Page 133 of Which Witch Is Wicked?
“You know, I’d rather walk on my lips than to criticize, but those relics might have come in handy beforeI went and got myself killed so I could end the Apocalypse.”
“Ah,” Morgana said. “But it is precisely that act which qualifies ye to wield the relics to which I am referring. Yer willingness to lay down yer life for yer sisters. Self-sacrifice is a rare and beautiful thing, Moira, but as noble as yer intentions might be, ye’re needed here.”
“But I thought my being here was the problem in the first place. The seals. We keep opening the seals. Mostly on accident. And the Horsemen said that only one of us had to die to end it, and I thought, on account of I’m a screw-up, and nobody much wanted me around in the first place—”
“The Horsemen doona know everything, Moira.” Her lovely voice held a hint of mystery, of knowing. “Although Julian comes pretty close,” she added. “Very studious, that one. But I suppose one has to find other ways to occupy one’s time when one can’t…” She paused, searching the briny depths like the right words might be hidden in a nearby treasure chest. “Well, when physical pursuits aren’t a primary priority.”
“So there’s really a chance that we might notend the world?” Moira asked. She hated the childlike hope in her own voice. Hated how vulnerable it left her to disappointment.
“The world’s fate has not yet been decided. Many factors are in play. Machinations beyond yer comprehension. Much is yet to be revealed. But I can tell you one thing, Moira de Moray.” Morgana floated closer, her silken garments cocooning them in a single cell. “Yer sisters are strongerwithye thanwithoutye. If ye truly wish to avoid the world’s end, yemuststay together.”
This revelation pierced her with a pain sharper than Conquest’s arrow. She knew Morgana referred to the growing divide between them. The invisible, dark rend that had been born of Aerin’s necromancy, widening as they continued down dissenting paths.
Morgana’s pale, slim hand came to rest weightlessly on Moira’s shoulder. “Only together do you have hope of defeating the many forces seeking to destroy ye.”
“Many?” Moira asked. “You mean the Horsemen and that walking mattress what eats souls with her coffee and dresses like a fetish hooker?”
“Not only they,” Morgana warned. The hand on Moira’s shoulder rose, index finger pointed as Morgana circled it in the water three times. The circle she had circumscribed flickered like a television screen seeking to land on a clear signal.
Moira sucked in a lungful of water when the image finally cleared. Their lovely old house in flames. An angry, torch-bearing mob sending up victorious shouts. Claire lying on her back, glassy eyes aimed skyward, her chest mauled open to an angry, red cavern. Tommy’s face hovering above it, blood smeared around his lips like jam. Aerin and Tierra under attack, their strength waning but refusing to help each other. Their separate efforts as an approaching mob backed them toward the smoldering ruin of their house. Burning stakes had been erected in the corner of their yard, ready and waiting.
“No!” Moira pushed her palms against her eyes to block out the image. “No, this can’t be happening.”
“It isna.” Morgana passed a hand through the water to disperse the vision pool. “Not yet. This is only what will happen if circumstances are allowed to continue down their current track.”
“How do I stop it?” Moira pleaded. “I’ll do anything. Just show me—”
“Live, Moira. Live, and claim yer birthright.”
In Morgana’s left hand appeared a long, slim, silvery wand inscribed with patterns of cresting waves. In her right, a delicate crown inlaid with runes of cobalt and aquamarine, its four spires resembling lacy coral.
Moira reached her hand toward the wand and felt a vibration travel through the water the second her fingers wrapped around its handle. A new, crackling energy surged through her, every cell in her body leaping with recognition of something long missed. Gripping the wand felt like the embrace of an old friend.
With her other hand free, Morgana wrapped both around the crown, looking to Moira, who knelt out of instinct. All chatter in Moira’s head died away the second the crown slid into place. Never had her mind been so free of negative static.
Moira finally broke the reverent silence with a question as profane as this experience had been sacred. “So, now that I have a wand and all, is there anything I can do about this?” she asked, gesturing to the arrow still jutting from her chest. “It’s going to make things real awkward come swimsuit season.”
“Ye’re the one with the wand,” Morgana urged. “Try it.”
Moira hesitated, looking from the wand to the arrow. “You see, I’m not so good with the spells.”
“The wand doesna strictly require them,” Morgana explained. “Though it can enhance spells when used correctly.”
“You see, I’m not so good at doing things correctly, either,” Moira said.
“Just try, Moira. That’s the only way ye’re like to learn.”
“Here goes nothin’.” Moira pointed the wand at the arrow in her chest, closed her eyes, and tried to concentrate.
“Arrow of Conquest, in me lodged, git on out like I had dodged.
My normal chest, return to me,
By power of earth, air, fire, and sea...”
A brief, searing pain slid through Moira’s chest, but when she peeked down, the arrow had vanished. “I’ll be a badger’s ball-sack! It worked!”
Morgana bore the expression of someone who had just licked a battery acid-flavored lollipop. “Well, that wasna very conventional…but I suppose times do change. Do you know the spell for returning to yer sisters?”
