Cate Tiernan - Eclipse

“You just don’t understand, do you?” he said sharply. “You don’t understand who you are, what you are. You’re the last witch of Belwicket. You’re my daughter. You’re the sgiùrs dàn .”

“The what?” I felt hysteria rising in me like nausea.

“The fated scourge. The destroyer.”

“The what?” I repeated in a squeak.

“The signs say that it’s you, Morgan,” he explained. “The destroyer comes every several generations to change the course of her clan.This time it’s you who will change the course of the Woodbanes—just as your great ancestor Rose did centuries ago. So you see, you have more power than you realize. And I simply can’t let that power be in opposition to my own. It would be... foolish of me to go against fate.”

“You’re insane,” I breathed.

He grinned then, his teeth shining whitely in the night. “No, Morgan. Ambitious, yes. Insane, no. It’s all true. Just ask the Seeker. At any rate, you won’t be around long enough for it to really matter. Either you join me now or you die.”

I stared at him, seeing a reflection of my face in his more masculine features. “You wouldn’t really kill me.” Please don’t do this, I begged silently. Please.

A look of pain crossed his face. “I don’t want to. But I will.” He sounded regretful. “I must. If I have to choose your life or mine, I’ll choose mine.”

Hearing him confirm this broke my heart. I felt a sadness in my chest like a dull weight. Any of the confused affection I had for him, any lingering hopes I had of someday, somehow having an actual relationship with the man who had fathered me dissipated. A real father would never hurt his own daughter—as a real soul mate wouldn’t have killed his lover. Ciaran was failing on all counts.

With no warning I was overtaken by a wave of rage, at his arrogance, his selfishness, his shortsightedness. He would rather kill me than know me! He would rather wipe out an entire coven than achieve his ends in other ways! He was a bully and a coward, hiding behind a dark wave that had killed countless innocent people. He was going to kill me because I—a teenager, an unschooled witch—scared him. I didn’t think before I moved. Suddenly I felt like I was on a play-ground and being picked on. I flung out my fist, catching him squarely on the shoulder. Taken by surprise, as I was, Ciaran caught my wrist in his hand, and then I was twisted down to the ground, crying out. This wasn’t magick—this was just a man who was stronger than me. But then he muttered something and I felt a horrible stillness coming over me, a remote coldness that I had felt once before, when Cal had put a binding spell on me.

Dammit! My mind raced ahead in panic as I knelt, so numb I couldn’t feel the dampness of the ground seeping through my jeans. What had I been thinking? I knew Ciaran’s true name! But instead of using it, I had lashed out like a stupid kid!

He released my hand and stepped back, looking angry and concerned. “What is this about, Morgan?” he said, sounding, ironically, quite fatherly. I couldn’t form words—it was like being under anesthesia, those scary minutes before you go totally out. My brain felt wrapped in damp cotton, synapses firing slowly and erratically. I couldn’t move; I no longer felt like I had a body. Besides sheer panic, I was now filled with anger. Could I be any stupider? Magick is all about clarity of thought. Clarity of thought dictates clarity of action. Not thinking, lashing out blindly, not having a firm plan and sticking to it, meant not only trouble—for me, now, it meant death.

I’m not one of those heroine-type people who think best under pressure. Mostly, under pressure, I just want to cry. I wanted to cry now. I was choked with frustration, with fury, with fear. Instead, I knelt on the cold ground, my father standing before me, holding my life in his hands like an egg.

“Morgan.” He sounded surprised, disappointed. “What are you thinking? Are you really going up against me? I’m much stronger than you are.”

My mouth moved, but I couldn’t form words. Then why are you so scared of me? I thought, sending him the message.

I wondered if I could just think his true name—if that would be enough to control him. I was reluctant to try. If he even knew it was in my mind, I’d be toast. I had already made one terrible, possibly fatal mistake. Anything I did from now on would have to be a sure step.

Foggily, my eyes went to Ciaran’s face. He was talking to me in a low tone, and I struggled to understand what he was saying. “Would it be so terrible to join me? Am I such a monster? I’m your father. I could teach you things that would make you cry at their beauty, their perfection. Do you really want to throw this opportunity away?”

My eyes were focused on him as he spoke. Think, think, I told myself dreamily. Think or he’ll win. A binding spell was one of the odder spells one could be under. There were different levels of it—from simply being unable to harm another being to being virtually comatose. The way I felt now was like being wrapped in many layers of tissue: hard to get out of, yet made of thin, tearable layers. I also knew that keeping me in this spell required Ciaran’s concentration. One could work a binding spell from a distance, but he hadn’t had time for that. This was a quick one, hastily put together and requiring his continued effort.

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.”