Morgan knew that what was ahead of them was going to be very dangerous. There was no way to turn back now. Not when Hunter might be at the end of the trail. Not while there was still the slightest shred of hope. She still couldn't believe all of this was really coming from Iona. Iona wasn't strong enough-but then, Killian had told her that since their father's funeral, Iona had vowed to become stronger.
Ciaran's funeral. Morgan sat up. "Sky. Ciaran's funeral! At Ciaran's funeral Grania, Kyle, and Iona were furious I had come. Kyle tried to put a spell on me. But then Iona-Iona smiled. As though she had a secret." Morgan shook her head, remembering. "She knew she had taken Hunter from me."
They finally found Iona's house. Sky carefully turned the car and parked it facing outward, back toward the road, in case they had to leave in a hurry. Morgan pulled a wind- breaker over her sweatshirt to conceal the bloodstain in front. As calmly as they could, Morgan and Sky took several minutes to lay new and stronger ward-evil spells on the car.
Looking behind her, Morgan made sure Moira was beside her. She paused for a moment, casting out her senses. Frowning, she walked to the edge of the driveway and looked past the house.
"She's up there," she said, pointing. There was a low hill behind Iona's house, and on the hill were the battered remains of what had once been a Celtic stronghold.
"Up in the castle ruins?" Moira asked.
"Yes." She looked at the two of them. "Are we ready?"
Moira nodded, though she was unsuccessful in keeping the fear out of her eyes. Sky's face was grim, resolute. They pushed through the hedge bordering the driveway and lieaded toward the hill. There was no path, and the turf was spongy with rain. Soon their shoes and pants bottoms were soaked through and flecked with grass. They'd reached the first gentle slope of the hill when an unearthly baying sent chills down their spines. The next thing Morgan saw was four large Rottweilers, tearing down the hill at them, barking ferociously. Their jaws gaped, showing large white fangs that seemed ready to snap a tree limb in half. Suddenly the dogs were almost upon them, and Morgan felt Moira freeze with fear.
"Stop there," Morgan said softly when the dogs were ten feet away. Holding her hand out flat, she sent out a sensation of running up against a wall and a calm, quiet, happy feeling, where life was good, bellies were full, and there was a raw steak waiting back at the house.
Gentle things, Morgan crooned in her mind. Sweet and calm. We're friends, friends to you, we mean no harm.
The four dogs stopped with almost comical suddenness, their front paws backpedaling and screeching to a halt on the wet grass. From snarling, vicious, out-to-kill man-eaters, they became almost bashful giants, bobbing their heads and pulling their lips back in apologetic grins. Muscular tails began wagging as they stood in a confused group, wondering what to do next.
Morgan walked up to them, held out her hand for them all to smell. Sky did the same, and Morgan made sure Moira did also.
"We're your friends," Morgan said gently. "Remember us. Remember us." She traced the rune Wynn on each silky black forehead, writing happiness and harmony on them.
The huge black-and-tan dogs stood aside, cheerful puppies wishing they had a tennis ball. They watched the three witches walk past them up the hill, unconcerned. Every muscle in Morgan's body was coiled and ready for anything. Her blood was singing with tension, adrenaline flowing through her veins like wine. Each breath took in more oxygen than she needed, each sense was hyperaware: the clouded blue of the sky, the scent of the wet grass. No birds sang here; there was no other life than the four dogs they'd just left.
They were maybe thirty feet away from the ancient stones when Morgan became more aware of Iona's presence. In a gaping window hole, where she had looked only a moment before, stood Iona.
Iona looked nothing like Morgan remembered. At Ciaran's funeral Iona had been plump, doughy, with a heavily made-up face. This Iona was thin to the point of being skeletal, with burning, overlarge eyes. Her skin was chalk white, as if she spent too much time indoors, and her hair was stringy, wispy, and prematurely gray. This was her half sister, but as unlike her as if they shared not one chromosome, not even the ones that made them inherently human.
With no warning Iona's hand snapped forward and a crackling, spitting blue ball of witchfire shot toward Morgan. Instinctively she raised her own hand to deflect it, but the fire grazed her skin, causing a stinging burn.
Iona laughed, showing a gaping mouth, the skin of her jaw stretching grotesquely. "That was a welcome, sister," she said. "I've been expecting you, of course. Ever since that idiot Lilith told me you'd be coming. Pity about Lilith-she was a blubbering mess after you finished with her. She hasn't held up quite as well as I'd hoped. But she played her part welclass="underline" you are here. I can only imagine what you had to do to get her to admit where I was." Morgan kept her face expressionless. "I started crushing her capillaries, from the outside in. They're very, very small and very delicate. If you damage enough of them, you bleed to death."
Morgan's senses prickled as everyone's tension level ratcheted up a notch.
For an instant a wary, speculative look crossed Iona's face but disappeared at once. "Sounds nasty," she said dismissively.
Morgan narrowed her eyes, wondering if Iona had ever believed the rumors about Morgan's power all these years. Whatever it took, Morgan had to convince Iona that she was no match for her. If she could frighten Iona, Morgan might not be forced to do things that would diminish her own soul.
"It was," Morgan was surprised to hear Moira say.
Iona looked at Moira, and Morgan forced herself not to panic. Moira, stay back, be invisible, she sent.
"It was very ugly," Morgan said evenly. "I was sorry to do it. But it's only a fraction of what I will do to you." This wasn't her true self, who she was inside. It was a warrior Morgan-one who came out only in times of need.
"Ooh, stop, you're scaring me," Iona said in a bored tone, leaning against the crumbling stone window. "By the way, where are my dogs?" Her tone was casual, but Morgan picked up on her true emotion-fear.
"They were in my way," she said, and Iona's eyes darted around, searching. Her jaw, with its tissue-thin skin, tightened.
Slowly Morgan realized that she felt no fear and surprisingly little anger. She was icy and unstoppable. She was Morgan of Belwicket. This pathetic excuse for a witch was just someone in her way. The feeling simultaneously thrilled and terrified her.
"Where is Hunter Niall?" Morgan asked. "Lilith told me everything she knew. I'm sure she would have preferred to be loyal to you, whatever your hold on her is. But in the end she crumbled. She had no choice. But you do. I recommend you choose wisely."
"Why, I heard Hunter Niall drowned in a ferry accident almost sixteen years ago," Iona said lightly.
"Iona," Morgan said, her voice glacial, "tell me where he is." She was becoming more and more tightly wound, a rubber band about to snap. She didn't want to cause harm here. She didn't want to. But she would.
"Tell me!" she shouted, flinging out her hand. An ancient stone burst apart next to Iona's head, shooting ragged shards of rock in a starburst Iona flinched and turned away, but Morgan saw scrapes on Iona's cheek and flakes of stone in her thin hair.
Morgan could feel Iona's fear growing-but she could also sense fear coming from next to her. From Moira. She cast a quick glance at her daughter, sending her as much warmth and reassurance as she could. Moira's face was a mask-she was fighting hard not to show her true emotions, Morgan knew. But she was terrified inside, and Morgan wished with all her heart she wasn't here to witness what Morgan was doing.
"How dare you!" Iona shouted. Morgan whipped back around to face her. Iona brushed at herself-she was covered with dust and rock flakes. She looked at Morgan, her eyes burning. "This place is sacred!"