Blood Witch (6 page)

A chant came to my lips, one I didn’t remember ever hearing or reading. I had no idea what it meant, but I let it flow from me, as my wish had flowed from me.

I chanted it by myself, very softly at first—then more loudly, hearing my voice weaving a beautiful pattern in the air. The words sounded Gaelic and ancient. Someone was speaking through me. I lost myself, but I wasn’t frightened. I was exhilarated. I threw my arms up in the air and swirled in circles within our circle. Together the coven spun in orbit; they were planets around a shining star—and the shining star was me. Silver rain was sprinkling down on my head, making me a goddess. My hair came undone from its tidy braid and whirled in a stream, catching the firelight. I was all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing—a goddess indeed. It came to me that the words must have been a spell, an ancient spell, one that called power.

It had called power to me tonight.

“Let’s take it down.”

The voice belonged to Cal. Again his words seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. In answer to his bidding I slowed my whirling and let myself come to a wavering stop. I was as old as time itself; I was every woman who had ever danced for magick under the moon, every goddess who had celebrated life and death and the joy and sorrow in between.

Hunter Niall’s face suddenly flashed into my mind, his superior, contemptuous smirk. Look at me, Hunter! I wanted to shout. Look at my power! I am a match for you or any witch!

Then, all at once, with no warning, I felt frightened, no longer in control. Without Cal telling me, I immediately lay facedown on Jenna’s wooden floor—with my hands flat by my shoulders to ground my energy. The wood was warm and smooth beneath my cheek, and energy flowed over and around me like water.

Slowly, very slowly, my breathing returned to normal. The fear fluttered, weakening. I became aware that someone was taking my right hand.

I blinked and glanced up. It was Jenna. “Please,” she said, placing my hand on her breastbone. I knew that she wanted me to help her. A week ago I had sent energy into her and eased her asthma. But I didn’t think I had the power left now to do anything. Still, I closed my eyes and concentrated on light . . . white, healing light. I gathered it within me and sent it coursing down my arm, through my hand, into Jenna’s constricted lungs. She breathed deeply, exclaiming slightly at the warmth.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

I was lying on my side now. Suddenly I noticed that everyone was staring at me. Once again I was the center of attention. Self-consciously I pulled my hand away, wondering why a minute ago it was so natural to dance alone in front of everyone while now I felt embarrassed and shy. Why couldn’t I hold on to those wonderful feelings of strength?

Matt put his hands on Jenna’s shoulders, the most attention he’d shown her since he’d arrived. He was panting slightly from the effort of the dance.

“Did Morgan help your breathing?” he asked.

Jenna nodded, a blissful smile on her lips.

Cal crouched by my side, his hand on my hip.

“Everything all right?” he asked. He sounded excited, breathless.

“Uh . . . yeah,” I murmured.

“Where did the chant come from?” he asked, gently brushing my hair off my shoulder. “What did it do?”

“I don’t know where it came from, but it seemed to call power to me,” I said.

“It was so beautiful,” said Jenna.

“Pretty witchy,” said Sharon.

“It was really cool,” said Ethan.

I looked at Robbie, and he gazed calmly back at me, warm satisfaction on his face. I smiled at him. At that moment I was perfectly content—but the mood was abruptly broken when I felt nails on the back of my legs.

“Ow!” I muttered.

Half sitting up, I looked over to see the fuzzy, triangular head of a tiny gray kitten.

It mewed in greeting, and I laughed.

Jenna grinned. “Oh, sorry. One of our cats had kittens two months ago. We’re trying to get rid of them. Anyone want a cat?” she joked.

I picked him up. He looked back at me intently, a world of feline wisdom in his baby blue eyes. He was solid gray, shorthaired, with a fat baby’s belly and a short spiky tail that stuck straight up like an exclamation mark. He mewed in my face again and reached out a paw to pat my cheek.

“Hello,” I said, remembering Maeve’s kitten from her Book of Shadows. His name had been Dagda. I gazed at Jenna’s cat in wonder, suddenly knowing that he was meant for me, that this was a perfect way to end the evening.

“Hi,” I said softly. “Your name is Dagda, and you’re going to come home and live with me. All right?”

He mewed once more, and I fell in love.

“A rat!” Mary K. screeched the next morning, right in my face. Not the best way to wake up. “Oh God, Morgan, there’s a rat! Don’t move!”

Of course by now I was stirring in my bed, and little Dagda was, too. He huddled next to me, small ears flat, body hunkered down. But he summoned enough courage to give Mary K. a good hiss. I wrapped my hand around him protectively.

Mom and Dad ran into my room, wide-eyed.

“It isn’t a rat,” I croaked, clearing sleep out of my throat.

“It isn’t?” Dad asked.

I sat up. “It’s a kitten,” I said, stating the obvious. “Jenna’s cat had kittens, and they were trying to get rid of them, so I took one. Can I keep him? I’ll pay for his food and litter and everything,” I added.

Dagda rose up on his little legs and eyed my family curiously. Then, as if to prove how cute he really was, he opened his mouth and mewed. They all melted at once. I hid a smile.

Mary K. sat on my bed and gently extended her hand. Dagda cautiously made his way across my comforter and licked her finger. Mary K. giggled.

“He’s very sweet,” said my mom. “How old is he?”

“Eight weeks,” I said. “Old enough to leave his mom. So—is it okay?”

Mom and Dad exchanged a glance.

“Morgan, cats cost more than just food and litter,” my dad said. “They need shots, checkups. . . .”

