The Calling (3 page)

Since then I'd gotten more used to the infusion of knowledge I'd received from Alyce. I wasn't conscious of it all the time. It was more like I'd been given a filing cabinet chock-full of files. When I needed a certain piece of knowledge, all I had to do was check my files.

Of course, the knowledge in those files was specific to Alyce. For example, I now had a wonderful sense of how to work with herbs and plants. Unfortunately, scrying wasn't Alyce's strong point. That meant I had to resort to more mundane means to find out where Maeve and Angus had lived.

In Mr. Warren's study I found a Manhattan phone book. I got the address for the city's Bureau of Records, then consulted a subway map Mr. Warren had left out for us. The bureau was near City Hall. The number 6 train would get me there.

I'd just put on my coat and scarf and grabbed one of Mr. Warren's spare keys when the door to the apartment opened and Bree came in.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey, yourself. Where is everyone?”

“I left them in an East Village art gallery. There's some kind of performance going on involving a stone pyramid, two dancers dressed in aluminum foil, and a giant ball of string. Robbie was mesmerized,” she said with a laugh. “Are you going out?”

I hesitated. I didn't want to lie to Bree, but I didn't want to tell her about my quest for Maeve's watch, either. I was afraid she'd try to talk me out of it. “I was going to run a few errands,” I said vaguely. “And I thought we could use some candles for Saturday night's circle. You're sure your dad doesn't mind us having a circle in his apartment?”

“He probably wouldn't, but he'll never know,” Bree assured me. “He's seeing some woman who lives in Connecticut, and he's going out to her place this weekend.” She pulled out her wallet and checked for cash. “I'm going to stock up on some food—if I know my dad, his idea of food in the house is one wedge of gourmet cheese, a jar of imported olives, and a bag of ground coffee.”

Bree's prediction was accurate except for the cheese, which was nonexistent. “Why don't we go together?” she suggested. “I know all the good stores in the neighborhood.”

“Sure,” I said. I realized I was glad of the chance to spend a little normal time with Bree, even though it would delay my trip to the Bureau of Records.

Bree and I had been best friends since we were little kids. That, like nearly everything else, had changed this past fall when Cal Blaire came into our lives. Bree fell for him, Cal chose me, and we'd had a horrible fight and stopped speaking to each other. For a hideous couple of months we were enemies. But on the night that Cal tried to kill me, Bree had helped save my life.

Since then we'd begun to rebuild our friendship. We hadn't yet found our way back to being completely easy with each other. On the one hand, she was the friend I knew and loved best. On the other, I'd learned there were parts of Bree I didn't know at all.

Besides, I was different now. Since I'd learned I was a blood witch, I'd been through experiences that were both amazing and horrifying. Once Bree and I had shared everything. Now there was a huge part of my life she could never understand.

We walked toward Irving Place. The wind was brisk and cold. I gave myself a moment to adjust to being on the streets, massive buildings towering overhead, people hurrying by. It was as if New York moved at a pace faster and more intense than the rest of the world. It felt both intimidating and wonderful.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Bree said.

“It feels like we're light-years away from Widow's Vale.”

“We are,” Bree said with a grin.

“So…things are good between you and Robbie?” I asked.

“I guess,” she said, her grin fading. We went into a supermarket. Bree grabbed a basket, headed for the deli counter, and ordered macaroni salad and sliced turkey breast.

“You guess? You two seemed pretty much in sync on the drive down.”

“We were,” she said. She shrugged. “But that doesn't mean anything.”

“Why not?”

She gave me a look that made me feel like I was seven.

“What?” I asked. “What's wrong with Robbie?”

“Nothing. We get along great. That's the problem.”

We moved to the aisle with chips and sodas, and I tried to make sense of what Bree had just said. I'd seen Bree break up with dozens of guys for all kinds of reasons. One was too self-absorbed; another too controlling. One bad-mouthed everyone; another couldn't talk about anything except tennis. One guy was such a lousy kisser that Bree got depressed just looking at his lips.

“Okay,” I finally said. “Maybe I'm dense, but what is the problem with a relationship in which the two people get along great?”

