Cate Tiernan - Strife

Erin placed her fingers in a bowl of water, then passed her hand over it three times. Quite suddenly the haze began to lift, and I could see everyone clearly. At the same time I realized that for the first time in days, I didn’t have a headache. In fact, I felt wonderful, as if I’d just taken a long nap and a hot shower. I noticed that I was very, very hungry. That was when I knew that the ceremony I had just witnessed had restored my magick.

“Hunter,” Sky said to me. Her voice was far away, like a voice in a dream. “Hunter, is she with us?”

“Yes,” I said to Sky. I had spoken with Hunter’s voice, almost as if we were one person, one will. It was then that I fully understood that I was seeing through his eyes—that I was actually within Hunter. I wasn’t even certain whether the intention to speak had been my own or his. In the next moment I felt a rush of excitement. It was a visceral feeling, almost like lust, and once again I wasn’t sure whether the feelings were Hunter’s or my own. Suddenly I felt very self-conscious.

“Welcome to the circle, Morgan,” Erin said.

There was so much I wanted to say—I wanted everyone to know how grateful I was to have my magick back; I wanted Sky to know that I was sorry she was leaving. But the power of the moment was intense, and it seemed inappropriate to address anything but the grim task at hand. I focused my energy on Hunter’s presence. I felt a warm rush of strength and love and somehow knew that Hunter was sending me his emotions. I pulled those feelings around me like a blanket.

Erin pulled the book, still wrapped in its dark shroud, from its place beside her and placed it in her lap. After untying the silk cover, she turned to a page she had marked with a red bookmark. Erin closed her eyes for a moment and seemed to take a deep breath to steady herself. Then she opened her eyes and began to read the spell aloud.

The words were harsh and ugly, half of them written in an ancient language that I didn’t understand—one that seemed older than any language I’d heard before. They seemed to force their way out of Erin’s throat, as if she could hardly bear to utter them. Alyce’s eyes were closed, and she was grimacing as if in pain with every word Erin spoke. Sweat broke out on Sky’s forehead, and a bead trickled down the side of her face. Even I felt dizzy and tired, although I couldn’t tell whether it was the effect of the spell or the strain of experiencing the circle through Hunter. I felt a current run through me like a bolt of electricity, and I knew it was the power of the circle growing and combining, running through all of us.

I felt a wave of exhaustion—Hunter’s, I was almost certain. Alyce’s face was flushing pink, then darker red. Her grimace grew wider, and it seemed like she could hardly bear what was happening. Tendrils of her gray hair worked their way loose from her long braid. I noticed this in a moment, a period of time shorter than a heartbeat, then slowly, slowly, the haze began to return. The scene was filling with fog that grew thicker with each passing moment. What’s happening? I thought frantically, but not fast enough. The words beat back against me as if I was shouting into the wind. I felt certain that they had reached no one—not even Hunter.

I became aware of a sound, a sound very much like the roaring ocean beating against the rocks, then drawing back, then beating once again against the rocks. It was a sound I knew, though it took me a moment to place it.

It was the sound of my breathing.

I opened my eyes and found myself in my own room. I tried to cast out my senses again for Hunter but found that I couldn’t. Hunter, Sky, Alyce, and Erin—had their magick been sapped, too? Did that mean the spell had been successful? I had no idea—I hoped so.

I couldn’t believe that everything had happened so quickly. I struggled to sit up, and the lapis lazuli fell from my forehead with a thunk against the floor. I picked it up and held it against my lips for a moment.

I felt like hell.

Standing up, I pulled off Maeve’s robe and folded it carefully. Then I yanked on a flannel nightgown and crept to the hiding place where I kept all of my mother’s tools, behind the HVAC vent, and carefully put the robe back in its place. I set the lapis lazuli on my nightstand. Crawling into bed, I gently lifted Dagda’s soft form and placed him at the end of the bed. I stroked his fur, then pulled the covers over me.

Staring into the darkness, I wished I could call Hunter. . just to hear his voice and to know whether the spell had worked. It seemed cruel to have my magick back—to feel it flowing through me so fiercely for a few moments—and then to have it ripped away again. Still, I knew the magick would return. And I knew that Hunter would, too.

And if there was one thing I had learned how to do lately, it was wait.

I expected to feel better when I woke up the next morning, which is why it was such a rude shock when I still felt horrible. Every muscle ached, and when I tried to sit up, my body actually shook with the effort. Still, I forced myself over to my dresser and pulled on some fresh clothes. I had to go to school today—my history paper was due. I’d spent practically every spare moment, every lunch period and study hall, working on it. Even if it wouldn’t help my quest to stay out of Catholic school, I wasn’t about to let those precious twenty points of extra credit go without a fight.

I thought I’d never make it to fifth period. But when I walked into history class and placed my paper on Mr. Powell’s desk, I felt proud of myself and happy. Even though my parents had never approved of my topic, the paper was good, and I knew it.

After school I came home and fell straight into bed. I didn’t wake up until eight o’clock, when my mom appeared in my bedroom with a tray, looking worried. “Are you all right, Morgan?” she asked.

“Fine,” I said, my voice thick from sleep. “I just stayed up late last night. I had to hand in my history paper today.” Both of these things were true, although unrelated.

My mom nodded. “I made you some soup.” She placed the tray on the floor by my bed. “Lean forward.”

I obeyed, and she plumped up the pillows behind me. Then she placed the tray on my lap. The soup was minestrone—one of my favorites. “Delicious,” I said when I’d had a spoonful.

“I didn’t wake you because I figured you needed your rest,” my mom said. “Besides, Dad and I like to have a romantic dinner alone sometimes.”

“Where’s Mary K.?” I asked.

“She’s over at Alisa’s house.” Mom traced a finger over the edge of my afghan. “Apparently Alisa was out sick today. Mary K. went over to give her the Spanish assignment.” My mother studied the pattern in the blanket carefully. I knew she was holding something back. Almost as if she felt me looking at her, my mom leaned over and brushed my hair away from my face.

“I really don’t feel sick,” I assured her. “I was just tired. I feel better already.”

I think my mom could tell I was lying, but she didn’t press me. Instead, she just stood up. “Leave the tray by your bed when you’re finished,” she instructed. “I’ll come back and get it later.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said.

She nodded and closed the door behind her as she left. I had another spoonful of soup and realized that I really did feel better—a little better, anyway. For once my mom and I hadn’t argued about grades, or beliefs, or Catholic school. It had seemed, for a moment, almost like we were back to normal.

Almost.

I can’t write much—the pen feels like lead in my hand.

This morning I woke up feeling so sick that my sheets were actually hurting me. When Dad took my temperature, he flipped out—it was 103 degrees. He gave me some Tylenol and me drink some juice, then he took me to Dr. Hawthorne’s office. He took my blood and a strep cutture. But he didn’t really have any idea what was making me so sick. He seemed worried that my temperature had spiked so quickly but couldn’t explain it. He says it’s the flu. Doctors always say it’s the flu.