Sweep Book ECLIPSE
To Stephanie Lane, with gratitude1 Morgan
“And then the hand of God swept away the heathen witches, and their village was leveled and burned to the ground. This I saw with my own eyes.” —Susanna Garvey, Cumberland, England, from A BRIEF COLLOQUIAL HISTORY OF CUMBERLAND, Thomas Franklinton, “Oh, please. Will you two stop already? This is disgusting,” I teased. On Ethan Sharp’s front step Bree Warren and Robbie Gurevitch tried to disentangle themselves from their lip-to-lip suction lock. Robbie gave a little cough. “Hey, Morgan.” He stood off to one side, trying to act casual—hard to do when you’re flushed and breathing hard. It was still a tiny bit of a novelty to see Robbie and Bree, my best friends from childhood, in a romantic relationship. I loved it.
“Perfect timing, Sister Mary Morgan,” said Bree, pushing a hand through her minky dark hair. But she grinned at me, and I smiled back. Robbie rang Ethan’s doorbell. Ethan opened the door almost immediately. Two yipping Pomeranians bounced at his feet. “Down,” he said, pushing them gently with his foot as he smiled at us. “Come on in. Most everyone’s here. Still waiting on a couple. Down!” he said again. “Brandy! Kahlua! Down! Okay, you’re going in the bedroom.” We entered Ethan’s small brick ranch house and saw Sharon Goodfine, Ethan’s girlfriend, pushing furniture back against the wall. Ethan disappeared down the hall, snapping his fingers so the dogs would follow him. Robbie went to help Sharon, and Bree and I took off our jackets and threw them on an armchair with several others. “You two look like you’re getting along,” I said brightly. “Yeah,” Bree admitted. “I’m still waiting for him to figure out who the real me is and then dump me.” I shook my head. “He’s loved you for a long time and seen you go through a lot. He’s going to be harder to shake off than that.” Bree nodded, her gaze wandering till it fixed on Robbie. I looked around, mentally taking attendance for the circle. Our regular Saturday night circles had been different lately because Hunter had been in Canada. He’d returned a few days ago and sent my emotions into an uproar with two bits of news: one, that he’d kissed another woman in Canada, which was bad enough, and two, that he’d found a book—written by one of my ancestors—that recounted the creation of the dark wave. Learning that my soul mate had been attracted to someone else and that I was descended from the woman who created one of the most destructive forces imaginable had left me devastated and confused. I felt a little better now, more confident in Hunter’s love and in my ability to choose to to do only good magick, but both of these revelations still weighed heavily on my mind. Hunter would be here tonight. He hadn’t arrived yet, because I would have felt him. My witchy short-range sensors would have told me.
Twenty minutes later everyone in our coven, Kithic, was there, except for Hunter’s
cousin, Sky Eventide. She was in England recovering from a failed romance, and I couldn’t help glancing across the circle at the source of her pain, Raven Meltzer. As usual, Raven had dressed for attention, wearing a red satin corset from the forties, complete with cone boobs and garters, which held up fishnet stockings marred by large, gaping holes. Men’s camouflage fatigues, hacked off to make shorts, completed the outfit, along with the motorcycle boots on her feet. “Right, then, everyone,” Hunter said in that English accent that made me wild.“Let’s begin.” “Welcome back, Hunter,” said Jenna Ruiz. “Yeah, welcome back,” said Simon Bakehouse, Jenna’s boyfriend. “It’s good to be back,” Hunter said, meeting my eyes. It was like being zapped by static electricity. Hunter Niall. The love of my life. He was tall, thin, impossibly blond, and two years older than me. Besides having the English accent that I could listen to all day, he was brave, a strong blood witch, and knew more about magick and Wicca than I could imagine learning, despite my dedication to it. He had just gotten back from two weeks in Canada, where he had found his father, Daniel. And where he had met someone named Justine Courceau. found his father, Daniel. And where he had met someone named Justine Courceau. Finding out that he had kissed her had been one of the hardest things I’d ever learned. I’d forgiven him—I believed that he loved me and hadn’t meant to hurt me—but I didn’t think I’d ever beable to forget. Ethan’s living room was carpeted, so Hunter had used sidewalk chalk to draw a perfect circle. The eleven of us stepped inside it; then Hunter closed it with a chalk line. He took four brass goblets and placed them at east, south, west, and north. One held dirt, to symbolize earth. Another held water, and a candle burned in the third: water and fire. The last cup held a cone of smoldering incense to represent air. When these were in place, he looked up and smiled at us. “Did you all enjoy Bethany Malone’s circles while I was away?” “She was pretty cool,” Raven said. “She was really nice, in a different way,” Simon agreed. “There’s a difference in how you make a circle and how she did.” I nodded. “That’s true. And I liked all the healing stuff she taught us.” An understatement. I was now taking private lessons from Bethany, focusing almost exclusively on healing. Giving my Wicca studies this focus seemed to have helped the rest of my life come into focus, too.
