Soon I saw Hunter's image, and followed by that, like a page flipping in a book, I saw Alyce's image and Bethany's- they were concerned about me and trying to help me. More faintly I saw my own family, who loved me but didn't seem actively worried about me, which was good. Then they faded away, and I saw the fuzzy outline of a shadow, huge and distorted on a wall. It became slightly clearer, darker, enough so that I could tell it was a person. I kept watching and once more murmured the words of the spell. As I watched, the shadow seemed to come away from the wall, becoming more three-dimensional, as if the shadow itself was assuming a form. Reveal yourself, I breathed. Reveal yourself.

As if from a distance the shadowy form contracted and writhed and expanded. Finally it took on a form I could recognize: a hawk. Another hawk! Dumbstruck, I watched it fly away, and then I slowly opened my eyes.

Why couldn't I see who it had been? Was it Cal, as everyone seemed to think? How could he do this? I had felt his cold cheek-he had truly been dead.

I dismantled the circle and put my supplies away. In my readings I had learned that most Wiccans believed when someone died, their anam went to the netherland, a kind of holding place. In the netherland their life is reviewed, and a person can then choose to come back to this world in a new incarnation, ever working toward that spiritual perfection that will allow them to join with the Goddess as one. It was a nice idea. I had grown up believing in Catholicism's idea of heaven, and I could still see the appeal of a perfect resting place. But I liked Wicca's chance to come back again and try to do better with your life.

A few sources I had found discussed the ability of an anam actually to linger in the world without immediately going to the netherland. They had suggested that for an anam to retain any of its power or coherence, it had to have another vessel to reside in. It could be a literal vessel, like a metal box or glass jar with a lid-or in extreme cases it could be another person or even an animal. Like a hawk.

As soon as I had that thought, a cold chill washed over me. A hawk. Was there any way-oh, Goddess, I couldn't think about this. I was really getting paranoid. As Hunter said, hawks were all over the place, everywhere. The images of hawks in my dreams were probably representative of something else, like a generalized threat of some kind. Okay. But what if it was a person doing this to me? These dreams seemed so personal. It would have to be someone who knew me, even knew me well, or at least could find out a great deal of personal information about me.

Ciaran? My natural father had had his powers stripped, so it couldn't be him. But what about other witches from Amyranth? How could I find out?

Killian.

It took me a minute to find my half brother's latest phone number and go back down to the family room. When I called, I got a disconnect message. I called information and got another number for him, and amazingly, when I called it, my half brother answered. On the seventh ring.

"Morgan! How lovely to hear from you!"

I couldn't help smiling. For all of Killian's character flaws, I couldn't help responding to his good nature, his affection, his unquenchable thirst for fun. And he apparently didn't hold a grudge: the last time I'd seen him had been in the old Methodist cemetery, our local power sink. I had trapped our mutual father there, and his powers had been stripped. Ciaran MacEwan had gone from being an incredibly powerful, charismatic, forceful, and evil witch to being a shriveled, powerless husk. Because of me.

"Hi, Killian," I said. "How are you?"

"Tops, sis, just tops. On my way out-the local watering hole does a bang-up microbrewery stout. The lads are waiting for me."

"I bet. And some lasses, too, no doubt."

Killian laughed.

"Listen, Killian," I said. "I was wondering-I haven't talked to you in a while, and I was hoping you could give me some news about Ciaran."

"Ah," he said, and I had a sudden image of a glass of champagne losing its bubbles. "Our sweet da. Well, sis, I won't lie to you. He has seen better days."

My heart gave a pang of remorse and guilt. "Where is he?" I asked softly.

"A type of rest home in Ireland," said Killian. "Down in Clonakilty, by the southern coast. It's warmer there. Relaxing. I hopped over to see him a fortnight ago. He hasn't really turned a corner yet, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry." My throat felt tight as I experienced the usual dichotomy of emotions I felt about Ciaran. He had killed my birth mother. He had been one of the leaders of an incredibly evil dark coven, Amyranth. I knew he had personally caused any number of people to be killed, and he had, in fact, tried to kill me. But in an unexplainable psychological perversity, I had loved him and respected him. I had been very drawn to him, and oddly, he had seemed to sincerely care for me, though his love for power had definitely outweighed his love for me. Something in me resonated with something in him, and while that worried me, I also couldn't deny it. I cared about him. I didn't want him to die. But I hadn't been able to let him continue to work the appalling forms of dark magick he had loved.

"Tchah, Morgan," Killian said with unexpected gentleness. "I'm sorry for him, too, but Goddess, this is the threefold law barely coming home to roost. You didn't set him in motion. You only slowed him down a lot."

"Thanks," I managed to say. The knot in my chest loosened a bit. "Besides," he went on. "What Mum's doing to him is making your bit look like child's play."

"Oh, Goddess. What's happening?"

"She's divorcing him," Killian said, and there was amusement in his voice. "An illegitimate child, untold dark workings, several very public affairs, years of fights and barely masked hatred and betrayal-none of these were enough to make Mum take this drastic step. But now that Da has no more power than a firefly, she's running him down."

"Oh, no," I said. I had been the illegitimate child.

"Well, it's a shame, but what goes around, comes around," Killian said lightly. I knew he cared for his father, but I also knew there was a great deal of anger and resentment there, too. Ciaran hadn't been a good father to anyone. And he'd treated his wife just as badly.

"Goodness. I wonder what's happening to Amyranth without him?" I made my voice casual, but from the pause on the other end I knew Killian wasn't fooled.

"Basically I think they're running around like chickens with their heads cut off," Killian said, deciding to answer me. "I haven't had any direct news, but from gossip I've picked up, I gather that Da had held his reins of power so tightly that no one was really waiting in the wings. It would take an incredibly strong witch to assume control, and knowing Da, he probably made sure there was no one that strong near the top."

"Huh. So what happens now?"

"Someone will eventually get their act together and step in. I predict lots of infighting and backstabbing," he said cheerfully. "It should be quite the soap opera for a while."

"Wow." So it didn't sound like either Ciaran or Amyranth was together enough to be behind my dreams, then. "Well. What are you doing for Beltane? Anything planned?"

"I've had a couple of invites. What about you?"

"Oh, we're having a celebration here," I told him. "Food, drink, maypole, dancing."

"Say, what a great idea! That sounds terrific, and we can get all caught up," said Killian.

Ack! I thought. I could just picture Killian loping into our little Beltane celebration. It was going to be tense enough, with both Raven and Sky there, but to have the third member of the disastrous love triangle there would be too much. Either this thought hadn't occurred to Killian, or it had, and he simply assumed it wouldn't be a problem. But I hadn't even invited him!