Blood Witch (19 page)

My birth mother’s tools, I thought as I cranked the engine. I actually had the same tools that had been used by my birth mother, and
her
mother, and her mother’s mother, and so on, for possibly hundreds of years . . . if the initials on the athame represented all the high priestesses of Belwicket. I felt a sense of belonging, of family history—one that I knew had somehow been lacking in my life until now. I wished that I could go to Ireland to research their coven and their town and find out what really happened. Maybe someday.

When I got home, no one else was around. I was glad to be by myself; I’d had an idea while I was driving back from Robbie’s house, and I wanted to test it in private.

First, though, it was time to take some precautions. I got a Phillips-head screwdriver from Dad’s toolbox in the mudroom. Then I carried the box with Maeve’s tools up to the second-floor landing. Unscrewing the HVAC vent cover, I pulled it out from the wall and set the box inside the vent. When I screwed the cover back on, it would be totally invisible. I knew because I’d used this spot as a hiding place over the years—I’d kept my first diary here, and Mary K.’s favorite doll when I hid it from her after a huge fight.

Before I closed the vent, though, I took out the athame
,
the beautiful, antique athame with my mother’s initials on it. I loved the fact that my initials were the same as hers and my grandmother’s. I ran my fingers gently over the carved handle as I carried the athame downstairs.

About a week before, I’d been looking for information about Wicca online, and I’d come across an old article by a woman named Helen Firesdaughter. It described the traditional witch’s tools and their uses. The athame
,
the article had said, was linked with the element of fire. It was used to direct energy and to symbolize and bring about change. It was also used to illuminate, to bring hidden things to light.

I pulled on my coat, then stepped outside into the frigid dusk and closed the front door behind me. A quick glance up and down the street assured me that no one was watching. Holding the athame in front of me like a metal detector, I began to walk around my house. I swept the ancient blade over windowsills, doors, the clapboard siding, whatever I could reach.

I found the first sigil on the porch railing, around to the side. To the naked eye there was nothing there, but when the athame swept over it, the rune glowed very faintly, with an ethereal bluish witch light. My throat tightened. So—there it was. Proof that Sky and Hunter had worked magick here last night. I traced its lines and curves with my finger. Peorth. It stood for hidden things revealed.

I breathed deeply, trying to stay calm and rational. Peorth. Well, that didn’t tell me much about their plans, one way or the other. I’d have to keep looking.

As I circled the house, more and more sigils glowed under the athame’s blade. Daeg, for awakening and clarity. Eoh, the horse, which means change of some kind. Othel, for birthright, inheritance. And then, on the clapboards directly below my bedroom window, I found the one I’d been dreading to see: the double fishhook of Yr.

I stared at it and felt like a fist was squeezing my lungs. Yr. The death rune. Cal had told me that it didn’t always have to mean death—that it could mean some other kind of important ending. I tried to take comfort in that possibility. But I was having a hard time convincing myself.

Then I felt a tingle at the edge of my senses. Someone was nearby. Watching me.

I spun around, peering into the dim winter twilight. A lone streetlamp cast a cone of yellow light outside our yard. But I could see no shadowed form, no flicker of movement anywhere, not even when I used my magesight. Nor could I feel the presence any longer. Was I imagining it? Sensing things that weren’t really there?

I didn’t know. All I knew was that suddenly I couldn’t bear to be outside, alone, for one second longer. Turning, I bolted into the house and locked the door behind me.

By the time Cal came to pick me up, I had calmed down enough that I was feeling excited about my special birthday celebration.

“What’s changed about you?” Cal asked as I pulled the front door closed. He smiled at me, puzzled. “You look different. Your eyes are different.”

I batted my lashes at him. “I’m wearing makeup,” I said. “Mary K. finally got her mitts on me. I figured, why not? It’s a special occasion.”

He laughed and took my arm, and together we walked to his car. “Well, you look incredible, but don’t think you have to wear it on my account.” He opened my door and then went around to the driver’s side.

“Did you get my messages?” I asked as he started the engine.

He nodded. “Mom said you called.” He didn’t mention the witch message. “Sorry I missed you. I had some errands to do.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “Mysterious errands, if you know what I mean, Birthday Girl.”

I smiled briefly, but I was impatient to tell him about the events of the last twenty-four hours. “I had a pretty eventful day without you. In fact, I’ve had
two
pretty eventful days.” I hunkered lower in my coat.

“What happened?” he asked.

I opened my mouth, and before I knew it, everything was tumbling out of me like an avalanche: the headlights behind me that had made me wreck, scrying into the fire, seeing Sky and Hunter outside my house the night before. Cal kept shooting glances at me, some baffled, some shocked, some worried. Then I offered up my pièce de résistance, finding Maeve’s tools.

“You found your mother’s tools?” he cried. The car swerved. I wondered for a second if it was going to end up like Das Boot. Luckily, though, we were turning into his driveway.

I threw up my hands and grinned. “I can’t believe it myself,” I said.

He cut the engine and sat there, staring at me in amazement. “Did you bring them?” he asked eagerly.

“No,” I admitted. “I hid them behind the HVAC vent. And then when I was leaving, Dad was fixing an electrical outlet in the hall and I couldn’t get to them.”

