If I broke his concentration, if he for one millisecond dropped his guard, I might be able to do something. Like whimper pathetically and then fall over. Or break free. And then I was sure I could use his true name. It was just so hard to think. I could send a witch message to anyone not right next to me while I was bound. I couldn’t form the sounds of Maeve’s power chant. What could I do? What was I capable of? Starting fires was something I was good at—but everything around me seemed damp. Could I set wet leaves on fire?
Ciaran was talking, pacing back and forth, earnestly trying to convince me why black equaled white. My eyes followed him, but he didn’t look at me much: he was sure I couldn’t break free.
Fire. Heat. Heat plus dampness . . . made steam. Steam could be powerful. Most heavy machinery used to be run on steam. Radiators. Then it came to me.With great effort, I slowly slid my gaze past Ciaran to the trunk of a pine tree. Heat, I thought. Heat and water. Heat. Fire. I imagined sparks, tiny flames flickering into being, fire warming bark, running beneath it. Ciaran didn’t notice the very faint ribbon of steam coming from the tree behind him. His soliloquy continued, as if he thought that if he talked long enough, I would finally be convinced.
Heat, building beneath the pine bark. Pressure building. Cells expanding. Tiny fissures splitting wood fibers. The water in every cell evaporating, turning to steam. I lost myself in it, imagining that I could see the bark swelling, feel the fibers splitting, feel the pressure building.
Crack!
With the force of a small explosion, chunks of pine bark flew outward, hitting Ciaran, almost hitting me. He whirled, his hand outstretched, ready to deflect an attack, but it took him several seconds to see where the sound had come from. Seconds in which his concentration was weakened. In those precious seconds I made a tremendous effort and
managed to work my right arm. Summoning every bit of power in me, I raised my voice
to say his true name. He whirled as the notes began, my voice sounding dull and leaden under the binding spell. My right hand clumsily sketched runes in the air, and with a last breath I managed to complete it—his true name, a color and song and rune all at once. He hissed something at me, but I held up my hand and deflected it. Teeth gritted, I said,“Take off the binding spell.” The look of fury and horror on his face was frightening, even though I knew I had power over him.
“Take it off!”
His arm raised against his will, and words fell from his lips. In moments I could take deep breaths, and when the spell dissolved, I fell to my hands and knees. “Morgan, don’t make this kind of mistake,” Ciaran said softly. But he wasn’t in control anymore.
“Be quiet,” I panted, slowly standing up, rubbing feeling back into my arms and legs. The cold of the night air made me shake: I had been motionless for too long. looked at him, my biological father, an extremely powerful witch whom I had both reluctantly admired and truly feared. He had put a binding spell on me! He had planned to kill me, kill my friends, my family. I let my contempt show in my face as I looked at him.
“Ciaran of Amyranth,” I said, my lungs still feeling stiff, my tongue thick, “I have power over you. I have your true name, and you are bidden to do my will.” I was trying to remember the exact phrasing from various witch texts. His eyes flashed, but he stood quietly before me. “You will never hurt me again,” I said strongly. I wasn’t sure exactly how a true name worked—but I felt that pretty much anything I said went.“Do you understand?”
His lips were pressed tightly together. “Say it,” I said, feeling unreal, giving him orders. “I will never hurt you again.” It looked like the words were costing him. With quick, efficient motions I put a binding spell on him, just to be safe. He stood in the darkness like a handsome mannequin, but fire was burning in his eyes and his gaze never left me. “I have your true name,” I said again for good measure.“You have no power.” I backed away from him, feeling exhausted. My watch said 2:26 A.M. Pressing one hand against my temple, keeping my eyes open, I sent out a witch message as strongly as I knew how. Hunter. Power sink. Now. Bring your dad. I need you.
10- Alisa
><“The secret of a successful dark wave is in creating its limitations. Be clear in your
intent, unemotional. Act because of a calm, logical decision—not out of anger or
revenge.” —Ciaran MacEwan, Scotland, 2000><
“No, no—it’s nal nithrac, not nal bithdarc,” Mr. Niall said, not bothering to hide his irritation.
