Blood Witch (14 page)

“You mean,
one
does these things or me in particular?” I asked carefully.

Outside, the weak afternoon sun gave up its struggle and faded behind a bank of gray clouds. I could make out the hulking shape of Das Boot, parked in front of the store entrance, and I saw that it was already covered by at least an inch of snow and tiny rocks of ice.

“Everyone is like that,” he said with a smile, “but I was speaking of you in particular.”

I blinked, not quite understanding. David had once said that I was a witch who pretended not to be a witch.

“Do you still think I pretend that I’m not a witch?” I asked.

He didn’t seem concerned that I knew what he had said. “No.” He hesitated, forming his thoughts. He looked up at me, his dark eyes steady. “It’s more that you don’t present yourself clearly because you aren’t yet sure who you are,
what
you are. I’ve known I’m a witch my whole life—thirty-two years. And I’ve also always known—” He paused again, as if making up his mind. Then he said quietly, “I’m a Burnhide. It’s not only who I am, it’s what I am. I’m the same thing on the inside as I am on the outside. You’re different in that you’ve only recently discovered—”

“That I’m Woodbane?” I interrupted.

He gazed at me. “I was about to say, discovered you’re a witch at all. But now you know you’re Woodbane. You’ve hardly begun to discover what this means to you, so it’s almost impossible for you to project what it should mean to others.”

I nodded. He was beginning to make sense. “Alyce once told me that you and she were both blood witches, but you didn’t know your clans. But you’re a Burnhide?”

“Yes. The Burnhides settled mostly in Germany. My family was from there. We’ve always been Burnhides. Among most blood witches your clan is considered a private matter. So many people lost all knowledge of their house that nowadays most people say they don’t know their clan until they know someone well enough.”

I felt pleased that he had trusted me. “Well, I’m Woodbane,” I said awkwardly.

David grinned without prejudice. “It’s good to know what you are,” he said. “The more you know, the more you know.”

I laughed at that and drank my tea.

“Are there any ways to really identify the clans?” I asked after a moment. “I read that Leapvaughns tend to have red hair.”

“It’s not incredibly reliable,” David answered. The phone rang, and he cocked his head for a moment, concentrating, then didn’t answer it. In the back room I heard the answering machine pick it up.

“For example, lots of Burnhides have dark eyes, and lots of them tend to go gray early.” He gestured to his own silvery hair. “But that doesn’t mean every dark-eyed, gray-haired person is a Burnhide nor that all Burnhides look like this.”

I had a sudden thought. “What about this?” I asked, and pulled up my shirt to show him the birthmark on my side, under my right arm. My need to know outweighed my embarrassment.

“Yeah, the Woodbane athame
,
” David said matter-of-factly. “Same thing. Not all of you have them.”

It was somehow shocking to hear so casually that I had been marked this way my whole life, marked with the symbol of a clan, and that I had never known.

“What about . . . the International Council of Witches?” I asked, my brain following a series of thoughts.

The brass bells over the door jangled, and two girls about my age came in. Without deliberately deciding to, I sent out my senses and picked up the fact that they seemed nonmagickal: just girls. They walked through the store slowly, whispering and laughing, looking at all the merchandise.

“It’s an independent council,” David said softly. “It’s designed to represent all the modern clans—there are hundreds and hundreds who aren’t affiliated with any of the seven houses. Its main function is to monitor and sometimes punish the illegitimate use of magick . . . magick used to gain power over others, for example, or to interfere with others without their knowledge or agreement. Magick used to harm.”

I frowned. “So they’re sort of like the Wicca police.”

David raised his eyebrows. “There are those who see the council that way, certainly.”

“How do they know if someone is using magick for the wrong reasons?” I asked. Behind us the girls had left the book aisle and were now oohing and aahing over the many beautiful handmade candles the store stocked. I waited to hear them come across the penis-shaped candles.

“Oh my God,” whispered one, and I grinned.

“There are witches within the council who specifically look for people like that,” David explained. “We call them Seekers. It’s their job to investigate claims of dark magick or misuse of power.”

“Seekers?” I said.

“Yeah. Wait a second. I can tell you more about them.” David ducked out from the counter and headed down the book aisle. He paused for a moment in front of a shelf, then chose an old, worn volume and pulled it out. He was already thumbing through pages when he got back to me. “Here,” he said. “Listen to this.”

I stared at him as he began to read, sipping my tea.

“ ‘I am sad to say that there are those who do not agree with the wisdom and purpose of the High Council. Some clans exist who wish to remain separate, secretive, and insulated from their peers. Certainly no one could fault a clan for guarding private knowledge. We all agree that a clan’s spells, history, and rituals are their province alone. But we have seen in these modern times that it is wise to join together, to share as much as we can, to create a society in which we can fully participate and celebrate with others of our own kind. This is the purpose of the International Community of Witches.’ ”

He paused for a moment and glanced at me.