“Simple,” she said. “If you love someone, you can get hurt. If you don't, you can't.”

“So?”

“So…Robbie wants us to be in love. But I don't want to fall in love with Robbie. Too risky.”

“Bree, that's ridiculous,” I said.

She grabbed a bottle of Diet Coke and turned to me, anger flickering in her dark eyes. “Is it?” she said. “You loved Cal, and look where it got you.”

I stood there, stunned. She could be so cruel sometimes. That was one of the things I hadn't really realized about her until our falling-out.

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “I—I didn't mean that.”

“You did,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm.

“Okay, maybe I did,” she admitted. The hand that held the basket was trembling. “But I also meant that loving someone—really opening your heart to them—is just asking to have your heart smashed and handed back to you in little pieces. I mean, love is great for selling perfume. But the real thing, Morgan? It just trashes everything.”

“Do you really believe that?” I demanded.

“Yes,” she said in a flat voice. She turned and strode down the aisle.

“Bree, wait,” I called, hurrying down the aisle after her.

I caught up to her at a rack full of assorted potato chips. She was staring at them with a frown, apparently concentrating on just which flavor was the most desirable.

“Is this all because of your parents?” I asked in a tactful, subtle way. Bree's parents had split up when she was twelve. It had been ugly—Bree's mom had run off to Europe with her tennis instructor. Bree had been shattered.

Now she shrugged. “My parents are just one example among many,” she said. “Look, it's not really that big a deal. I'm just not into the whole love thing right now, that's all. I'm too young. I'd just rather have fun.”

I could tell the subject was closed, and I felt a pang as the realization of how far apart we'd been pulled hit me yet again.

I sighed. “Listen, there's somewhere I need to go. I'll be back in a couple of hours.”

Bree looked at me, and I could read regret on her face, too. Once she would have asked where I was going, and I would have invited her along.

“I'll get the candles and some salt for the circle,” she said. “Sure you'll be okay on your own?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I'll see you later.”

I found my way to the Lexington Avenue subway line, bought a MetroCard, checked my route with the map posted in the station, and was soon speeding south beneath the city streets. I'd ridden the subway a couple of times before with my family. My sister, Mary K., hated it, but I loved the speed, the relentless rhythm. It felt like I was surging through the city's veins, being propelled by the beat of its heart.

I emerged from the subway at the City Hall stop. With a bit of asking around I found the Bureau of Records and the fifth-floor office where records of the city's rental properties were kept.

The air smelled of old paper, the floors of ammonia. A wooden bench lined the wall by the door. Half a dozen people sat on it, a few reading, the rest staring into space with glazed eyes and blank expressions.

I walked up to the counter at the front of the room. Behind it were stacks of shelves filled with ledgers bound in black. A clerk stood behind a computer on the counter.

“Excuse me,” I began.

She pointed at a sign that said Please Take a Number. So I took a number from a dispenser and sat down on the bench next to a man with a thick mustache. “Have you been waiting long?” I asked.

“I've spent less time waiting in line at the DMV,” he told me.

I took that as a yes, but since there were only seven people ahead of me, I figured the wait couldn't be too long. I was wrong. The clerk not only moved in excruciatingly slow motion whenever she was actually helping anyone, but she seemed to need lengthy breaks between finishing with one person and calling the next.

The minutes ticked on. I tapped my fingers on my leg, trying not to let dark images creep into my mind—images of Cal being struck by the bolt of dark magick, of his body lying there on the floor of Selene's study. Since that horrible day, those pictures often came to haunt me in moments when I wasn't actively thinking about something else.

I distracted myself by reciting—under my breath—the properties of all the healing plants I knew. After that I went through rocks and minerals. Then I began counting the tiles in the floor, the cracks in the ceiling, the scuff marks on the plastic chairs. If only I'd thought to bring a book.

It was almost two hours later when my number was called. “I'm trying to find the address of an apartment that was rented by Maeve Riordan and Angus Bramson in 1982,” I explained.

The clerk looked at me like I'd just asked her to sprout wings. “That's not possible,” she said. “This system doesn't find apartments by the tenants' names. You give me the address, then I can tell you who lived there.”

