A Lost Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 7) (29 page)

Lauren wasn’t listening to the words.  Moira’s face as she listened was serene—but her mind quaked.  Cataclysmic fear.

For her students.  Those she loved like daughters.

Lauren knew what it was to step in the path of Hannah’s precog.  She waited for Sophie’s words to end.  “It would be dangerous.”  Not a question—Moira’s mind left no other possibility.

“Yes.”  Sophie kept her focus on Hannah.  “It would require absolute precision timing with an enormous and volatile magic.  It would be very dangerous for both the healer and the witch.”

Hannah’s head was already shaking.  “No.  I won’t trade someone else’s life for mine.”

“We can do it together.”  Ginia sounded very young—and utterly determined.  “There will be less risk then.”  She turned to Sophie and Moira, beseeching, and held up her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks.  “We are given this magic to heal.  To help.  We can’t let her go back to that place.”

Lauren felt the room’s collective shudder.

And then one soul rose up to meet it.

“I’ll do it.”  Sophie laid her hand on the young healer’s arm.  “Alone.”

Thunderclouds stormed across Ginia’s face.  “No smart healer works alone—you taught me that.  You’ll need someone to hold the channel ends open while you start the fire.”

Sophie laid her hands over the thunderclouds.  Smoothing.  Gentling.  “There are others who can help.”

The student stared at her teacher for a long, silent time.  “They aren’t as good as I am.” 

Hannah’s horrified thoughts were as plain as if she’d shouted them.  Seeing what the rest of them already knew.  It wasn’t hubris speaking.  The second-best healer in the witching world was a child. 

And when their weaving witch moved, it was to stand in front of that child.  “When I go back there, I will remember how brave you are, every single day.  And it will help me, I promise you that.  Every single day.” 

“No.  I can do it.”  Ginia’s eyes held the weight of ancients, even as tears washed down her face in sheets.  “Someday this might happen to my brother.  I have to know what to do.”

Devin’s hands clenched hard around Lauren’s shoulders, a man trying to yank back words that had already been said.  But the face she watched was Nell’s—and the message there was absolute.

There would not be another Sullivan child put in the crosshairs of Hannah’s magic.

Not while Nell Sullivan Walker still breathed.

-o0o-

No.  She would not let them make this choice.

Moira collected the healing wisdom of a thousand years, the headstrong courage of her people, and the steadfast beating of the earth under her feet.

And set her teacup down on the table.  “There is, perhaps, another way.”

The eyes that turned her direction ranged from disbelief to gratitude to frantic, aching hope.

First, to honor those bravest.  “Ginia, my beautiful, lovely girl, you have a heart of pure magic.  And one day, healing may well call on you to put your life on the line for love and craft and duty.”  The words rose up from the very earth and trees and flowers.  “But that day will not be today.”

She looked next to the first they’d fetched.  “Lauren, you have taken your place in the very heart of this community, and it hurts my soul that we asked so much of you so quickly.  Perhaps it is no accident that we found you when we did.” 

Already hearts were nodding. 

And they had not yet named the greatest bravery of this day. 

The woman who would walk away from her life to keep a small boy safe.  Her body might live on in Chrysalis House—but Hannah Kendrick would die. 

And on this day, Moira refused to believe that had to be.  She gazed at their weaving witch and felt the old magics stirring.  There just might be a way.  “Hannah, my sweet, you fought twelve years for the right to be free.  Allow us to stand beside you.”

Jamie spoke the question in a dozen heads.  “What is the other way?”

“It is an old magic.  One of the oldest, in fact.”  Witches had not always been kind to their own.  “It was done as a punishment, a kind of magical banishing.”  And only when Ginia had pulled her clues from history had it occurred to Moira that there might be others.  “It’s a spell that asks for power to be denied to one who is no longer deserving.”

“No one deserves this kind of magic.”  Jamie’s response was instant and heartfelt.  “It took away twelve years of Hannah’s life.”