“Good,” said Hunter. “Maybe we’ll have her back as a guest circle leader sometime.” Some of us grinned, and Hunter went on. “Now, is there any circle business we need to take care of before we start? Where are we meeting next week?” “We can have it at my house,” said Thalia Cutter. After that, there was no more Kithic business, so Hunter cast our circle, dedicated it to the Goddess, and invoked the God and the Goddess to hear us. “Now let’s raise our power,” said Hunter. “And while our power is high, we can each think about the meaning of rebirth, of spring, about how we can each strive to, in a sense, re-create our lives each spring.”
We joined hands—I was between Matt Adler and Sharon. This time Hunter began with a
power chant, and we all added our voices to it as we felt ready. The ancient Gaelic words seemed to float above us, weaving a circle of power above our heads. Hunter’s voice was strong and sure, and in another minute I began to feel the incredible lightening of my heart that told me I had connected with the Goddess. It wasn’t like she spoke to me—but when I made a real connection to magick, the magick that exists everywhere, my worries dropped away. Pure, unquestioning joy filled my heart and my mind, and I felt a rush of love for everyone in my circle—even me—and everyone outside of my circle. It was this connection that made coming back to magick so necessary for me. It was question and answer, reason and instinct, need and fulfillment all at the same time. Hands locked, we circled deasil around the room, our feet moving faster and faster as smiles lit our faces. Rebirth, I thought with wonder. Re-create my life. Begin anew. The quickening of life.These concepts seemed full of promise and hope, and I knew my exploration of them would be joyous and exciting. “Morgan.” With zero warning my birth father, Ciaran MacEwan, was standing in front of me. My hands ripped away from Matt’s and Sharon’s, and my feet stumbled on the blue carpet. I stared at him, my eyes widening with fear and shock. In a moment I realized that he was an image in front of me, not the real person. But a complete, realistic image, shimmering gently, as if with heat. “Morgan,” he said again, his Scottish accent coming through. His brownish hazel eyes, exactly like mine, examined me. “What do you want?” I whispered. All I could see was him; my circle, the room, my friends had faded out of sight, replaced by this glowing image of my father, the man who had burned my mother to death more than sixteen years ago.
“I know you put the watch sigil on me,” he said softly, and fear clenched my stomach.“But I forgive you.”
The last time I had seen Ciaran, we had shape-shifted together. At the council’s request, I had traced a watch sigil onto him so that council members could track Ciaran’s movements and eventually take him into custody. It had been a betrayal of him, but the risk had outweighed the danger
of the deeds he would commit if left free. My birth father was one of the most evil witches in existence. He had murdered scores of people, including my birth mother, Maeve Riordan, as well as the lover she had known from childhood. I had chosen to chosen good over evil. “I’ve . . . dismantled the watch sigil,” Ciaran went on, and my knees almost buckled. “It was beautifully done, Morgan. So subtle, so elegant, yet so powerful.” He shook his head admiringly.“Your powers . . .” Oh, Goddess, I thought in panic. “Of course, I was unhappy that you chose to betray me to the council jackals,” Ciaran said dryly. “My own daughter. My favored one. But I do forgive you. And it’s gone now—they have no idea where I am.” He gave a mischievous chuckle, making him appear younger than his early forties. “But I’m coming to see you, daughter. I have some questions for you.”