“All I know is it was somewhere in Hell's Kitchen,” I said.

She tapped fuchsia nails against the counter. “Then you're out of luck,” she told me. “There are hundreds of apartments in Hell's Kitchen. I can't be searching every building listing for the Bransons.”

“It's Bramson and Riordan,” I corrected her, trying not to lose the few shreds of patience I had left. “Isn't there some kind of quick computer search you can do?”

She glanced at her computer. “Program's not set up that way.”

I glanced at the rows of ledgers behind her. There were dates on the spines. “Do you think I could look through the 1982 books?” I asked.

“Not without a note from my supervisor, and she's on vacation for the next two weeks.” The woman gave me a malicious smile. “Why don't you come back in February?” she suggested.

“I won't be here in February,” I protested.

She started typing on the keyboard. I'd been dismissed.

I turned toward the door. Then I turned back again. If this woman wanted to play a power game, I decided angrily, I'd be happy to play, too. And I'd win. I hesitated only a moment, though I knew I was about to do something I wasn't supposed to do. Well, city employees weren't supposed to be totally unhelpful, either, I reasoned.

I licked my lips and glanced around. The only person still waiting on the bench was a worn-looking elderly man who dozed as he sat. He wouldn't notice anything.

I used a very simple spell, one of the first that Cal had taught me, one I had used to retrieve Maeve's tools. “I'm invisible,” I whispered. “You see me not. I am but a shadow.”

The spell didn't really make me invisible. It simply made me unnoticeable, trivial. When I used it, people would focus on other things instead of me. I jumped up and down a few times to see if it had worked. The clerk didn't react, so I summoned my nerve and walked behind the counter. I hesitated when I reached for the first 1982 volume. Even if the spell made me unnoticeable, I wasn't sure it would do the same for the book.

I focused on the clerk's computer. Electricity was a form of energy and, as Hunter had taught me, energy was fairly easy to manipulate. I sent out my own energy, focusing until I picked up the emanations from the motherboard. Then I sent my energy into it, forcing the electric current into a series of irregular spikes.

“Damn, what is wrong with this machine?” the woman muttered.

Quickly I flipped open the 1982 book to the addresses in the West Forties and began scanning the cramped columns. On the seventh page I found it: Bramson. 788 W. 49th Street, Apt. 3.

I glanced at the clerk's computer screen. Lines were flickering madly across it. Quietly I replaced the book and started out of the office.

The clerk looked up as she heard me open the door. “You,” she said, sounding surprised. “I thought you'd left.”

I smiled at her. “You were a real help,” I said. “Thanks.”

I hurried out, enjoying her look of blank confusion.

As I waited for the subway that would take me back to the apartment, I wondered if the clerk's computer had recovered. Even if it was permanently fried, I had no regrets. Okay, I'd used my magick on an unsuspecting person, something I wasn't supposed to do—but she'd deserved it. Besides, I hadn't hurt her.

I knew, of course, that if Hunter ever found out what I'd done, he'd be angry. But this situation had been special. Using magick to get my birth mother's address seemed justified. No real damage had been done, and I'd gotten the necessary results.

I felt good. My magick was growing stronger and more sure, and I loved it.

That evening we ate dinner at a bustling diner on lower Second Avenue. All six of us were squeezed into a booth with red vinyl seats. Hunter was on one side of me, Robbie on the other.

“So, what does everyone want to do tonight?” Bree asked.

“I've always wanted to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge,” said Robbie. “It must be gorgeous at night when you can see all the lights of Manhattan.”

Bree waved a dismissive hand. “Excellent way to get mugged. Besides, it's freezing.”

“Actually, I've got a lead I need to pursue,” Hunter said. “There's a club not too far from here, a bit of a hangout for witches, and I'm told one of the DJs might know something about Amyranth. How would you all feel about going to a dance club?”

Raven grinned at Sky. “I could live with that.”

Sky nodded, Bree said, “Sounds good,” and Robbie said, “Cool.”