“Aye.”  And that, perhaps, would give them a foothold.  “It is spellwork born of prejudice and small-mindedness, but there is precedent for using it for good.”  Or at least the murky threads of hushed Irish story said it might be so.  “Back when witches were most feared, it was occasionally used to protect young girls—the ones who came into their power too young to be circumspect.”  Better to live without magic than to die at the hands of the torturers.

“Kenna.”  Horror blew into Jamie’s eyes.

“Exactly that.”  Moira nodded, keeping her mind carefully focused.  The next part needed exquisite care.  She turned to Hannah.  “The words are harsh, and I would be afraid of changing them overmuch.”  For better or for worse, they were the words of history.  “A full circle of witches would gather and declare you no longer welcome in our midst.”  A casting out of the cruelest kind.

And in this case, it might be a gift.

Hannah stared.  “Would it work?”

“It will separate you from your magic.” Moira swallowed, seventy years of wisdom deserting her.  “But the spell was made to protect power, not the feeble creatures who held it.  I don’t know what it will do to you, child.  It could easily be fatal.”

A choice you only gave a patient who had already chosen death.

She waited.  Their weaving witch was brave enough to find the next question and ask it.

Hannah’s eyes never wavered.  “Is it dangerous for anyone else?”

It would hurt all their hearts terribly—but they would live.  “With a strong circle, it won’t be any riskier than many other spells we do.”

There was a long, fraught silence.  And then a single word.

“Please.”

Chapter 22

Hannah had gotten used to coming downstairs in the morning and finding people in her living room.  But this time, it wasn’t a witch.

Dr. Max sat in the green chair in the corner, uncharacteristically quiet, staring at a painting on the wall.

Hannah was pretty sure it wasn’t Caro’s artwork he saw.  “Good morning.”

“Hey.”  His smile was warm and his face had lost some of the tension of the previous day.  “How are you feeling?”

Like someone who had just agreed to magical amputation.  “Nervous.”

“Yeah.”  His breath puffed out.  “You’re not the only one.”

They had taken a lot of risks together over the years.  This was the first one she was taking alone.  “I can’t go back there.  Not if there’s another way.”

His eyes were sad and proud.  “I know.” 

She sat down and grabbed the bull they both feared most by the horns.  “But if I do end up there—if something goes wrong with the magic—”

He started to protest, and then stopped.  No bullshit—it had always been their rule.  “They’re really smart people.”

And skilled and generous and all the other things you wanted when someone was trying to cut out part of your brain.  He had taught her that.  “It’s no different than some of those experimental drugs we tried.  Those could have turned me into a vegetable too.”

But that was before she had a taste of what her grown-up life could be like.  It wasn’t the risk making the waiting so much harder.  It was the hope.  “Promise me one thing.”

He nodded.  “Anything.”

He meant it—and Dr. Max delivered on his promises.  Hannah scrunched her eyes shut.  “If I come back, and I can’t speak for myself anymore…”  The nightmare they had both lived with for twelve years.  She hitched a breath and got the rest of it out.  “Don’t let them feed me oatmeal.”

“Dammit.”  It was the first time in twelve years she had seen his cheeks wet.  “You don’t have to do this.”

She looked at the man who had stood at her side for every one of those days. 

The man who knew it would kill her to go back.

And smiled through her tears.  “Yes.  I do.”

-o0o-

There had been an awful lot of scared Sullivans lately.  Retha looked around the gathered clan and worried for her children.  It was in their DNA to do something silly at this point, and she was a little concerned she might lead the charge.

If not her, it would be Devin, sitting so unnaturally still.  Getting a deep, hard lesson this week in loving someone fearless, or at least someone willing to fake it.  He hadn’t left Lauren’s side for twenty-four hours.

His wife sat beside him on the couch, chatting easily with Sophie.  Lauren might be quaking in her boots, but if she was, there wasn’t the tiniest crack in sight.