His image faded quickly. Blinking, I felt like a wall I had been leaning against had
suddenly been taken away. There was a split second of seeing the members of Kithic staring at me in concern; then everything went fuzzy, and I felt myself fall. “Stay still.” Hunter’s reassuring voice made me quit trying to sit up. My eyes opened, then shut again—everything looked too bright. “What happened?” I murmured. “I was hoping you could tell me,” said Hunter. He gently lifted my head and rested it on his crossed legs. “You just stopped dead in the middle of our power chant and turned as white as a sheet of paper. You said, ‘What do you want?’ and stared at and stared at nothing.Then you keeled over.” Just like that, it all came back with a sickening rush. “It was Ciaran,” I said softly, looking up at Hunter.Above me, his green eyes narrowed. “What happened?” he asked, almost fiercely. But I knew his anger wasn’t directed at me. I struggled to sit up, feeling my elbow aching where I must have hit it.The rest of the coven was gathered around, looking at me in concern.Then Bree knelt close to me, holding out a glass of water. “Thanks,” I said gratefully. I took it and sipped, and felt a bit stronger. “What happened?” Bree asked also, her dark eyes worried. “It was Ciaran MacEwan,” I explained more loudly.“I just . . . suddenly had a vision of Ciaran. And then I fainted.” That was all I wanted to say in front of everyone, and Hunter must have understood because he said, “I think perhaps we should call it a night.” He put his arm around my shoulders and helped me stand up. “It would be hard to recapture the energy, anyway.” Still looking concerned, the members of Kithic started pulling on their jackets.
“Do you want me to follow you home?” Robbie asked. “Or drive you?” I smiled at him. After Bree, Robbie had been my best friend since grade school.“No thanks,” I said.“I’ll be okay.” “I’ll make sure she gets home,” said Hunter. We said good-bye to Ethan and Sharon, who decided to stay, and walked out into the brisk late-winter evening. I breathed in the damp night air, trying to detect the first hint of spring. The change of seasons would do a lot for me. It had been a long, hard winter. I stood next to my beloved white whale of a car, Das Boot, and rubbed my hands on my arms. I cast my senses but picked up nothing. “Hunter, Ciaran said he’s taken off the watch sigil and that he knows I put it on him.” “Bloody hell,” Hunter breathed.
“Yeah. Let’s go to your place.” I felt nervous, as if my father would leap out at me from behind Ethan’s holly bush. Hunter agreed and followed me in his own car to his house. I would feel safer there—it was a blood witch’s house, spelled, protected, and familiar. I almost ran inside. The overheated living room felt like a haven. Automatically I cast my senses again and felt Daniel Niall, Hunter’s father, in the kitchen. I tried not to let Hunter see my disappointment. Until three weeks ago, Hunter hadn’t seen his parents in eleven years. They had been in hiding from Ciaran and his coven, Amyranth.Though Hunter’s mom had died before he’d been able to see her, his father was still alive, and the danger seemed to be gone. Things had gotten pretty bad for Mr. Niall in Canada, and Hunter’s
trip had ended with Hunter’s bringing his father home to live with him. Mr. Niall was
staying in Sky’s room until she came back. If she ever did. “Sit down,” Hunter said. “I’ll get you some tea.” He headed to the kitchen, and soon I heard murmured voices. The truth was, I couldn’t help it—I didn’t like Mr. Niall. I had been so excited to meet Hunter’s father, whom I’d heard so much about, whom I knew meant so much to Hunter. But I’d been shocked by his appearance—he looked like a homeless person, all bones and pale skin, mussed gray hair, eyes that looked half crazy. Still, I had put on my best manners, smiling and shaking hands—and he had reacted to me as if I were a gift his cat had left on the doorstep. He wasn’t mean, exactly—just standoffish and reserved. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing him again. Hunter was soon back. “Drink this,” he said, holding out a small glass with an inch of dark amber liquid in it. I sniffed it. “It’s sherry,” he explained. “Just a tiny bit. For medicinal purposes.” I sipped it hesitantly. It didn’t really ring my bells, but after it was down, I felt a bit warmer and more able to deal. Then Hunter handed me a cup of tea, and I could sense that he’d added herbs and also spelled it to be healing and soothing. It was very convenient, having a witch for a boyfriend. “Now,” said Hunter, sitting next to me on the couch, so I felt his leg warm against mine. “Tell me everything.” Feeling safer and less freaked, and becoming more and more aware of his body next to mine, I told him everything about my vision that I could remember. “Bloody hell,” Hunter said again. The kitchen door swung open, and Daniel Niall came out, carrying a plate with a sandwich on it. He saw me on the couch and gave me a tight little nod. “Hi, Mr. Niall,” I said, trying to sound friendly. “So what did she say?” Hunter asked his father. Mr. Niall paused at the bottom of the steps, looking pained, as if Hunter had prevented him from making a clean escape. “She said she’d like to,” Daniel said.