Cal gave me an amused, conspiratorial look. “Behind the HVAC vent,” he repeated, and I couldn’t help laughing with him. It was a pretty silly hiding place for a bunch of magickal tools, come to think of it.

“Oh, well, no big deal. You can show them to me tomorrow,” he said. I nodded.

“So—what do you think about my accident?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. He shook his head. “It could have been just some jerk who was in a hurry. But if you were scared, I say you should trust your instincts—and we should start asking some questions.” His eyes seemed to harden, but then his face melted in a worried smile. “Why didn’t you tell me about this last night? And about Hunter and Sky being at your house?”

“I sent you a witch message,” I told him. “But you never came. I was wondering if Sky could have blocked it somehow.”

Cal frowned. Then he smacked his forehead. “No, that’s not it. I know exactly what it was. Mom and I did a powerful warding spell before our circle, just in case people like Sky or Hunter were trying to snoop on us. That would have blocked your message. Wow, I am so sorry, Morgan. It never occurred to me that you might try to reach me.”

“It’s okay,” I told him. “Nothing happened to me.” A shudder ran through me as I remembered my terror last night. “At least, nothing permanent.”

We got out of the car, shivering, and hurried up his front steps together.

We met Selene on her way out. She was wrapped in a black velvet cloak that swept to the ground and wore shining purple amethysts around her neck and on her ears. As always, she looked stunning.

“Good evening, my dears,” she said with a smile. A delicious scent wafted off her, giving me an impression of maturity, of richness. It made my own dab of patchouli oil seem naive and hippyish—girly, almost.

“You look beautiful,” I said sincerely.

“Thank you, Birthday Girl. So do you,” she said, pulling on black gloves. “I’m going to a party.” She shot Cal a meaningful look. “I won’t be back till quite late, so be on your best behavior.”

I felt embarrassed, but Cal laughed easily. As Selene left through the wide front door, we started to climb the stairs to his room on the third floor.

“Um, what does your mom think we might do?” I asked clumsily. My steps were muffled by the thick carpet on the stairs.

“I guess she thinks we might make love,” Cal said. Judging from his tone, it sounded like he was talking about spending the evening playing board games. He flashed a casual smile.

I nearly fell down the stairs. “Uh—would she . . . you know, be upset?” I stammered, struggling to sound calm but failing miserably. All of my friends’ parents would have a cow if they thought their kids were doing that under their own roof. Well, maybe not Jenna’s. But everyone else’s.

“No,” said Cal. “In Wicca, making love doesn’t have the same kind of stigma as it does in other religions. It’s seen as a celebration of love, of life—an acknowledgment of the God and Goddess. It’s beautiful. Something special.”

“Oh.” Blood pounded through me. I nodded, trying to look confident.

Cal closed the door behind him. Then he pulled me to him and kissed me. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you last night,” he breathed against my lips. “I know I’ve been really tied up with Mom’s business lately. But from now on I’m going to make sure I’m more available.”

I reached up and draped my arms around his neck. “Good,” I said.

He held me for a moment longer, then gently disengaged my arms and grabbed some matches from the nightstand by his bed. As I watched, he lit candles around his room, one by one, until there were tiny flames everywhere. The candles lined the mantel, the top of every bookcase, stood in holders on the floor; there was even an old-fashioned iron chandelier that held candles, hanging from the ceiling. When he turned off the overhead light, we found ourselves surrounded in a glowing fiery cocoon. It was dreamy, beautiful, romantic.

Next Cal walked over to his dark wooden desk, where a bottle of sparkling cider stood next to a bowl filled with perfect, amazingly red strawberries and another bowl of dipping chocolate. He poured two glasses of cider and brought me one.

“Thank you,” I said happily. “This is incredible.” The light, golden cider tickled my throat with its starry little bubbles.

He came and sat down next to me again, and we drank our cider. “I can’t wait to see Maeve’s tools,” he said, stroking the hair along my temple. “The historical value alone—it’s like finding King Tut’s tomb.”

I laughed. “The Wiccan version of King Tut’s tomb. Which reminds me. I kept one thing out, and brought it with me.” Putting my glass down on the nightstand, I hopped up and went to my jacket, where I took out the athame from the breast pocket. I had wrapped it in a handkerchief. Silently I handed it to Cal, watching his face as I nestled back down with him again.

“Goddess,” he whispered as he unwrapped it. His eyes were shining, and an eager smile played about his lips. “Oh, Morgan, this is beautiful.”

I laughed again at his excitement. “I know. Isn’t it amazing?”

His fingers traced the lines of initials carved into the blade. “Tomorrow,” he said absently, then looked up at me. “Tomorrow,” he said more firmly, “I’m going to have a busy day. First I have to find Hunter and Sky and tell them to leave you the hell alone. Then I have to go to your house and remove all their sigils, if I can. Then I have to salivate over your mother’s tools.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely image,” I said, laughing. “Thank you.”

He laughed, too, then we were leaning together, kissing and sipping cider. Magick, I thought dreamily, staring at him.

Cal kissed me again, his golden eyes intent, and then he blinked and pulled back.

“Presents!” he said, motioning across the room.

It took a second to spot the pile of beautifully wrapped gifts that waited for me on a large table pushed against the wall.