Moira landed in Nell’s living room, the last of those they waited for.  And kissed Daniel, head of transport control, on the cheek.  “Your children are all safe with Aaron and Elorie.”

Good.  They’d had enough bravery from the next generation of Sullivans for one day.  Ginia’s passionate call for finding a way was still shaking every person who shared her blood, and a bunch who didn’t.

Nell sat down on her husband’s lap and convened the meeting.  “Okay.  What do we need to do this banishing thing?”

All heads turned to Moira.  She nodded Sophie’s direction.  “I had young eyes look over the old texts as well.  The core of the banishing spell is the unshakeable belief of the circle that Hannah is not worthy of magic.  The words are only gloss on the circle’s faith.  If that wavers, this will not work.”

“Not worthy—” Jamie leaned forward, brow furrowed.  “Do we need to condemn
her,
or only be firm in the belief that Hannah and her magic need to be separated?”

“We are witches, not lawyers.”  Moira’s hands stroked the folds of her summer skirt.  “But it seems to me that the power of the spell has two pieces.  One is the separation, and the second is the condemnation of the vessel it lives in.”

Jamie winced.  “Vessel?”

“It’s ugly magic.”  Sophie’s distaste permeated every word.  “But the judgment is clear and absolute.  We ask the universe to find her unworthy.  Undeserving of magic.”

Jamie’s hands clenched.  “They did this to young children?”

“Yes.”  Moira’s voice carried the full weight of witch matriarchy.  “But remember this.  We have never been simple people.  As healers, as parents, as friends, as witches.  No act needs to have only one purpose.  This spell has been used to save small children.  It was born from ugliness—but it has not always been used that way.”

Retha heard something deep and resonant coming behind the words.  They’d figured something out.

“The inner circle will condemn.”  Sophie smiled—and not a sane person on earth would have tangled with her in that moment.  “And the outer circle, which the old spells ignored, will welcome.”

Moira’s voice rose to the rafters and pulled them all up with it.  “And what we witches of the inner circle do when the spell is done is entirely up to us.”

It had a symmetry and a beauty and a rejection of the ugly that Retha utterly adored.  She smiled.  “That’s a needle well and truly threaded.”

“It will be when it’s done.”  Moira looked around the room.  “But in the moment of the circle, we
must
condemn.  We must believe, and so must Hannah.  And that will terribly hurt all our hearts.”

“Not all.”  Devin’s spring uncoiled.  “We can put the kids in the outer circle.  With a sound barrier so they don’t have to hear the words.  They just need to know that we’re making Hannah safe.”

There was more than one needle being threaded this night.  Retha squeezed his hand.  “Sierra could do that.  She has Nell’s three-layer air spell down cold.”

“Will we need her for the circle?”  Jamie looked at Moira.  “How strong do the trios need to be?”

“Strong of heart, not strong of magic.  It is conviction that will matter.  And the willingness to cause pain.  It is no place for our young hearts.”

Nell was already nodding.  “Marcus and Devin, Mike and me.  Hard-asses, all of us.  We’ll head the trios.”  She looked hard at Jamie.  “You and Mom are going to go hang out in the outer circle and eat cookies.”

He blinked.  “Why?”

“Because we’re blasting precog to the outer rings of hell.”  Nell nearly spit out every single word.  “And we’re not taking any chances that the spell isn’t all that picky.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “I wouldn’t be all that unhappy about letting it go.”

“And all your other magic too?” 

Retha was very grateful her children had such clear, logical minds.  The stubborn heads were their father’s fault.  “We have no reason to think the spell would do that.”

“We have no reason to think it wouldn’t.”  Her daughter’s face was set in stone.  “This is mean, ugly magic.  Witches being bullies.  I’m not letting it gang up on any more people I love.”

Retha opened her mouth to protest one more time—and then looked around the room and shut it.  She was way, way outvoted.

And she and Jamie had another job they could do.  It would not only be Sierra guarding the outer circle.  Warriors fought from all kinds of positions.