“And her school has a break soon.” “Da was talking to my sister, Alwyn,” Hunter explained. “We’re trying to get her to come visit.” I knew Alwyn was now sixteen and an initiated witch. “Oh, that would be great,” I said.“I’d like to meet her.” Daniel nodded again briefly and headed upstairs. I sighed, unsure if I should mention my unease to Hunter. Did Mr. Niall treat me as he did only because I was related to Ciaran? I mean, parents always like me. I’m a math nerd, I’m not flashy, and I don’t drink or do drugs—I’m still a virgin, for God’s sake! Not that I wanted to be reminded about that. But I look like I have “future librarian” stamped on my forehead. What else could Mr. Niall have against me? “Is he settling in better?” I asked tactfully once he had gone upstairs. Hunter shrugged ruefully. “More or less. Mostly he’s been reading Rose’s diary.” He was referring to Rose MacEwan, the witch who was responsible for creating the dark wave: an incredibly destructive spell that can pretty much take out a whole town and everyone in it. It didn’t thrill me that a blood relative had created such a thing, but she had the same last name as Ciaran, she was Woodbane— sounded like family to me. I shuddered momentarily, thinking about her. Her story had seemed so real to me—I could almost see myself reacting the same way. It frightened me to think that such unimaginable destruction ran in my blood.
Weirdly enough, Mr. Niall had found Rose’s diary in Canada, at the house of that witch,
Justine Courceau. We had all read it, and then Mr. Niall had taken it back. “Da hopes that he’ll find clues about how to create a spell to disband a dark wave.” “I didn’t know that was possible. Goddess—if we never had to worry about it, it would be incredible. I hope he can do it.” I shook my head in wonder. “Look,” Hunter said, “maybe we should scry right now, see if we can get a handle on where Ciaran is. Do you feel up to it?” He gently brushed my long hair over my shoulder. I had recently lopped off about six inches, and now it hung to the middle of my back. “Yeah,” I said, frowning. “Maybe we should. I keep feeling like he’s going to drop down from the ceiling, like a spider.” I followed Hunter into the large circle room, next to the dining room. The circle room at Hunter’s had once been a double parlor. Now it was a long, bare rectangle, scented with herbs and
candles.There was a wood-burning stove, and in front of it Hunter made a small circle on the floor, big enough for the the two of us. We sat cross-legged inside it, facing each other, our knees touching. Thoughts flew through my head as Hunter took out a large, smooth piece of obsidian: his scrying stone. Gently we each put two fingers on the stone’s edges and closed our eyes. This was where you cleared your mind and concentrated, opening yourself to what the stone wants to tell you. But all I could think about was Ciaran coming back for me, how much he scared me even as I felt oddly drawn to him. And Hunter—he wanted Hunter dead. Hunter, who was a beautiful mosaic of contradictions: strong, but infinitely gentle. Kind, but also ruthless and unforgiving when confronted by those who practiced dark magick—like Cal Blaire and Selene Belltower. I had seen Hunter flushed with desire and white-faced with anger and pain. He was my love. “Morgan?” “Sorry,” I said. “We don’t have to do this,” he offered. “No, no, I need to.” I closed my eyes again and this time, determinedly shutting out all other thoughts, I sank successfully into a deep meditation. Slowly I opened my eyes to see the smooth plane of the obsidian meditation. Slowly I opened my eyes to see the smooth plane of the obsidian beneath my fingers. Lightly I murmured,
“Show me now what I should see,
What was past or what will be.
The stream of time will start to slow;
Show me where I need to go.”
Hunter muttered the same words after me, and then there was silence as I focused my gaze on the stone. Minutes went by, yet the stone’s face remained unchanged. It was odd—scrying is always unpredictable, but I usually got a better result than this. Consciously I let my mind sink deeper into meditation. Everything around me faded out as I concentrated on the stone. My breathing was slow and deliberate, my chest barely moving. I no longer felt my fingers on the stone, my butt on the hard floor, my knees touching Hunter’s.