Cate Tiernan - Blood Witch

"No, thanks," I said. "I'll just wait for the tow truck."

Mom kissed me. "I am so thankful you're okay. You could've been hurt so easily," she said, and I hugged her back. It was true, I realized. I really could have been hurt If it had happened at another section of the road, I could have been hurt so easily," she said, and I hugged her back. It was true, I realized. I really could have been hurt. If it had happened at another section of the road, I could have gone into a thirty-foot ravine. An image popped into my mind of Das Boot tumbling down a rocky cliff, then bursting into flames—and I cringed.

After Mom and Dad left, I set a pot of water on to boil for frozen ravioli. I grabbed a Diet Coke, and the phone rang. I knew it was Cal.

"Hello there," he said. "We're taking a little break. What are you doing?"

"Fixing some dinner." It was incredible: I still felt a little shaky, even though the mere sound of Cal's voice worked wonders. "I, um, had a little accident."

"What?" His voice was sharp with concern. "Are you okay?"

"It wasn't anything," I said bravely. "I just went off the road and ended up in a ditch. I'm waiting for the tow truck to bring Das Boot home."

"Really? Why didn't you call me?"

I smiled, feeling much better as I dumped a bunch of ravioli into the water. "I guess I was still recovering. I'm okay, though. I didn't hurt anything except my car. And I knew you were busy, anyway."

He was quiet for a moment. "Next time something happens, call me right away," he said.

I laughed. If it had been anyone else, I would have said they were overreacting. "I'll try not to do it again," I said.

"I wish I could come see you," he said, sounding frustrated. "But we're doing a circle here and it's about to start. Lousy timing. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Don't worry so much." I sighed and stirred the pot "You know, I…" I left the sentence hanging. I was going to tell him about seeing Bree, about all of my terrible fears and suspicions, but I didn't I couldn't bear to reopen the wound, to allow all those painful emotions to come flooding back

"You what?" Cal asked.

"Nothing," I murmured.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

He sighed, too. "Well, okay. I should probably go. My mom is starting to do her stuff. I'm not sure how late this will go—I might not be able to call you later. And you know we don't pick up the phone if it rings during a circle, so you won't be able to call me."

"That's okay," I said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh, tomorrow," said Cal, sounding brighter. "The famous pre-birthday day. Yeah, I have special plans for tomorrow."

I laughed, wondering what plans he had made. Then he made a silly kissing noise into the phone, and we hung up.

Alone and quiet, I ate my dinner. It felt soothing to be by myself and not have to talk. In the living room I noticed a basket full of fatwood by the fireplace. In just a few minutes I had a good blaze going, and I fetched Maeve's BOS from upstairs and settled on the couch. My mom's one crocheting attempt had resulted in an incredibly ugly afghan the size and weight of a dead mule. I pulled it over me. Within moments Dagda had scrambled up the side of the couch and was stomping happily across my knees, purring hard and kneading me with his sharp little paws.

"Hey, cute thing," I said, scratching him behind his ears. He settled on my lap, and I started reading.

July 6, 1977

Tonight I'm going to scry with fire. My witch sight is good, and the magick is strong. I used water once, but it was hard to see anything, I told Angus and he laughed at me, saying that I was a clumsy girl and might have splashed some of the water out of the glass. I know he was teasing, but I never used it again.

Fire is different. Fire opens doors I never knew were there.

Fire.

The word rolled around my head, and I glanced up from the page. My birth mother was right. Fire was different. I'd loved fire since I was little: its warmth, the mesmerizing golden red glow of the flames. I even loved the noise fire made as it ate the dry wood. To me it had sounded like laughter—both exciting and frightening in its hungry appetite and eager destruction.

My eyes wandered to the burning logs. I shifted carefully on the couch, trying not to disturb Dagda, though he could probably sleep through almost anything. Facing the flames, I let my head rest against the back of the couch. I set the BOS aside. I was one hundred percent comfortable.

I decided to try to scry.

First I released all the thoughts circling my brain, one by one. Bree, looking at me standing in the snow by the side of the road. Hunter. His face was hard to get rid of—and when I pictured it, I got angry. Over and over I saw him, silhouetted against a leaden gray sky, his green eyes looking like reflections of Irish fields, his arrogance coming off him in waves.

My eyelids fluttered shut. I breathed in and out slowly. The tension drained from each muscle in my body. As I felt myself drift more completely into a delicious concentration, I became more and more aware of my surroundings: Dagda's small heart beating quickly as he slept, the ecstatic joy of the fire as it consumed the wood.

I opened my eyes.

The fire had transformed into a mirror.

There in the flames I saw my own face, looking back: the long sweep of brown hair, the kitten in my lap.

What do you want to know? the fire whispered to me. Its voice was raspy and sibilant—seductive yet fleeting, fading way in acrid curls of smoke.

I don't understand anything , I answered. My face was serene, but my silent voice cried out in frustration. I don't understand anything .

Then in the fire a curtain of flame was drawn back. I saw Cal, walking through a field of wheat as golden as his eyes. He swept out his hand, looking beautiful and godlike, and it felt like he was offering the entire field to me as a gift. Then Hunter and Sky came up behind him, hand in hand. Their pale, bleached elegance was beautiful in its own way, but I felt a terrible sense of danger suddenly. I closed my eyes as if that might blot it out.

When I opened them again, I found myself walking through a forest so thickly grown that barely any light reached the ground. My bare feet were silent on the rotting leaves. Soon I saw figures standing in the woods, hidden among the trees. One of them was Sky again, and she turned and smiled at me, her white-blond hair glowing like an angel's halo around her. Then she turned to the person behind her: it was Raven, dressed all in black. Sky leaned over and kissed Raven gently, and I blinked in surprise.

Many disjointed images flowed over each over next, sliding across my consciousness, hard to follow. Robbie kissing Bree…my parents watching me walk away, tears running down their faces…Aunt Eileen holding a baby.

And then, as if that movie were over and a new reel began, I saw a smell, white clapboard house, set back on a slight rise among the trees. Curtains fluttered from the open windows. A neat, tended garden of holly bushes and mums lined the front of the house.

Off to one side was Maeve Riordan. My birth mother.

I drew in my breath. I remembered her from another vision I'd had, a vision of her holding me when I was an infant. She smiled and beckoned to me, looking young and goofy in her 1980s clothes. Behind her was a large square garden of herbs and vegetables, bursting with health. She turned and headed toward the house. I followed her— around the side, where a narrow walk separated the house from the lawn. Turning to face me again, she knelt and gestured underneath the house, pointing.

Confusion came over me. What was this? Then a phone began ringing from far away. Although I tried to keep concentrating, the scene began to fade, and my last image was of my birth mother, impossibly young and lovely, waving good-bye.