I gritted my teeth. “Isn’t there a nal bithdarc in there somewhere?” “There’s a bith dearc,” Hunter reminded me.“But not till a bit later.” I let out a breath and sank down onto the wooden floor in front of the fireplace. It was way freaking late, I was exhausted, I had a headache, and I was kind of hungry. “Is there any cake left?” I asked.
Hunter had made a killer pound cake yesterday, and we’d all been wolfing it down in between their teaching me this wretched horrible spiteful spell. Without a word Hunter went into the kitchen and came back with a slab of cake on a plate. I picked it up with my fingers and took a bite.
Mr. Niall sat on the floor next to me and held his hands out to the fire. He looked like death warmed over, gray skinned and hollow eyed. Starting last Tuesday night, he’d been working with me on the spell to fight the dark wave. Dad and Hilary thought I was working on my science project with Mary K. I had told Dad I’d be home late, and he agreed.Another sign of Hilary’s turning my dad crazy: a year ago he’d never have let me stay out past his bedtime.
I looked at my watch: past midnight. And I had to go to school tomorrow. Thank God tomorrow was Friday. I could sleepwalk through classes, then go home and crash. Then come here and not have to worry about getting up the next morning. “I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to spray crumbs. “This is all new to me.” “I know,” said Mr. Niall, rubbing the back of his head.“And this is a hard one. Most witches start with spells to keep flies away, things like that.” “Keep flies away,” I mused. “I could probably handle something like that.” Hunter gave a dry laugh, then headed back to the kitchen when the teakettle began whistling.
He came back with three mugs. It was hot and sweet, laced with honey and lemon. I waited till Mr. Niall had drunk his, then tiredly got to my feet. “Okay. Can we start right at the beginning of the second part, where we do the sigils?” “Lass—” Mr. Niall hesitated.“You’ve been trying, but—”
“But what? But I keep messing up? It’s late, I’m tired, this is my first dark wave spell,” I
said testily. “I know I need lots more practice. That’s why I’m here.” My jaw jutted out, and I realized that I had some pride invested here. I wanted to be able to do this. Not to look good in front of Hunter and his dad, but because I was my mother’s daughter. She’d come from a whole line of witches, yet she’d been so freaked out by her powers that she’d stripped herself of them. That seemed kind of cowardly to me. My powers scared me, too, but it seemed so wrong to give up like that. I felt like, I’m me, I’m in control of me. My powers were not in control of me. Doing the spell was a crash course in learning to channel my powers. So far it hadn’t been that successful: there had been several times when I’d been so upset or frustrated that I’d popped a lightbulb overhead, caused a stack of firewood to topple (I assumed that had been me), and made a framed picture drop off the wall.
Those were the kinds of things that had scared me about Morgan and her powers—the whole idea of her being out of control. But it hadn’t been her, and I had to live with that part of me. I needed to get it together. The weird thing was, by the time the third thing had happened (I was almost screaming in frustration after doing a whole set of sigils perfectly—but backward), Hunter and his dad started to find it funny. Funny! Stuff that had made me quit Kithic and run a mile from Morgan—made me dislike her, mistrust her. Now, after spending so many hours with me in this house, they had started making a big show of throwing out their hands to catch things—vases, lamps, mugs—every time I ev
en raised my voice. It was like that scene in Mary Poppins where the admiral sets off his cannon and everyone runs to their posts. “Look at yourselves,” I said, not meanly. “You guys can hardly eat, hardly sleep. The dark wave coming is draining you. I’m the picture of health next to you. This is still a good plan.Which means you still have to teach me.” Looking defeated, Mr. Niall stood up, and we both faced west with our arms out. “Give me the words,” he said.
Concentrating, I tried to let the spell come to me instead of reaching out to grab it. “An de allaigh, ne rith la,” I half sang. “Bant ne tier gan, ne rith la.” And so on it went, the words of limitation that were the second part of the spell. After one more phrase Mr. Niall and I started moving together, like synchronized swimmers. My right hand came out and traced three runes, then a sigil, a rune, and two more sigils. These would focus the spell and add power. Each rune stood not only for itself, but also for a word that began with its sound. Each word had meaning and added to the spell. I crossed my arms over my chest, palms down, each hand on a shoulder. Standing tall, I continued, “Sgothrain, tal nac, nal nithrac, bogread, ne rith la.” Ten minutes later I sounded the last part of the second stage of the spell. I wanted to drop onto the floor and sleep right there for the rest of my life. But when I looked up and saw admiration on Hunter’s face and a reserved approval on Mr. Niall’s, I felt a rush of energy.
