TARA
Tara looked up and stared at
the ceiling as she heard another creak of the floorboard above. She
smiled. She didn’t have to guess who had snuck up to the attic, again, in the
dusky skies of the night.
It
would be Claire.
She’d
followed her up there, the first night they’d gotten back. She done so every
night since. And even as she lay there, arguing with herself, telling herself
she wasn’t going to get any sleep this way, she had a feeling she’d do so again
tonight.
She
wondered if they’d get to use that wonderful, old attic now—they were all back.
Now—they were the witches, who were supposed to protect this particular
gateway. Would they be the ones stirring the herbs in one of several of the
huge, old cauldrons Murcia had stocked there?
She
hoped so—and not for the first time. That attic was a witch’s dream, come true.
She’d wanted to take it home with her from the first moment she’d laid eyes on
it as a child. She’d often spoken of it to her own Grams—telling her someday
she wanted a house with a witch’s magickal room like that, of her own like that.
Murcia
had been one of the coven leaders in this tiny little town, although none of
them had known that when they were children. Tara still hadn’t told Claire that
her own Grams had disagreed with the parent’s decision to try and protect their
children, by keeping them in the dark—believing they could keep Dante from
finding them. Believing, in their fear, that blinding their children to the
real danger they were in, had been the only choice left open to them—to protect
them from the warlock they hadn’t been able to defeat.
So,
unfortunately, it had taken many years before Claire and Tara had learned the
truth of their birthright as a witch. Tara had learned the truth of it from
Claire, who’d learned it from her Grandma Murcia. Those left of their group had
been in their mid-teens by then. They’d long lost Morgan. And since Morgan had
been missing for all that time, she’d never known that truth—until now.
Tara
hadn’t found out about her own Grams until the other day. She supposed she
would have to talk to Claire about that—perhaps even tonight if she couldn’t
manage to get herself to go to sleep again.
She
turned, to stare up at the ceiling as Claire moved across the floor above. One
board had never been fixed. The girls had giggled about this—once they had been
allowed up there. Tara had deliberately taken this bedroom then—as she’d done
so now—so she could know whenever someone went to the attic.
She
didn’t know how—but she knew the knowledge they sought lay somewhere in that
great, old room.
She
lay there, puzzling out the coven’s thinking. Though their families had decided
to keep the knowledge, that they had been born witches, from them. Murcia had
said they’d done so to protect them. Tara still didn’t get how that logic
worked. To Tara, it had seemed like a bunch of messed up ideas, not making a
lot of sense.
How
could a bunch of adults—most of whom she considered to have some common sense—have
lost that common sense, when it came
to training their children about magick. Claire’s grandmother, Murcia, had said
that they were trying to protect them, since they had an enemy who sought to
take the sisters from them.
The
coven had figured, if the children didn’t know what they were—didn’t know about
the world of magick—they’d somehow keep them safe from Dante. They’d decided
that if they couldn’t prevent him from coming after their children—perhaps he
wouldn’t pay them any mind, since he’d always been drawn to powerful magick.
And if he did know they were still there, then perhaps he wouldn’t bother with
their children—if they took no part in the magickal world.
Apparently,
their big argument, for making such a harrowing mistake, had all centered on
the notion, if the children didn’t grow up fighting him, he wouldn’t pay attention
to them—but if they went up against him—he would never quit.
Tara’s
gaze narrowed on the ceiling above. Something about the coven’s logic bothered
her. Were their family members—and coven members, really that stupid? Or—we’re her and her sister-friends, now,
missing something here?
But
what? He wouldn’t stop. Not until they were all dead.
As
it stood, he hadn’t succeeded in getting his hands on Morgan as a child, but
only through a fluke. She’d disappeared. At first, the coven had been
frantic—thinking it had been him, but then, someone had assured them he still
lurked in the shadows—looking for her.
Tara
still didn’t know who would have known. And the last time she and Claire had
talked to her Grandma Murcia—she’d been determined he’d stop at nothing to get
his hands on either, or both, of the sisters.
Tara
frowned. Something didn’t make sense.
At
first, she hadn’t understood why. Sure she and the sisters could do some
amazing things with magick—even untrained—yet the coven had figured out what
the kids were up to—and Claire and Tara had quickly figured out why the warlock
wanted to get his hands on them, before they could wield their full power. When
they were older, it would be much, much more difficult.
But
why not train them?
She
turned over, for the hundredth time, still trying to get comfortable.
“Oh,
to heck with it,” she said out loud to no one in particular. She got up and
pulled on her robe and slippers. She might as well go and help Claire.
She
snuck up to the attic, but Claire had already left, so she quietly went back
down the stairs and made her way to Claire’s bedroom, lightly tapping on the
door. She saw Claire’s head fly up as she cracked it open. Claire smiled and
waved her in.
“Find
anything?”
Claire
shook her head. “Did you know they kept two separate, Book of Shadows?” she
said, eyeing Tara in frustration. “Would someone please explain to me why they
went to such trouble to keep us in the dark?” She set one, she was holding, next
to Tara, as she sat down on the other end of the bed. “Even when I thought Grams
was being real with me—when she was training me to call the Daughters of the
Circle—she still wasn’t being straight with me.”
Tara
stared at her. “Why tell you that you were supposed to call the Daughters—and
not tell you how to beat your greatest enemy? Do you think she was trying to
keep you busy doing something—keep you out of harm’s way, so to speak?”
Claire
thrust her hand through her hair, blowing a harsh breath. “I don’t know. I
don’t know what to think. The more I learn—the more I realize we still don’t
know a damn thing.”