I was the only one who seemed to have mixed feelings about going. On the one hand, I was dying to go to a cool New York club, especially one where other witches hung out. But on the other, I was terrified I'd be rejected at the door, or if I actually got in, everyone would know I was from the boonies. Besides, I've always been too self-conscious to enjoy dancing.

“I have one condition, though,” Hunter went on. “If we go to this club and someone asks where you're from, just say upstate. Also, no one says anything about Selene and Cal. I don't want any of you associated with what happened to them.”

Raven made a face. “Do you have to get all cloak-and-dagger on us?”

I saw Sky stiffen. Hunter, though, merely said, “We don't take risks with each other's safety.” His voice was quiet but firm.

Raven looked away. “Forget I said anything.”

“Fine,” Hunter agreed, and let the subject drop.

The club was in the East Village, just beyond Avenue C. On the way over, Hunter hooked his arm through mine, and I felt absurdly happy. When we reached Avenue C, he nodded toward a large industrial building with big, opaque glass windows. “That's it,” he said.

A husky guy in black jeans and a black leather jacket stood in front of a rope at the door. I was suddenly nervous again. “What if they don't let us in?” I asked.

“They'll let us in,” Hunter said with the assurance of the effortlessly beautiful.

It occurred to me that I was the only one in our group who might have trouble. Bree was gorgeous, and Robbie was, too. Raven definitely made a fashion statement. As for Hunter and Sky, in addition to their luminous blond hair, fine, even features, and cheekbones to die for, they had a certain indefinable cool. I'm not ugly or anything, but I don't stand out, either. My hair, which I actually like, was in a single, messy braid. Plus I'd dressed for the cold, not a trendy club.

But the time for worrying was over. We were suddenly at the door and the bouncer was opening the rope for us, with a nod to Hunter.

I felt a burst of triumph. I almost blurted, I did it. I got in!

Oh God, I thought, I'm such a nerd.

“I didn't realize you were the club type,” I said to Hunter.

“I'm not,” he assured me with a smile as we walked into an enormous room. Near the door was a bar that opened onto a vast dance floor where two DJs were spinning house music. At the far end of the room I saw an area with cozy bench seats. Hunter pointed to it. “The café serves cappuccino and pastries. Want something?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

We checked our coats. I gazed at my clothes doubtfully. Faded brown cords, one of my dad's oversize wool sweaters, heavy, winter hiking boots. Clearly I hadn't been thinking straight when I'd packed for this trip.

“There's someone I need to talk with,” Hunter said in my ear. “Do you mind if I leave you on your own for a few minutes?”

“No, of course not,” I said, though I did mind. I was feeling more insecure and provincial by the second.

Hunter blended into the crowd. I tried not to feel irked by the fact that Sky went with him, no questions asked. I stood there, trying to look casual and feeling completely out of my element.

I walked back to the edge of the dance floor. In an effort to stop focusing on my insecurities, I opened up and let my senses explore.

There was a thick, throbbing feel to the air. After a moment I realized it wasn't just the music—the club was actually pulsing with magick. I'd never felt anything like it before. There must be dozens of blood witches here, I thought. I could pinpoint a few of them even in this crowd, not so much because of what they were doing, but because power streamed out from them in a way that was almost tangible.

Most of the blood witches I knew must keep their power damped down, I realized suddenly. But not these people. Not the tall, thin African American man with the shaved head who stood on a low stage, dancing. The skinny kid in the oversize green suit. The sleek, blond woman in the low-cut, slithery dress and her dance partner, a rangy, loose-limbed guy with a beard. I frowned. Wow. There seemed to be some kind of weird psychic duel going on between the two of them. I could practically see the crackling energy that passed between them. Another woman, with long gray hair and the most extraordinary amber jewelry, danced by herself. She was surrounded by an aura of deep, vibrant green—it was so strong that I wondered if even those who weren't blood witches could see it.

Cal came to my mind again, unbidden. He would have loved this, I thought sadly, all these beautiful witches using their magick so freely. He would have felt at home here.

Robbie came up to me, looking slightly stunned. “Is it just me, or is there something weird in the air here?” he shouted over the throbbing drums and bass.

Well, that answered my question. “It's not you,” I told him. “It's magick. A lot of these people are blood witches.”