Mary K.! I scrambled to my feet and nearly flew down the stairs, Erin right behind me. I dashed out onto the muddy front lawn and came to a stop by Mary K., who was standing perfectly still in the middle of the front walk, her hand covering her mouth. Alisa’s dark form was retreating down the street—she was running home, I guessed. But that wasn’t what Mary K. was looking at. I followed her gaze and saw that she was staring at a car that had stopped in front of our house. The door opened, and a heavyset woman rushed out and peered at something next to her front fender.

At first I thought that she had hit a piece of wood or some garbage in the road. Then I saw the thing move. One gray paw twitched feebly.

Dagda.

My heart clutched. The woman looked up and saw us. “Help!” she cried. Tears began to rain down her cheeks. “Oh God, I’m so sorry! I love cats.” She looked at me helplessly. “He just came out of nowhere.”

I couldn’t speak. I bent mutely over Dagda.

The woman began crying even harder. “I’m so sorry,” she said again.

Dagda’s eyes opened, then closed again. He was alive! But though there wasn’t any blood on him, I could see at a glance that he was badly hurt. I tried to cast my senses, but it was no use. My magick was still reined.

My vision blurred with helpless tears. I turned around and saw Erin behind me. She bent and studied my kitten for a moment. “The injuries are internal,” she said. Her voice was low, but I could tell from her expression that Dagda was dying.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to move him for fear of causing him more pain. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I looked at him, his fur matted and soaked with gray leftover snow.

I couldn’t just let him lie there, die there, in the street. I picked him up, cradling him in my arms.

Mary K. was still frozen to her spot on the front walk. “Morgan,” Erin said. She leaned toward Dagda, and I wanted to scream at her to get away from him, to leave him alone, but I couldn’t. Her hand hovered hesitantly over Dagda, her face questioning.

Then I remembered. Erin is a healer, I thought. I could feel the movement of Dagda’s tiny lungs as he labored to breathe. I started to sob wrenchingly. Could she heal him? Surely he was too far gone, even for a witch’s power.

Erin squeezed my shoulder. Once again strength seemed to flow from her into me. “Quiet yourself,” she said gently. “Don’t let your emotions control you.”

I took a deep breath. Then another. Erin’s strength flowed through my body. I said nothing as she lowered her hand and touched Dadga’s head. She stroked him tenderly, with the force of a butterfly’s wings. Closing her eyes, she stood without moving. Time seemed to stand still, and I held my breath. I don’t know how long we stood there like that—it might have been five minutes or five hours.

Dagda let out a small mew.

“Oh thank God,” the heavyset woman said. “Oh, thank you, Lord! I thought I’d killed him!”

Erin’s face was serious. “He’s badly hurt,” she said, then turned to me. “You should get him to a veterinarian as soon as possible.”

“I know a good one,” I said, thinking of my aunt’s girlfriend, Paula Steen. Her clinic was the closest one I knew of—only about fifteen minutes away. “Thank you,” I said, and Erin nodded.

I don’t know why, but I turned to the heavyset woman and said, “He’s going to be fine.”

“Bless you,” she replied, which struck me as odd, but sort of sweet and strangely appropriate.

Still cradling Dagda with one arm, I pulled my keys out of my pocket and turned toward my car. Then I heard a voice call, “Morgan?”

It was Mary K. She looked lost. “Can I come with you?” she asked.

I didn’t even have to think. “Let’s go,” I said.

10. Confrontation

October 10, 1971

I finally worked up the nerve to warn my mother bout the book, but she hardly seemd interested. I told her that the powers of Wicca were starting to seem uncontrollable to me—and frightening in a way that they never had before.

Mother didn’t like this. She laid down her knife and told me that I was being “ignorant”. She made it sound like she thought I was a hysteric—like those people during the witch trials. Another Harris Stonghton.

I told her that I had some good reasons to be freaked out, but she just that she didn’t want to hear it. She said that we were responsible witches and that we had a right to our beliefs.

Just at that very moment—I mean exactly as she said that—the silverware drawer flew out. It just flew right out of the cabinet and landed on the floor with a clatter. Then an icy wind blew through the room and the cabinet doors burst open.

“Get down!” Mother yelled as the plates flew out and hurtled the wall—crash crash crash!

I screamed and screamed until the cupboard was empty. I screamed until my mother picked herself off the floor and took me by the shoulder. She shook me, but my scream went on and on until I couldn’t scream anymore.

Then Mother held me and told me that everything would be all right. But I don’t believe her.

There is dark magick in this house. For a while I thought it was the book itself that was responsible, but I know it’s impossible. It’s just a book. It may be full of evil, but it can’t actually make things happen.

I can hardly bear to think it, but I have to. Could Sam be behind it?

— Sarah Curtis

“May I help you?” the woman behind the desk asked as I rushed into the veterinary clinic. She was middle-aged with dyed blond hair and looked bored.

“I’m here to see Paula,” I said in a rush. “Dr. Steen.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.

“No, I—” Just then Mary K. walked in with Dagda in her arms. The woman took one look at Dagda and said, “Come with me.”

We followed her down a long white hallway and into a small room. “Just a minute.” The woman hurried out of the room. Barely a minute had passed before Paula walked in.

“Morgan!” She looked surprised and pleased. “Mary K.!” A quick glance at Dagda and her smile evaporated. “What happened?” she asked.

“He was hit by a car,” I said as Mary K. laid Dagda gently on the steel table at the center of the room. Dagda struggled to get up but couldn’t.

Paula pursed her lips. She palpated Dagda’s ribs and stomach gently. Then she touched his left foreleg and frowned. “This needs an X-ray,” she said.

“Is he going to be all right?” Mary K. asked nervously.

Paula looked at her and smiled reassuringly. “This is one lucky kitty,” she said. “I think his leg is broken. He might have to hobble around on a cast for a while, but all things considered, that’s pretty minor.”

I exhaled with relief. “That’s great news,” I said.

“Why don’t you guys wait outside while I take the X-ray?” she suggested. “If we do have to put a cast on, we may have to sedate him. It could take a little while.”

I threw myself into one of the large, comfortable chairs in the waiting room while Mary K. went outside to the pay phone to let our parents know where we were. I was glad we had come here. I didn’t know where the receptionist was, but she was no longer behind her desk. I was alone in the waiting room as the sky outside grew from pink to dusky gray and the shadows disappeared.

What had happened today? I dug a hand into my pocket, remembering the feeling of the door slamming into my back, the fear as I left the ground, Alisa’s screams. Thank the Goddess that Erin was there, I thought. She saw everything. She knows I couldn’t have levitated myself. Especially not with my power restrained the way it is.

But then, who did it?

There was a sudden blast of cold air as Mary K. stepped back into the clinic. “I finally reached Mom,” she reported. “She said she hopes Dagda’s okay and she’s glad we thought to go to Paula.”