Cate Tiernan: The Calling

“He probably wouldn’t, but he’ll never know,” Bree assured me. “He’s seeing some woman who lives in Connecticut, and he’s going out to her place this weekend.” She pulled out her wallet and checked for cash. “I’m going to stock up on some food—if I know my dad, his idea of food in the house is one wedge of gourmet cheese, a jar of imported olives, and a bag of ground coffee.”

Bree’s prediction was accurate except for the cheese, which was nonexistent. “Why don’t we go together?” she suggested. “I know all the good stores in the neighborhood.”

“Sure,” I said. I realized I was glad of the chance to spend a little normal time with Bree, even though it would delay my trip to the Bureau of Records.

Bree and I had been best friends since we were little kids. That, like nearly everything else, had changed this past fall when Cal Blaire came into our lives. Bree fell for him, Cal chose me, and we’d had a horrible fight and stopped speaking to each other. For a hideous couple of months we were enemies. But on the night that Cal tried to kill me, Bree had helped save my life.

Since then we’d begun to rebuild our friendship. We hadn’t yet found our way back to being completely easy with each other. On the one hand, she was the friend I knew and loved best. On the other, I’d learned there were parts of Bree I didn’t know at all.

Besides, I was different now. Since I’d learned I was a blood witch, I’d been through experiences that were both amazing and horrifying. Once Bree and I had shared everything. Now there was a huge part of my life she could never understand.

We walked toward Irving Place. The wind was brisk and cold. I gave myself a moment to adjust to being on the streets, massive buildings towering overhead, people hurrying by. It was as if New York moved at a pace faster and more intense than the rest of the world. It felt both intimidating and wonderful.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Bree said.

“It feels like we’re light-years away from Widow’s Vale.”

“We are,” Bree said with a grin.

“So…things are good between you and Robbie?” I asked.

“I guess,” she said, her grin fading. We went into a supermarket. Bree grabbed a basket, headed for the deli counter, and ordered macaroni salad and sliced turkey breast.

“You guess? You two seemed pretty much in sync on the drive down.”

“We were,” she said. She shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Why not?”

She gave me a look that made me feel like I was seven.

“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong with Robbie?”

“Nothing. We get along great. That’s the problem.”

We moved to the aisle with chips and sodas, and I tried to make sense of what Bree had just said. I’d seen Bree break up with dozens of guys for all kinds of reasons. One was too self-absorbed; another too controlling. One bad-mouthed everyone; another couldn’t talk about anything except tennis. One guy was such a lousy kisser that Bree got depressed just looking at his lips.

“Okay,” I finally said. “Maybe I’m dense, but what is the problem with a relationship in which the two people get along great?”

“Simple,” she said. “If you love someone, you can get hurt. If you don’t, you can’t.”

“So?”

“So…Robbie wants us to be in love. But I don’t want to fall in love with Robbie. Too risky.”

“Bree, that’s ridiculous,” I said.

She grabbed a bottle of Diet Coke and turned to me, anger flickering in her dark eyes. “Is it?” she said. “You loved Cal, and look where it got you.”

I stood there, stunned. She could be so cruel sometimes. That was one of the things I hadn’t really realized about her until our falling-out.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I–I didn’t mean that.”

“You did,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm.

“Okay, maybe I did,” she admitted. The hand that held the basket was trembling. “But I also meant that loving someone—really opening your heart to them—is just asking to have your heart smashed and handed back to you in little pieces. I mean, love is great for selling perfume. But the real thing, Morgan? It just trashes everything.”

“Do you really believe that?” I demanded.

“Yes,” she said in a flat voice. She turned and strode down the aisle.

“Bree, wait,” I called, hurrying down the aisle after her.

I caught up to her at a rack full of assorted potato chips. She was staring at them with a frown, apparently concentrating on just which flavor was the most desirable.

“Is this all because of your parents?” I asked in a tactful, subtle way. Bree’s parents had split up when she was twelve. It had been ugly—Bree’s mom had run off to Europe with her tennis instructor. Bree had been shattered.

Now she shrugged. “My parents are just one example among many,” she said. “Look, it’s not really that big a deal. I’m just not into the whole love thing right now, that’s all. I’m too young. I’d just rather have fun.”

I could tell the subject was closed, and I felt a pang as the realization of how far apart we’d been pulled hit me yet again.

I sighed. “Listen, there’s somewhere I need to go. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Bree looked at me, and I could read regret on her face, too. Once she would have asked where I was going, and I would have invited her along.

“I’ll get the candles and some salt for the circle,” she said. “Sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

September 6, 1977

My son was born ten days ago, and I know I should be the proud, happy da. The boy is big and healthy—but Goddess, he’s a loud, needy little bugger and Grania’s still so fat. When will she get back to normal? And when will someone pay some bloody attention to me for a change?

Tonight, after little Kyle screamed his lungs out for three solid hours (“Poor wee thing has colic,” Grania said, as if that made it bearable), I couldn’t take it anymore. I went out to the pub and had myself a few pints and a good sulk. On the way home a bony old cat dashed straight in front of me and I toppled onto someone’s rubbish left out for the trash man. I didn’t even think about it. I muttered a spell and blasted the damn cat. I couldn’t see it die, just heard its scream in the darkness. Now I feel a fool. I know better than to vent my spleen in such a childish way.

— Neimhidh

I found my way to the Lexington Avenue subway line, bought a MetroCard, checked my route with the map posted in the station, and was soon speeding south beneath the city streets. I’d ridden the subway a couple of times before with my family. My sister, Mary K., hated it, but I loved the speed, the relentless rhythm. It felt like I was surging through the city’s veins, being propelled by the beat of its heart.

I emerged from the subway at the City Hall stop. With a bit of asking around I found the Bureau of Records and the fifth-floor office where records of the city’s rental properties were kept.

The air smelled of old paper, the floors of ammonia. A wooden bench lined the wall by the door. Half a dozen people sat on it, a few reading, the rest staring into space with glazed eyes and blank expressions.

I walked up to the counter at the front of the room. Behind it were stacks of shelves filled with ledgers bound in black. A clerk stood behind a computer on the counter.

“Excuse me,” I began.

She pointed at a sign that said Please Take a Number. So I took a number from a dispenser and sat down on the bench next to a man with a thick mustache. “Have you been waiting long?” I asked.