7. Morgan

On Sunday, I went to church with my family, despite feeling definitely ill. Afterward we went to the Widow’s Diner, where I could manage to choke down only a few bites of my BLT.

At home I tossed down some sinus/allergy stuff, then changed, grabbed my keys, and yelled that I was going to Hunter’s. When Sky had gone to France and then England, my parents had known that left Hunter with the house to himself. For a while they had given me squirrel eyes whenever I went there and again when I got back. Now that his father lived there, they were less suspicious. Of course, they hadn’t met Mr. Niall and had no clue as to how different he was from their vision of a father.

Fatherly or not, his presence was enough to make me feel weird about being alone with Hunter anywhere in his house. I sighed and got into Das Boot. Outside it was horrible—after a few misleading days of decent springlike weather, we had taken a big step backward, and it was in the mid-thirties, overcast, and smelling like snow. Before I reached Hunter’s, tiny, icy raindrops starting pinging against my windshield.

“Hullo, my love,” said Hunter as I approached the front door. He gave me a critical glance, then said, “How about some hot tea?”

“Do you have any cider?” I asked. “With spices in it? Or lemon?”

He nodded and I went in, glad to see the fireplace in the living room had been lit. I dropped my coat and stood before the fire, holding out my hands. The dancing flames were soothing. On his way to the kitchen, Hunter stopped in back of me, wrapped his arms around my chest, and held me close. I leaned back and let my eyes drift shut, feeling his warmth, the strength in his arms. One of his hands came up to stroke my hair, melting the few bits of ice crystal that lingered there. He leaned down and kissed my neck. I tilted my head to give him better access. Slowly he put careful kisses up my neck and across my jaw. I turned to face him and smiled wryly—he looked as bad as I felt. It seemed kind of pathetic, how bad we were both feeling, yet we still had such a strong desire to be in each other’s embrace. His lips were very soft on mine, moving gently, afraid to make either of us feel worse.

When I heard Mr. Niall’s footsteps on the stairs, Hunter and I untangled and headed toward the kitchen. Moments later Mr. Niall joined us, and Hunter started mulling cider on the stove. I sat glumly at the table, my pounding head resting in my hands.

“Why do we all feel so bad?” I asked. Mr. Niall looked pale and drawn.

“It’s the effect of an oncoming dark wave,” Hunter’s father said with little energy. “It isn’t even in force yet, but the spells to call it have been started and the place and people targeted. It isn’t going to be long now. A matter of days.”

“Oh, Goddess,” I muttered, a fresh alarm racing through my veins.

“We’ll feel sicker and sicker as the dark wave draws closer, and we’ll grow irritable. Which is unfortunate, because we’ll need to work with one another now more than ever.”

Hunter sighed. “You talked to Alyce this morning?” he asked his father, and Mr. Niall nodded.

“She and the other members of Starlocket have been holding power circles, aiming their energy at Widow’s Vale and at Kithic in particular. They’re hoping to help in any way they can, but there’s been so little documented evidence about anyone even trying to resist a dark wave.” He ran his long-fingered, bony hand over his face.

“Have you had any progress?” I asked.

He let out a breath heavily, and his shoulders sagged. “I’ve been working day and night. In some ways I’m making progress. I’m crafting the form of the spell, its order, its words. But it would be much stronger if I could give it more specificity. If only I had more time.”

I looked up and caught Hunter’s eye. I knew we were feeling the same desperation, the same frustration: If only we could help Mr. Niall or speed him along. But we were helpless; we just had to hope that his father was up to the task.

“What do you mean by specificity?” I asked as Hunter put a mug of cider in front of me, and I inhaled. The spices of ginger and cinnamon rose up to meet me. I drank, feeling its warmth soothing my stomach.

“The spell is basic,” Mr. Niall said, sounding frustrated. “It’s designed to cover a certain area, at a certain time, in a certain way. It’s designed to combat a dark wave, to dismantle it. But it would be so much more powerful if I could use something particular against its creator.”

“What would that do?” I needed a cold cloth for my forehead.

“Spells are just as personal as the way someone looks, like their fingerprints,” Hunter explained. “If you’re trying to dismantle or repel another witch’s spell, your own spell greatly increases in power if you can imbue it with something in particular that identifies the spellcrafter you’re working against. That’s why in spells, you so often need a strand of hair or an item of clothing of the person who’s the focus of the spell. It gives the spell a specific target.”

“Like using an arrow instead of a club,” said Mr. Niall.

I sat for a few moments, thinking. I had no strand of Ciaran’s hair, none of his clothes. My head felt fragile, made of china that had been broken and poorly mended. It was a struggle to put two thoughts together.

Wait—I rubbed at my eyes, catching the elusive thought. I had. I had something of Ciaran’s. I didn’t even think of it as his anymore—it was completely mine now. But it had once been his. He had handled it. I drained my mug and stood up, feeling my muscles ache naggingly.

“I’ll be back,” I said, and left before either Hunter or Mr. Niall could open his mouth.

It was still raining sullenly as I climbed behind the wheel of my car. Inside, the vinyl seats were freezing, and I immediately cranked the heater. I pulled away from Hunter’s curb and headed toward the road that would take me out of town.

Widow’s Vale was surrounded by what had once been prosperous farmland and was now only a few small family holdings, bordered on all sides by abandoned fields, overgrown orchards, and woods of tall, second-growth trees.

There was a place along here, a patch of woods completely unmarked by any physical sign but still a place I recognized at once, as if there were a large arrow spray-painted on a line of tree trunks.There it was. I pulled well over onto the road’s shoulder, feeling the slipperiness of the ice-crusted gravel at the road’s edge. Reluctantly I climbed out of my car, leaving its cozy warmth for the inhospitable sting of icy rain.

I pulled my collar up as far as I could and headed straight across a rough-cut field of withered grass stalks. At the first break in the woods I paused for a moment, then headed straight between two beech trees. This place was mine alone. I could feel the presence of no other human, witch or nonwitch. I felt safe here, safer than in town.

In the woods there was no path, no marked trail, but I slogged steadily forward, unerringly headed for the place that bore my spell and contained my secret. It was a good ten-minute walk—my clogs slid on the wet, decaying leaves, and tiny branches, still unbudded, whipped across my face and caught at my hair.

Then, in a small clearing, I lifted my face to the patch of bare, leaden sky. It was here, it was still here, and though animals had crisscrossed this place with any number of trails, no human had been here since my last time. Pausing, I closed my eyes and and cast my senses out strongly, taking my time, going slowly, feeling the startled heartbeat of small animals, wet birds, and, farther out, the still, wary eye of an occasional deer. At last I was quite sure I was still alone, and I walked out into the clearing and knelt on the sodden forest litter.