional as her own mother. Admitting that she had toyed with the wills of ladybugs just for a lark would not go over well.
Standing, Tess asked, "Anyone want anything? I'm getting another espresso." At her full height, Tess was five feet two, six inches shorter than Moira and with all the fine-boned daintiness Moira felt she lacked. Tess's naturally black hair was cut short and spiky, with magenta-dyed tips. Much more daring than Moira's three green stripes, which were supposed to have been wash-out dye for St. Patrick's Day but had turned out to be permanent. She'd asked her mum to take them out with magick, and her mum had refused. Her dad had just laughed and hugged her. "It's not so bad, Daisy. It'll probably only take six or seven years to grow out."