The Coven

CHAPTER 1 After Samhain

This book is given to my incandescent one, my fire fairy, Bradhadair, on her fourteenth birthday. Welcome to Belwicket. With love from Mathair.

This book is private. Keep out.

Imbolc, 1976

Here's an easy spell to start my Book of Shadows. I got it from Betts Jowson, except I use black candles and she uses blue.

To Get Rid of a Bad Habit

1. Light alter candles.

2. Light black candle. Say: "This holds me back. No more will I do it. No more is it part of me."

3. Light white candle, Say: "This is my might and my courage and my victory. This battle is already won."

4. Picture in your mind the bad habit you want to break. Picture yourself free from it. After a few minutes of imagining victory, put out the black candle, then the white candle.

5. Repeat a week later if necessary. Best done during a waning moon.

I did this last Thursday as part of my initiation. I haven't bitten my nails since.

— Bradhadair

I woke slowly on the day after Samhain. I tried to resist the light behind my eyes, but soon I was awake, and there was nothing I could do about it.

My room was barely light. It was the first day of November, and the warmth of autumn had leached away. I stretched, then was flooded with memories and sensations so strong that I sat straight up in bed.

Shivering, I saw again Cal leaning over me, kissing me. Me, kissing Cal back, my arms around his neck, his hair soft beneath my fingers. The connection we made, our magick, the electricity, the sparks, the way the universe swirled around us, I am a blood witch, I thought I am a blood witch, and Cal loves me, and I love Cal. And that's the way it is.

The night before, I'd had my first kiss, found my first love. I had also betrayed my best friend, created a rift in my new coven, and realized my parents had lied to me my whole life.

All of this happened on Samhain, October 31, the witches' New Year. My new year, my new life.

I lay back down in bed, the coziness of my flannel sheets and comforter reassuring. Last night I had seen my dreams come true. Now I knew, with a coldness in my stomach, I would pay the price for them. I felt much older than sixteen.

Blood witch, I thought Cal says that's what I am, and after last night, after what I did, how can I doubt it? It must be true. I am a blood witch. In my veins flows blood that has been Inherited from thousands of years of magick making, thousands of years of witches intermarrying. I'm one of them, from one of the Seven Great Clans: Rowanwand, Wyndenkell, Leapvaughn, Vikroth, Brightendale, Burnhide, and Woodbane.

But which one? Rowanwand, both teachers and hoarders of knowledge? Wyndenkeil, the expert spell writers? Vikroth? The Vikroths were magickal warriors, later related to Vikings. I smiled. I didn't feel very warriorlike.

The Leapvaughns were mischief makers, joke players. The Burnhide clan focused on doing magick with gems, crystals, and metals, and the Brightandales were the medical clan, using the magick of plants to heal. Or… there was Woodbane. I shivered. There was no way I was of the dark clan, the ones who wanted power at any cost, the ones who battled and betrayed their fellow clans for control of land, of magickal power, of knowledge.

I considered it. Of the seven great clans, if I was in fact from one of them, I felt most like the Brightendales, the healers. I had discovered that I loved plants, that they spoke to me, that using their magickal powers came naturally to me. I hugged myself, smiling. A Brightendale. A real blood witch.

Which means my parents must also be blood witches, I thought. It was a stunning notion. It made me wonder why we'd been going to church every Sunday for as long as I could remember. I mean, I liked my church. I liked going to services. They seemed beautiful and traditional and comforting. But Wicca felt more natural.

I sat up in bed again. Two images kept coming at me: Cal leaning over me, his golden eyes locked on mine. And Bree, my best friend: the shock and pain on her face as she saw Cal and me together. The accusation, hurt, desire. Rage.

What have I done? I wondered.

I heard my parents downstairs in the kitchen, starting coffee, unloading the dishwasher. Flopping back down in bed, I listened to the familiar sounds: Not every single thing in my life had changed last night.

Someone opened the front door to get the paper. Today was Sunday, which meant church, followed by brunch at the Widow's Diner. Seeing Cal later? Would I talk to him? Were we going out now, a couple? He had kissed me in front of everyone—what had it meant? Was Cal Blaire, beautiful Cal Blaire, really attracted to me, Morgan Rowlands? Me, with my flat chest and my assertive nose? Me, who guys never looked at twice?

I stared up at my ceiling as if the answers were written on the cracked plaster. When the door to my room burst open, I jumped.

"Can you explain this?" my mom asked. Her brown eyes were wide, her mouth tight, with deeply carved lines around it. She held up a small stack of books, tied with string. They were the books I had left at Bree's house because I knew my parents didn't want me to have them, my books on Wicca, the Seven Great Clans, the history of witchcraft. A note attached to the books said in big letters: Morgan—You left these at my house. Thought you might need them. Sitting up, I realized this was Bree's revenge.

"I thought we had an understanding," Mom said, her voice rising. She leaned out my bedroom door and yelled, "Sean!"

I swung my legs out of bed. The floor was cold, and I pushed my feet into my slippers.

"Well?" Mom's voice was a decibel louder, and my dad came into my room, looking alarmed.

"Mary Grace?" he said. "What's going on?"

Mom held up the books as if they were a dead rat. "These were on the front porch!" she said. "Look at the note!"

She turned back to me. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, incredulous. "When I said I didn't want these books in my house, that didn't mean I wanted you reading them in someone else's house! You knew what I meant, Morgan!"

"Mary Grace," my dad soothed, taking the books from her. He read their titles silently.

My younger sister, Mary K., padded into the room, still in her plaid patchwork pajamas. "What's going on?" she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. No one answered.

I tried to think fast. "Those books aren't dangerous or illegal. And I wanted to read them. I'm not a child—I'm sixteen. Anyway, I was respecting your wishes not to have them in the house."

"Morgan," my dad said, sounding uncharacteristically stern. "It's not just having the books In the house, and you know it. We explained that as Catholics, we feel that witchcraft is wrong. It may not be illegal, but it's blasphemous."

"You are sixteen," Mom put in. "Not eighteen. That means you are still a child." Her face was flushed, her hair unbrushed. I could see silver strands among the red. It hit me that in four years she would be fifty. That suddenly seemed old.

"You live under our roof," Mom continued tightly. "We support you. When you're eighteen and you move out and get a job, you can have whatever books you want, read whatever you want. But while you're in this house, what we say goes."

I started to get angry. Why were they acting this way?

But before I said anything, a verse came into my head. Leash my anger, calm my words. Speak in love and do no hurt.

Where did that come from? I wondered vaguely. But whatever its origin, it felt right. I said it to myself three times and felt my emotions ratchet down.

"I understand," I said. Suddenly I felt powerful and confident. I looked at my parents and my sister. "But Mom, It isn't that easy," I explained gently. "And you know why, I know you do. I'm a witch. I was born a witch. And if I was, then you were, too."