Cate Tiernan - Seeker

Finally I looked up. “Hmmm.”

Da examined my face. “I have—a gift for you. To help you.”

“Oh?”

He went to the room’s small desk and took out a sheet of paper. With slow, deliberate gestures he wrote a rune in the center of the paper. Then, concentrating, he surrounded the rune with seven different symbols—an ancient form of musical notes, sigils denoting color and tone, and the odd, primitive punctuation that was used in one circumstance only. Da was writing a true name. At the end he put the symbol that identified the name as belonging to a human.

I read it, mentally transcribing it as I had been taught, hearing the tones in my mind, seeing the colors. It was a beautiful name, strong. Glancing up, I met Da’s eyes.

“She is more dangerous than she seems. You may need this.”

The paper in my hand felt on fire. In my life, I had known only five true names of people. One was mine, three belonged to witches whose powers I had stripped, doing my duty as a Seeker, and now this one. It was a huge, huge thing, a powerful thing. My father had done this for me.

“I have an idea,” I said, feeling like I was about to throw myself into a river’s racing current. “I think you need to get away from Saint Jérôme du Lac—far away. It has bad memories for you. Not only that, but Canada is too bloody cold. You need to start fresh. I think you should come back to Widow’s Vale with me. Sky and I have room, and I know she’d be glad to have you. Or we could get you your own place. You could be around other witches, be back in society. You need to rejoin the living, no matter how much you don’t think you want to.”

For a long time Da sat looking at a blank spot on the wall. I prayed that he had heard me because I didn’t think I’d be able to repeat the offer.

But at last my father’s dry croak of a voice said, “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know how long I can resist the pull of the bith dearc . I don’t want to hurt your mother anymore. I can’t. But I need help.”

I was amazed and wondered what I had just gotten myself into. I would have to deal with it as it came. “Right, then,” I said. “We’ll leave tomorrow, after I clear up a few matters with Justine Courceau.” I looked again at the true name and memorized it. “We’ll stop in Saint Jérôme du Lac, get what you need from the cabin, and be in Quebec City by nightfall.”

My father nodded and lay down on his bed with the stiff, jerky movements of an old man.

It isn't often that someone truly surprises me, but Hunter did this morning. First he surprised me with that ridiculous report to the council and then by running off like a scared rabbit after I kissed him. I don't understand him at all. I know he wants me, too-all week he's been looking at me like a lovesick puppy, whether he realized it or not. Did he run just because he's a Seeker and I'm the one being investigated? Granted, I'm sure there are protocols in place; I'm sure it would be frowned upon. But according to whom? The stupid council! I don't acknowledge their dominion over me, so why should they stop me from having Hunter? And I absolutely want to have him. He's so compelling, such a portrait of contrasts. He looks young, but acts much older. There's a world-weary air about him, as if he's seen it all and hasn't been able to forget enough of it. And theres that intriguing scar on his neck, almost like a burn. I want to know the story behind it.

He seems reserved, but he's funny, passionate about what he believes in, a worthy adversary, and an equal. He has deep, smouldering sensuality behind his eyes. I want to see those embers ignite. The one problem is his devotion to the council-was I just imagining it, or is that devotion wavering? Given his age, he can't have been a Seeker long. I'm sure it's not too late to show him what the council really is, how insidious they are, how poisonous. In my family alone they've stripped three women of their powers-and that's just within the last fifty years. They're threatened by anyone and anything, and they retaliate far out of proportion. If Hunter understood that, he wouldn't want any part of it.

Hunter. He'll be back. He's not the type to leave unfinished business. I want him in a way I haven't wanted a man before. I want him in my bed, in my life, in my magick. Think of it-two strong blood witches, accumulation so much pure, beautiful knowledge. And using it, only occasionally, to strike down those who have wronged us.

— J.C.

The next morning, after our last breakfast at the B and B, Da and I pulled up to Justine’s stone cottage. Our bags were packed and in the boot of the car; by this afternoon Da and I would be back at his cabin, getting ready to leave for the States. I felt a strong sense of reluctance, and the true name I’d memorized seemed to burn in my mind.

This would probably be the last time I would ever see Justine Courceau. Which was fine. But I had to clear up the matter of the kiss, and more importantly, I had to witness her destroying the list of true names. Which meant first I had to convince her to do it. I had never met a witch who so openly defied the council—even Ciaran MacEwan, evil though he was, acknowledged that the council had legitimate power.

“Right, then, show time,” I said, starting to open my door.

“Hunter,” said my father, and I turned to look at him. “Good luck.”

Encouragement from a father. I smiled. “Ta.” We got out of the car.

Justine greeted my knock and gave us an easy smile. If she was upset about our kiss yesterday, she didn’t show it. Today she wore a deep red sweater that made her look vital and curvaceous. I tried not to think about it.

“Bonjour,” she said, letting us in. “I just poured myself some coffee. Would you care for some?”

We both agreed, and she left us in the lounge. On the floor in front of the fireplace was a large wooden crate that had been crowbarred open. I looked inside shamelessly: it was full of leather-bound books, beat-up journals, even some preserved periodicals. All about Wicca, the craft, the Seven Clans. Additions to her library.

“I see you’re examining my latest shipment,” Justine said cheerfully, handing us each our coffee. It was scented with cinnamon, but other than that I detected no magickal addition, no spell laid on it. I took a sip.

“Yes,” I said, tasting the coffee’s warm richness. “Are these about anything in particular or just general witchiana?”

She laughed her musical laugh. “Most of these are about stone magick, crystals, gems, that kind of thing. For the gem section downstairs.”

“I was hoping to go downstairs again,” my father said.

“Certainly,” Justine said graciously. She walked Da down the hall, opened the door leading down to the library, and turned on the light. “Call if you need anything.”

She came back into the lounge with an almost predatory expression on her face. “At last we’re alone,” she said, smiling at the cliché.

“I wanted to talk to you about yesterday,” I said. I hadn’t sat down and now stood before her. I put down my coffee.

“Why did you run?” she asked softly, looking up at me. She stretched out one hand and rested it against my chest. “You must know I want you. And I know that you want me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Yesterday shouldn’t have happened. It isn’t just that I’m a Seeker and I’m investigating you. It’s just—I find you very attractive, and I’ve enjoyed our times together.”

“Me too,” she said, moving closer. I could detect her scent, light and spicy.

“But I’m involved with someone,” I pressed on.

She didn’t move for a moment, then she laughed. “What does that mean?”