“He’ll need to be neutered,” my mom added.

I grinned. “Fortunately, we have a vet in the family,” I said, referring to my aunt Eileen’s girlfriend. “Besides, I have money saved from working last summer. I can pay for all that.”

Mom and Dad both shrugged, then smiled.

“I guess it’s okay, then,” said Mom. “Maybe after church we can go to the store and get the stuff he needs.”

“He’s hungry,” Mary K. announced, holding him to her chest. She immediately hopped up and dashed from the room, cradling him like a baby. “There’s chicken left over from last night. I’ll get him some.”

“Don’t give him milk,” I called after her. “It’ll upset his tummy. . . .”

I leaned back against my pillow, happy. Dagda was an official member of our family.

 

It was the second-to-last Sunday before Thanksgiving, so our church was decorated with dried leaves, pyracantha branches with bright red berries, pinecones, and rust-colored mums in pots. The atmosphere was beautiful, warm, and inviting. I decided it would be nice to find natural decorations like that for our own house at Thanksgiving.

In some way, I guess because I still wasn’t sure about how coming to church fit in with Wicca, I felt strangely detached from everything going on around me. I stood when I was supposed to and knelt at the right time; I even followed along in the prayers and sang the hymns. But I did it without being a part of the congregation. My thoughts roamed freely, without restraint.

A thin, wintry sunlight had broken through the clouds. Yesterday’s snow had mostly melted, and the church’s stained-glass windows glowed with fiery reds, deep blues, pure greens, and crystalline yellows. There was a faint aroma of incense, and as I sank deeper within myself, I felt the weight of the people all around me. Their thoughts began to intrude, their hearts beating incessantly. I took a deep breath and shut my eyes, closing myself off to them.

Only when I had walled them out of my senses did I open my eyes again. I felt peaceful and full of gladness. The music was lovely, the ecclesiastical words moving. It all seemed timeless and traditional. It wasn’t the bark and earth and salt of Wicca, nor was it the grounding of energy and the working of spells. But it was beautiful, in its own way.

I rose automatically when it was time to take communion. I followed my parents and sister up to the railing in front of the altar. The tall altar candles burned brightly, reflecting off the brass fixtures and dark polished wood. I knelt on the flat needlework pillow that had been embroidered by the women’s guild. My mom had made one of these pillows a couple of years ago.

My hands clasped, I waited as Father Hotchkiss said the wine blessing for every person in the row. I felt at peace. Already I was looking forward to going home to see Dagda, read Maeve’s Book of Shadows, and do some more rune research. Last night when Cal had drawn runes in the air around our circle, it seemed to focus our energy in a whole new way. I liked runes and wanted to find out more about them.

Next to me Mary K. took a sip of wine. I caught a whiff of the fruity scent. A moment later it was my turn. Father Hotchkiss stood in front of me, wiping the large silver chalice with a linen cloth.

“This is the blood of Christ our Lord,” he murmured. “Drink this in his name, that you may be saved.”

I tilted my head forward to sip.

With an unexpected stumble Father Hotchkiss lurched toward me. The chalice slipped from his hands. It dropped to the white marble floor with a metallic clang, and Father Hotchkiss gripped the wooden rail that separated us.

I put my hand on his, searching his face. “Are you okay, Father?” I asked.

He nodded. “I’m sorry, my dear. I slipped. Did I splash you?”

“No, no.” I looked down, and sure enough, my dress was wine free. Deacon Carlson was hurrying to get another blessed chalice, and Father Hotchkiss stepped away to help him.

Mary K. was waiting for me, looking uncertain. I stayed kneeling, watching the dark red wine flow across the white marble floor. The contrast of color was mesmerizing.

“What happened?” Mary K. whispered. “Are you okay?”

That was when the thought came to me: What if I was the one who had made Father Hotchkiss stumble? I almost gasped, with my hand over my mouth. What if, in the middle of all my Wicca thoughts, a force had decreed that my taking communion was not a good idea? Quickly I stood, my eyes large. Mary K. headed back to our pew and our parents, and I followed her.

No, I thought. It was just a coincidence. It didn’t mean anything.

But inside me a witchy voice said sweetly: There are no coincidences. And everything means something.

So
what
did it mean, exactly? That I should stop taking communion? That I should stop coming to church altogether? I glanced at my mother, who smiled at me with no awareness of the confusion that was raging inside me. I was thankful for that.

I couldn’t imagine cutting church out of my life completely. Catholicism was part of the glue that held our family together; it was a part of
me.
But maybe I should hold off on taking communion for a while, at least until I figured out what it all meant. I could still come to church. I could still participate. Couldn’t I?

I sighed as I sat back down beside Mary K. She looked at me but didn’t say anything.

With every door that Wicca opened, I thought, another door seemed to shut. Somehow I had to find balance.

 

After lunch at the Widow’s Diner we stopped at the grocery store. I bought a litter box and a scoop, a box of cat litter, and a bag of kitten food. Mom and Dad pitched in for a couple of cat toys, and Mary K. bought some kitty treats.

I was really touched, and I hugged them all, right in the pet aisle.

Of course, when we got home, we found that Dagda had peed on my down comforter. He had also eaten part of Mom’s maidenhair fern and barfed it up on the carpet. Then he had apparently worked himself into a frenzy sharpening his tiny but amazingly effective claws on the armrest of my dad’s favorite chair.

Now he was asleep on a pillow, curled up like a fuzzy little snail.

“God, he’s so
cute,
” I said, shaking my head.