Cate Tiernan - The Calling

He shrugged. “I’m feeling generous and grateful—and phenomenally sorry. So much more than sorry.” He handed me the flower. “Morgan, I don’t know how to apologize.”

“For what? You don’t have anything to apologize for,” I protested. “I’m the one who charged in there like the Mounties to the rescue.”

He gave me that stern Hunter look. “You did, and remind me to give you a hard time for it someday, but the truth is—this was all my fault.”

I snuggled closer. “How do you figure that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I should have realized Amyranth wanted you.”

“Stop blaming yourself,” I told him. I ran my hand along his smooth cheek. He was so dear to me. “It was the council who got it totally wrong. How could they have thought the target was Ciaran’s child?”

Hunter didn’t say anything.

“I guess I shouldn’t blame them,” I added grudgingly. “I mean, I did see myself as a wolf cub in the dream. But obviously that didn’t mean what we all assumed it meant.”

Hunter gazed at me with an expression of pity and grief. “Oh, Morgan,” he said. “I thought you already knew.”

“Knew what?” Sudden, nameless dread lodged somewhere below my heart, a dark, cold mass.

“The dream meant exactly what we thought. The council didn’t get it wrong. The target was Ciaran’s child.”

“But Killian was never their captive and—”

“Never mind Killian. There’s one thing none of us knew,” he interrupted, his voice gentle. “Not even Ciaran—until he did tàth meànma on you. He saw Maeve holding you as an infant—and he heard what she said about your eyes. Morgan, Angus had blue eyes. Yours are brown…like your father’s.”

“No.” I started to shake again as I understood what he was saying. “That can’t be. It’s impossible. I won’t believe—”

Hunter put one hand on the side of my face. “Morgan, you are Ciaran’s child.”

May 25, 1985

I tried to forget her, I swear it. I returned to Scotland. Had another go with Grania and the little ones, every bit as miserable as the other times. Killian is an interesting one, though. He has more innate power than Kyle and Iona combined. He could be a real find. Still, I can’t share a roof with any of them, not when it’s Maeve I ache for. She’s a craving in my heart, a sickness in my blood. I wake and fall asleep to her memory. I love her as much as I hate her. She is with me every minute.

But the truth is, she remains with Angus, damn him. Time and again I’ve tried to persuade her to leave the worthless fool. And time and again she refuses.

I wonder sometimes what would be if she gave me a chance, if she saw who it is I’ve become in these years since she first rejected me. The heart she would not accept from me, I gave to the darkness. My power has grown beyond what I ever believed possible. I have served the darkness well, and it me. There is nothing on this earth that frightens me and very little that can stand against me. Would the good witch of Belwicket be able to accept that? I must believe that our love would open her to her own true Woodbane nature and that she would revel in it as I do.

Meanwhile my love for her only grows. It never seems to diminish, no matter how I distract myself. I’ve tried everything, even stooping to childish tricks. I’ve left anonymous threatening sigils around their house. I’ve even hung a dead cat from their porch rail. Goddess, it’s sickening, juvenile stuff, but I am a man possessed. What shall I do? What can I do?

— Neimhidh

I don’t know how long I sat there on the steps of the museum, trying to wrap my mind around what Hunter had just told me. I was numb, unable to process it. It was too dark, too monstrous. I couldn’t let it in.

Ciaran, my true father?

No. No, no, no. It simply couldn’t be.

“Listen, love,” Hunter said. “I want to tell you about him.”

“Please. Don’t.” I couldn’t say anything else. His jacket hung open on my shoulders. I wasn’t even feeling the cold anymore. “No, you need to hear this. It was Ciaran who freed me. He told me you were his daughter and that I had to save you.”

“Why? So he can drain me again?” I said.

Hunter sighed. “You’re not listening. Ciaran gave me the spell for calling up the sigils in the table. And he added his power to mine. Don’t you know I couldn’t have held off all those witches on my own? Neither one of us would have gotten out of there alive without his help. Morgan, whatever he is, whatever he’s done, he couldn’t kill you. Not his own child.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I replied dully. “He’s still evil. A murderer. And I’m his daughter.” Robbie had been right about me. I was fundamentally tainted. It was my birthright.

“Morgan—”

I put my finger to Hunter’s lips. “Stop. Please. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all this, it’s that you can’t change what’s fated to be.”

Hunter rubbed his temple. “We need to talk about this, but tonight’s obviously not the right time.”

“We should get out of the city,” I said with a shudder. “Before Amyranth regroups. Let’s go get everyone. I’ll drive back to Widow’s Vale tonight.”

Hunter gave a hollow laugh. “I’m not even sure you’re capable of climbing into a cab, much less driving upstate. No, we’ll spend the night in the city. I expect we’ll be safe enough. But first thing tomorrow morning we’ll get the hell out.”

He hailed a cab and helped me into it.

It was late when we got back to the apartment. We rode up in the elevator in silence. It was only when we got out on Bree’s floor that I realized I was still wearing that awful brown robe. “How am I going to explain this?” I asked.

Hunter brushed a strand of hair out of my face. “It’s after eleven. Maybe they’ll all be asleep.”

They were. Sky and Raven were in the living room, nestled together on the pullout couch. Raven looked content, peaceful, almost innocent.

I found a note from Bree on the kitchen counter.

M&H—

I’m so glad you’re all right! Since my dad is still in Connecticut, Robbie and I are camping out in the master bedroom. You guys can take the guest room.

— B

In tiny print at the bottom she’d added another note: M—You were right about me. How about that?

Hunter was standing at the closed door of the guest room. “Morgan, look,” he said softly. On the doorknob Bree had hung a small wreath wound through with white blossoms. Their sweet, heady scent filled the hallway. “Jasmine,” Hunter said with a smile. “Wonder where she found it at this time of year?” He took my hand. “Shall we go in?”

I tried to force a smile, but I couldn’t.

“Hunter,” I began, my voice breaking, “I don’t know how to say this, but—I just hurt a lot right now. I need to sleep on my own tonight.”

I saw the flash of pain in Hunter’s eyes and felt a remote sense of guilt, of regret. Here, at last, was our chance to spend a whole night together. After surviving the disaster at Ciaran’s, sleeping together was exactly what should have followed, a natural way to ground ourselves in life again after having come so close to death. An affirmation of our love, a time for comfort. But I couldn’t accept it. Not now.

“If that’s what you need…” Hunter’s voice trailed off.

“It is.” I reached up and touched his cheek. “Thanks. For everything.”

“Anytime,” he said.

I walked into the guest room and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. For the space of several heartbeats I forced myself to study my own face. My cheeks were tear-streaked, my nose slightly swollen. My eyes were puffy and red. And exactly the same shape and color as Ciaran’s.