Cate Tiernan: Eclipse

“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,

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.

The stone was black, blank. Or... looking closer, could I detect the barest, rounded outlines of... what? I looked at the stone so intently, I felt like I had fallen into a well of obsidian, surrounded by cold, hard blackness. Slowly I became aware of movement within the stone—that I was getting a scried vision. A vision of billowing, black, choking smoke.

“The blackness is the vision,” I murmured. “Do you see the huge cloud of smoke?”

“Not clearly. Is it from a fire?”

I shook my head. “I can’t see a fire. Just billows of black, choking smoke.”

An image of my birth mother, who had been killed by fire, came to me, and I frowned. What did it mean? Was this an image of the future? Was this directed at me? Did it mean I would suffer the same fate as Maeve, at Ciaran’s hands?

For five more minutes I stared at the smoke, willing it to clear, to dissipate, to show me what was behind it. But I saw nothing more, and finally, my eyes stinging, I shook my head and sat back.

“I don’t know what that was about,” I told Hunter in frustration. “I didn’t get anything besides smoke.”

“It was a dark wave,” Hunter said quietly.

“What?” I felt my back stiffen with tension. “What do you mean? Was this a prediction of a dark wave? It seemed to be about me.” I got to my feet, feeling upset. “Is a dark wave coming for me?”

“We don’t know for sure—you know scrying can be unpredictable,” Hunter said, trying to comfort me.

“Yeah, and you know that almost every image I’ve ever seen scrying has come true,” I said, rubbing my arms with my hands. I felt nervous and frightened, the way I’d felt as a kid, playing with a Ouija board, when it had moved on its own.

“I’ll follow you home,” Hunter said, and I nodded. Another downside of Mr. Niall living with him was that Hunter and I had no privacy anymore. It was one thing to be alone in Hunter’s room when Sky was around, but there was no way I felt comfortable with his father in the next room. I felt depressed as I got into my jacket. Hunter and I really needed time alone to talk, to be together, to hold each other.

“Will you be okay at home?” he asked as we walked outside.

I thought.“Yeah. My house is protected out the wazoo.”

“Still, I reckon it wouldn’t hurt to add another layer of spells.”

At my house, though we were both exhausted, Hunter and I made the rounds and added to or increased the protective powers of the spells on my house, on Das Boot, and on my parents’ cars. When we were done, I felt drained.

“Go on inside,” Hunter said. “Get some sleep. These spells are strong. But don’t hesitate to call me if you sense anything odd.”

I smiled and leaned against the front door, exhausted, wanting to be safely inside yet reluctant to leave Hunter. He came up the steps and I went into his arms, resting my head against his chest and feeling amazed at how, once again, he had seemed to read my mind.

“It’ll be okay, my love,” he said against my hair. One strong hand stroked my back soothingly while the other held me closely to him.

“I’m tired of it all,” I said, suddenly feeling close to tears.

“I know. We haven’t had a break. Listen, tomorrow why don’t we go to Practical Magick, see Alyce? That’ll be nice and normal.”

I smiled at his idea of nice and normal: two blood witches going to an occult bookstore.

“Sounds good,” I said.

Then I lifted my face to his and was at once lost in the heady pleasure of kissing him, his warm lips against mine, the cool night air surrounding us, our bodies pressed together, magick sparking. Oh, yes, I thought. Yes. More of this.

“What’s wrong?” I asked the next afternoon. Ever since Hunter had picked me up, he’d seemed edgy and distracted.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’ve been trying to reach the council for news on Ciaran,” he said. “But I haven’t been able to get through to anyone—not Kennet, not Eoife. I talked to some underling who wouldn’t tell me anything.”