“Was that okay?” I asked, knowing that they would have stopped me if it wasn’t.
“That was fine, Alisa,” said Mr. Niall. “That was good. If we can get the other parts down as well, we’ll be in good shape.”
I tried not to groan out loud: there were three other parts to the spell. The whole thing took almost an hour to perform.
“I felt your power,” Hunter said.“Did you feel it?” I nodded.“Yes. It seems to be getting stronger—or maybe I’m just better at recognizing it. It’s still so new to me. Is it weird for a half witch to have power?” Hunter shrugged. “It’s an exceedingly rare condition, right, Da?” “Very rare. I don’t think I’ve ever met another half witch, let alone one that had powers,” Mr. Niall said. “I’ve heard stories—but usually a female witch can’t conceive by an ordinary male.And when a male witch conceives with a nonwitch female, their child is always relatively powerless.”
Heat flushed my cheeks. I really didn’t want to think about my parents conceiving anything.
“I wonder, though,” said Mr. Niall. “I wonder if your having powers, or this level of powers, has anything to do with your mother stripping herself of hers. Stripping yourself of powers is rather like getting plastic surgery: on the outside, you appear different, but your genes are the same. Your nose looks different, but you have the ability to pass on your old nose to your offspring. The fact that your mother stripped herself of her powers didn’t in any way mean she was no longer a blood witch, with the capability of passing her strength, her family’s strength, on to her offspring.” He frowned at me. “But you do have a high level of power, even assuming that you inherited your genetic due from your mother. Most half witches are relatively weak because they get power from only one side of the family. But you . . .”
I break things,” I supplied.
Mr. Niall chuckled—a rare occurrence. “Well, there’s that, lass. No, I was getting at the fact that you seem to have as much power as a full blood witch. I wonder if it’s possible that because your mother stripped herself, her powers were somehow concentrated in you.”
Hunter looked curious. “You mean Alisa has not only her own powers as a half witch, but her mother’s powers as a full witch.”
Mr. Niall looked at me and nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. “It’s something I’ve never seen before, but I suppose that’s what I mean.” “You don’t have brothers or sisters, right, Alisa?” Hunter asked.
I shook my head. “Except for the half sibling that’s due in six months. But it wouldn’t
have any witch at all.” “It would have been interesting if you had, to see what their powers would be like,” he said.
“Yeah. I’m a walking science experiment,” I said tartly. “I mean, do you think I could ever learn to control my power, all the telekinetic stuff?” Hunter’s father nodded. “Yes—I can’t think of any reason why you wouldn’t be able to. It would be a skill to learn, like any other skill. It would take practice, commitment, and time, but I feel sure it could be done.” “Okay,” I said with a sigh.“I guess I’ll start on that as soon as this dark wave thing is over.”
Hunter and Mr. Niall met glances over my head, and in a flash I got what they were thinking: that if we couldn’t somehow combat the dark wave, I wouldn’t ever have to worry about my telekinetic stuff again. Because I would be dead. Hunter stretched again, then frowned slightly and went still. I listened for any unusual sounds but didn’t hear anything or see anything out of place. “What, lad?” asked Mr. Niall, and Hunter held up a finger for silence. “It’s Morgan,” he said then, getting to his feet. “What, outside?” I asked, thinking he had sensed her coming up. “No. At the power sink. She wants me to come there.” He looked at his father.“She said to bring you.”
Without discussion they walked into the front room and pulled on their coats. Halfway out the door Hunter asked, “Do you want me to give you a ride home?” I looked around the room at Mr. Niall’s spell books, Rose’s Book of Shadows, and my scrawled notes on endless messy pieces of paper. I needed more practice. “No thanks— I’ll wait here, if that’s okay. I’ll go over the third part of the spell again.” Hunter considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Right, then. But stay close to a phone, and if anything weird happens, call 911.” “Okay.” Anything weird? 911? What was going on? Then they were gone, and I was alone. It was almost two-thirty in the morning. I put another thin log on the fire in the circle room and began to work through the forms again.