“What
do you have to do to call these Daughters?” Tara asked.
Claire
grinned. “You are one of these Daughters,” she said. “So am I, Morgan, Sophia….”
Tara’s
brows shot up. “When did you plan to tell us about this?”
Claire
shrugged. “There hasn’t been a lot of time, between dealing with this old manor,
and trying to figure out who’s trying to stop us.”
Tara
eyed her. “Well—it seems I have something of my own to tell you too.”
Claire’s
brows shot up at this.
Tara
frowned. “My Grams is part of that coven.”
Claire’s
eyes widened in surprise. “Wow—they kept that a secret didn’t they.”
“And,”
she said, smiling, “you haven’t heard the best part.” She paused, causing
Claire to waive her hands at her, like bring it on, excited now.
“She
disagreed with them—and is willing to teach us everything she knows.”
Claire’s
face split into a grin. “And you waited a whole week to tell me that.”
Tara
laughed. “It’s been a very busy week,” she mimicked.
Claire
swatted at her. “Do you think she’d start coming over, right away?”
Tara
nodded, then frowned at her. “What exactly are we supposed to do, about calling
these Daughters?”
Claire
stared down at her hands, then eyed her, her gaze serious now. “We have to
figure out who the rest of these Daughters are,
first. Perhaps your Grams can help us there, too.”
Tara
nodded. She’d figured that much out already. “And then, what?”
Claire
looked down at the Book of Shadows. “Then, we call the Goddesses home, in a
more physical way than we have been for the last few hundred years. This will
be more like the Isle of Avalon.”
Tara’s
brow shot up, and she smiled. “Will we pull this place back into the mist too?”
Claire
giggled at her, and she clucked her tongue at her. “You’ll see. When it
happens, you’ll see.” Then, she shrugged. “But, yes. We’ll have to pull it back
through the veil,” she said. “We couldn’t keep it in the open, for the humans
to see, could we?”
Tara
recognized the truth in that. It didn’t matter how far they'd come. It wasn’t near far enough for something like this.
People still showed a tremendous fear of things they didn’t understand.
“Why
do you suppose, I didn’t realize my own Grams was a witch?” Tara said, looking
down at the pattern on the quilt covering the bed. “I feel pretty stupid.”
Claire
laughed. “We use to try to figure out if everyone in town was in that coven,”
she said, laughing. “Remember?” She frowned, now. “It doesn’t surprise me that
we didn’t know.”
Tara
nodded, picking at a loose thread. “But—we should have. She’s my blood. I had
gotten my power from somewhere.”
“Yeah,”
Claire said, softly. “But—no offense—but your
Grams?” She chuckled again.
Tara
grinned now, too. “Yeah,” she said, laughing. “I see your point. She’s always
acted so—well—straight laced.”
Claire
nodded. “I never suspected she’d do something, like join a coven.”
Tara
shook her head. She still had a hard time believing it.
After
a moment, Tara gazed up at Claire. “You’re going to have to tell Morgan about
the attic, Claire,” Tara said. “You can’t hide it from her, anymore.” She gave
Claire a hard look, saw tears come to Claire’s eyes. “Don’t you think,
everyone’s been kept in the dark long enough? Didn’t you hate that people kept
the truth from us—even if they did it to protect us?”
Claire
stared at her for a moment, as she seemed to think on this. Finally, she
nodded.
Tara
smiled. “Good,” she said. “Besides, we’re going to need to share every speck of
information, we each remember—no matter how insignificant—if we’re going to
figure this out.”
Claire
beamed at her. “When did you go and get so wise?” She teased.
Tara
giggled. “When you went and got so powerful,” she countered.
Then,
Claire looked up and stared behind her. She felt someone enter the room—and
that someone, now, stood directly behind her. Tara felt caught in mud, as she
turned, to see what had caused Claire to go white as chalk.
And
then, she saw him.
The
two women sat there, staring at the same Gargoyle creature who’d caused them to
get split up as kids. He watched Claire—gazed straight into her eyes—his own
midnight blue, deep with some unnamed emotion.
He
turned, and, in a flash, he’d gone.
She
stared at the space where he’d just been. They’d been afraid of him. What
happened, that day, when they’d been kids, had altered the course of their lives.
They’d been terrified—she’d been terrified. Now—well—now she didn’t know what
to think, and Claire had a look of complete confusion.
Tara
nearly smiled. She imagined her friend couldn’t figure out how she could be
attracted to the same winged male, who’d put her in a coma….
She
stared at Claire—saw Claire swallow and shake her head, then shrug. She let out
a breath, she hadn’t known she’d been holding, glancing out the window. Claire
liked the Gargoyle.
Oh,
well, she thought, happy for her.
Claire
wanted him to come back, Tara could see it, plainly in her sister-friend’s
green eyes.
Claire
wanted him to explain himself. She didn’t blame her. She wanted the same thing.
How
could she want such a thing, from him? He’d scared them, badly, as young,
barely teenage. And Morgan had lost her memory because of it—and somehow,
Claire had ended up in that coma.
Tara
winced, somehow things always seemed to get all fuzzy, whenever she thought
about—what had happened that afternoon.
Perhaps—the
time had come to ask the Gargoyle, himself….
She
turned her head, staring at Claire, as she gazed out the window, into the dark.
Tara folded her arms around her waist. They were back in Ravenwood—and so, it
would seem, was the beast. They’d come full circle—she realized—and nothing in
their lives would be the same.