“That sounds like a good thing,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, but there was an odd tone in his voice. His eyes flashed back down to the page. “ ‘One cannot help but question those who refuse to participate, who work against this goal and use magick that the council has decried. In the past such apostasy was the undoing of countless numbers. There is little strength in being alone and little joy in unsanctified magick. That is why we have Seekers.’ ”

There was something about the way he said
seekers
that gave me a chill. “And what do they do, exactly?” I pressed.

“ ‘Seekers are council members who have been selected to find witches who have strayed beyond our bounds,’ ” he continued. “ ‘If they discover witches who are actively working against the council, working to harm themselves or others, then they have been given license to take action against them. It is better that we police our own, from within, before the rest of the world chooses once again to police us from without.’ ” David closed the book and looked at me again. “Those are the words of Birgit Fallon O’Roark. She was high priestess of the High Council from the 1820s to the 1860s.”

My tea was starting to get cold. I finished it all in a big gulp and placed the mug on the counter. “What do the Seekers do if they find the witches working against the council?” I asked.

“Usually they put binding spells on them,” said David, looking troubled. His voice sounded strained, as if the words themselves were painful to say. “So they can’t use their magick anymore. There are things you can do, certain herbs or minerals that you can make them ingest . . . and they can no longer get in touch with their inner magick.”

A cold wind seemed to pass over me. My stomach twisted. “Is that bad?” I asked.

“It’s very bad,” said David emphatically. “To be magickal and not be able to use your magick—it’s like suffocating. Like being buried alive. It’s enough to make someone lose their mind.”

I thought of Maeve and Angus, living in America for years, renouncing their powers. How had they borne it? What had it done to them? I thought about my suffocating dream—how intolerable it had been. Was that what their everyday life had been like for them without Wicca?

“But if you’re abusing your power, a Seeker will come for you sooner or later,” said David, shaking his head, almost as if to himself. His face seemed older, lined with memories I didn’t think I wanted to know about.

“Hmmm.” Outside it was dark. I wondered who Cal was meeting and if he would call me later. I wondered if Hunter was really from the council. He seemed more like one of the bad witches the council would send a Seeker to track down.

I wondered if Maeve and the rest of Belwicket had been successful in renouncing the dark side. Would the dark side allow itself to be renounced?

“Is there a dark side?” I said the words tentatively, and felt David draw back.

“Oh, yes,” he said softly. “Yes, there’s a dark side.”

I swallowed, thinking of Cal. “Someone told me there was no dark side—that all of Wicca was a circle and everything was connected to each other, all part of the same thing. That would mean there aren’t two different sides, like light and dark.”

“That’s true, too.” David sounded thoughtful. “We say bright and dark when talking about magick used for good and magick used for bad, or evil—to give it a common name.”

“So they’re two different things?” I pressed.

Slowly David ran his finger around the circular rim of his cup. “Yes. They are different but not opposite. Often they’re right next to each other, very similar. It has to do with philosophy and how people interpret actions. It has to do with the spirit of the magick, with will and intent.” He glanced up at me and smiled. “It’s very complicated. That’s why we have to study our whole lifetimes.”

“But can you say that someone is on the dark side and that they’re evil and you should stay away from them?”

Again David looked troubled. “You could. But it wouldn’t be the whole picture. Are there witches who use magick for the wrong purposes? Yes. Are there witches who deliberately hurt others for their own gain? Yes. Should some witches be stopped? Yes. But it usually isn’t that simple.”

It seemed that nothing in Wicca was simple, I thought. “Well, I’d better get home,” I said, pushing my mug across the counter. “Thanks for the talk. And for the tea.”

“It was my pleasure,” said David. “Please come back any time you need to talk. Sometimes Alyce and I . . . feel concerned about you.”

“Me?” I asked. “Why?”

A slight smile turned up the corners of David’s mouth. “Because you’re in the middle of becoming who you will be,” he said gently. “It isn’t going to be easy. You may need help. So feel free to ask us for it.”

“Thanks,” I said again, feeling reassured but still not quite understanding what he meant. With a little wave I left the warmth of Practical Magick and went out to my car. My tires slid a tiny bit as I backed up, but soon I was on the road heading back to Widow’s Vale, my headlights illuminating each unique, magickal snowflake.

I was barely two miles from my house when I saw the headlights behind me. First there was nothing, not another car in sight. Then I rounded a corner, and suddenly the lights were right there in my rearview mirror, blinding me, filling my car as if it were lit from within. I squinted and flashed my brakes a few times, but whoever it was didn’t pass or turn off the brights. The headlights drew closer.

I slowed Das Boot, sending the message of “get off my tail,” but the other car glued itself to my bumper, tailgating me. Mild road rage started to build. Who could be following me like this? Some practical joker, a jerk kid with his dad’s car? I jammed my foot on the gas, but the car sped up as I did. The tires skidded slightly as I rounded another corner. The car matched my movement. A prickle of nervousness shot down my spine. My wipers were click-clicking away—matching my pulse—clearing away the falling snow. I couldn’t see any other lights on the road. We were alone.

Okay. Something was definitely wrong. I’d heard stories about car jackers . . . but I was in a ’71 Valiant. No matter how much I loved it, I doubted anyone would try to steal it from me by force, especially not in the middle of a snow-storm. So what was this idiot doing?