11-Morgan
><“During the flu epidemic, a coven leader from Dover wanted to use a dark wave on
her city. If Dover were leveled, it would reduce the chances of the disease spreading.
Sound reasoning, but of course the council couldn’t approve it.”
—Frederica Pelsworthy, NOTABLE DECISIONS OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY,
Adam Press, 2000><
After ten minutes of holding Ciaran in a binding spell, I began to feel that I should have let him sit down first. Because I felt a little guilty that one of the most evil witches in the last two centuries, a man responsible for hundreds if not thousands of deaths, a man who had, in fact, killed my mother, was possibly getting uncomfortable having to stand still in one place for so long! I’m so pathetic, I just can’t stand myself sometimes. I was leaning against a headstone, occasionally walking around to keep warm, when Hunter and his father arrived. I had never been so glad to see another person in my life. I felt them get out of Hunter’s car; then Hunter led his father through the woods to the Methodist cemetery. I hurried forward to meet them. “Thanks for coming,” I said, wrapping my arms around Hunter’s waist and leaning my head against his chest for a second. I kept part of my concentration on Ciaran but knew he couldn’t budge that binding spell. I’d always been good at them.“Things got a little crazy.”
“What’s going on?” Hunter held me by my shoulders and looked down into my face with concern.
“Over here.” I waved my hand limply toward Ciaran, and Hunter took a few steps before he spotted him. Then he froze, his hands already coming up for ward-evil spells. “He’s under a binding spell,” I said quickly.
“Goddess,” Mr. Niall breathed hoarsely, having spotted Ciaran. Hunter turned and looked at me like I had suddenly revealed elf wings on my back. I shook my head, unsure of how to begin. “I just couldn’t stand the fact that all this was happening because of me. If I weren’t here, Amyranth would have left Kithic alone. I felt like it was all my fault. I decided to contact Ciaran, to try to reason with him.” I glanced at Ciaran and almost shivered at the look in his eyes. He seemed less recognizable, his ey
es glittering darkly, with none of the mild affection or warmth that they usually held.
“So you called him to meet you here?” Hunter asked, disbelief in his voice.“And he came?”
“Uh-huh. And he said that if I didn’t join him that he would have to take out our coven.
Because I was too dangerous to live if I wasn’t on his side. Because I was the—the, um, sgiùrs dàn? Something like that. Then he put a binding spell on me—” “Hold it,” Hunter interrupted. “Wait a second. He said you were the sgiùrs dàn?” He looked at Ciaran questioningly, but the older man’s face didn’t change. “Yes. Then he put a binding spell on me, and I thought I was going to die, right here, tonight. But I distracted him for a second, and broke his concentration, and managed to put a binding spell on him.” I rubbed my hand across my forehead, feeling old and sick and tired.
“How did you distract him?” Hunter asked. I glanced at Mr. Niall—I thought he’d been way too quiet. In the night’s darkness he almost glowed with a white rage. He was standing stiffly, hands clenched into fists. He looked like he might attack Ciaran at any moment. “I created a pocket of steam, under that tree’s bark,” I explained, pointing. “It made the bark pop off hard, and it distracted Ciaran just enough for me to be able to use my hand and to speak.”
“What did you say that got you out of the binding spell?” asked Mr. Niall, his voice hard. “I said . . . his true name.” The last three words tiptoed out of my mouth. I had never told anyone that I knew Ciaran’s true name, and part of me didn’t like telling anyone now. Hunter’s eyes got so big, I could see white all around the green irises. His jaw went slack, and then he cocked his head to one side.“Morgan.You said what?” “I said his true name,” I repeated. “Then I made him take off the binding spell.” Both Hunter and Mr. Niall looked from me to Ciaran: they had suddenly found themselves in a situation that defied all reason. Ciaran’s eyes now seemed as black as the night, and considering that all he could do was blink, he managed to put a lot of scary expression into it.