Cate Tiernan - Seeker

My father kept silent.

“I don’t know how I would feel if I lost my mùirn beatha dàn ,” I said, thinking of Morgan, the unbelievable horror of Morgan being dead. “I can’t really say if I would have the strength to behave any differently. I just don’t know. But surely you can see how this is going down the dark path. Ignoring life in favor of death isn’t something you would have taught us kids. This is the path that killed Linden. But two of your children are still alive, and we need you.” Looking at him, I saw his shoulders shake, perhaps with just exhaustion.

I made up my mind. The council wanted me to head west, to go interview Justine Courceau. I decided to take Da with me, whether he wanted to go or not. Mum was right— if Da stayed here, he would keep using the bith dearc and eventually kill himself. It wasn’t a great plan, a long-term fix, but it was all I had.

Standing up, I went and threw clothes for both of us into a duffel. Da didn’t look up, showed no interest. I made tea, packed some food and drinks for the three-hour drive, and loaded the car. Then I knelt by his chair, looking up at him.

“Da. I need to go west for a few days on council business. You’re going with me,” I said.

“No,” he weakly, not looking up. “That’s impossible. I need to rest. I’m staying here.”

“Sorry—can’t let you do that. You’ll end up killing yourself. You’re coming with me.”

In the old days, Da could have lifted me up and thrown me like a sack of potatoes. These days, I was the strong one. In the end, pathetically, he didn’t have much choice.

Half an hour later he was buckled into the front seat next to me, his mouth set in a defeated line, his hands twitching at the knees of his corduroys, as if waiting for the day when he would be strong enough to fasten them around my neck. I had no idea whether that day would ever come, whether my da would ever resemble the father I had known before. All I knew was that we were headed for Foxton, a small town in Ontario, and after my job there was done—I didn’t know what I was going to do.

Justine Courceau lived at the very edge of the Quebec-Ontario province border. I endured three and a half hours of stony silence on the way. Fortunately the scenery was incredible: rocky, hilly, full of small rivers and lakes. In springtime it would be stunning, but here, at the tail end of winter, it still had a striking and imposing beauty.

The small town Kennet had directed me to, Foxton, had one bed-and-breakfast. First I got Da and me settled there and brought up our lone duffel. Da seemed completely spent, his face cloud-colored, his hands shaky, and he seemed relieved enough to curl up on one of the twin beds in our room. I felt both guilty and angry about his misery. Since he seemed dead asleep, I performed a few quick healing spells, not knowing whether they were strong enough to have any effect on a man in my da’s condition. Then I put a watch sigil on one of his shoes, figuring he couldn’t go anywhere without it and that he would be less likely to feel it than if it was on his body. This way I could stay in contact with him, be more or less aware of what he was doing, be aware if he tried to do something stupid, like harm himself. Then I grabbed my coat and car keys and locked the door behind me. Regretting it, I spelled the door so it would be hard for him to get out. In any other circumstance, such a thing would be unthinkable, but I didn’t trust Da to be making the best decisions right now.

This was never how I’d thought I’d be using my magick. It left a bad taste in my mouth.

Kennet had told me Justine Courceau was a Rowanwand, and I had to deliberately put aside my personal feelings about the clan before I got to her house. Frankly, I’ve often found Rowanwands to be rather full of themselves. They make such a production of their dedication to good, of their fight against dark, evil Woodbanes. It just seems a bit much.

Kennet had been able to give me very accurate directions, and, barely twenty minutes after I had left Da, I was bumping down a long driveway bordered on both sides with hardwoods: oaks, maples, hickories. It was a pretty spot, and again I imagined how it would look in springtime. I hoped I wouldn’t be here to see it.

After about a quarter mile, the driveway stopped in front of a cottage that to my eyes screamed “witch.” It was small, picturesque, and made of local stone. Surrounding it was the winter version of a garden that must, in summer, be astounding. Even now, dormant and dusted with snow, it was well tended, tidy, pleasing.

Before I left my car, I went through my usual preparations. When a Seeker approaches someone she or he is investigating, anything can happen. An unprepared Seeker can soon be a dead Seeker. I took a moment to focus my thoughts, sharpen different defenses, physical and magickal, that were in place, and did the usual ward-evil, protection, and clarity spells. At last I felt sufficiently Seekerish, and I got out of my car and locked it.

I walked up a meandering stone path toward the bright red front door, wondering what Ms. Courceau would be like. Judging by the cottage, I was already picturing her as something like Alyce, perhaps. Gentle, kindly, with three or four cats. I hoped it would be as easy as it seemed. Unfortunately, I’ve learned that isn’t always the case.

While I had been sitting in my car, no face had peered out through the thick-paned, old-fashioned windows, bordered with dark green shutters, and I hoped Ms. Courceau was home. I didn’t see a car. Glancing toward the back, I saw a small greenhouse attached to the cottage, plus quite a few well-ordered squares of garden behind. Maybe there was a garage back there as well.

At the front door I put all my senses on alert and rapped the shining brass door knocker. I felt someone casting their senses toward me and instinctively blocked them. The door opened hesitantly, and a woman stepped forward. I was momentarily taken aback.

“Justine Courceau?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yes. Can I help you?”

My first, instantaneous impression was that she was much younger than I had assumed. I realized Kennet hadn’t mentioned her age, but this woman couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. She was strikingly pretty, with shoulder-length dark red hair. Her skin was clear and ivory-toned, and her eyes were wide and brown, kind of like Mary K.’s.

“I’m Hunter Niall,” I said. “The council sent me here to talk to you.” This sentence can create any number of different reactions, from defiance, to fear, to curiosity or confusion. This was the first time someone had laughed at me outright.

“I’m sorry,” Justine said, stifling her laughter but still smiling widely. “Goodness. A Seeker? I had no idea I was so scary. Come in and have some tea. You must be frozen.”

Inside, her cottage was charming. I cast my senses and picked up on nothing but the usual frissons of lingering magick, regular magick—nothing odd or out of place. I detected faint traces of mild spellcraft, the pleasing scents of herbs and oil, and a quiet sense of joy and accomplishment. I could feel nothing dark, nothing that set off my radar. Instead I felt more comfortable in this room than I had in most of the places I had been in the last six months.

“Please, sit down,” said Justine, and I processed the musical notes of her voice, wondering if she sang. “The kettle’s already on—I won’t be half a minute.” She spoke perfect English but with a soft French accent. I was just glad she spoke English. It would have been hard going, doing all this in French.

The sofa in the lounge was oversize, chintz-covered, and comfortably worn. On the table before it rested a circular arrangement of pinecones, dried winter berries, some pressed oak leaves. It was unpretentious and artistic, and the whole cottage struck me that way. I wondered if this was all her taste or whether she had lived here with her parents and then inherited all their decor.