“Oh, please. Will you two stop already? This is disgusting,” I teased.

On Ethan Sharp’s front step Bree Warren and Robbie Gurevitch tried to disentangle themselves from their lip-to-lip suction lock. Robbie gave a little cough.

“Hey, Morgan.” He stood off to one side, trying to act casual—hard to do when you’re flushed and breathing hard. It was still a tiny bit of a novelty to see Robbie and Bree, my best friends from childhood, in a romantic relationship. I loved it.

“Perfect timing, Sister Mary Morgan,” said Bree, pushing a hand through her minky dark hair. But she grinned at me, and I smiled back.

Robbie rang Ethan’s doorbell. Ethan opened the door almost immediately. Two yipping Pomeranians bounced at his feet. “Down,” he said, pushing them gently with his foot as he smiled at us. “Come on in. Most everyone’s here. Still waiting on a couple. Down!” he said again. “Brandy! Kahlua! Down! Okay, you’re going in the bedroom.”

We entered Ethan’s small brick ranch house and saw Sharon Goodfine, Ethan’s girlfriend, pushing furniture back against the wall. Ethan disappeared down the hall, snapping his fingers so the dogs would follow him. Robbie went to help Sharon, and Bree and I took off our jackets and threw them on an armchair with several others.

“You two look like you’re getting along,” I said brightly.

“Yeah,” Bree admitted. “I’m still waiting for him to figure out who the real me is and then dump me.”

I shook my head. “He’s loved you for a long time and seen you go through a lot. He’s going to be harder to shake off than that.”

Bree nodded, her gaze wandering till it fixed on Robbie. I looked around, mentally taking attendance for the circle. Our regular Saturday night circles had been different lately because Hunter had been in Canada. He’d returned a few days ago and sent my emotions into an uproar with two bits of news: one, that he’d kissed another woman in Canada, which was bad enough, and two, that he’d found a book—written by one of my ancestors—that recounted the creation of the dark wave. Learning that my soul mate had been attracted to someone else and that I was descended from the woman who created one of the most destructive forces imaginable had left me devastated and confused. I felt a little better now, more confident in Hunter’s love and in my ability to choose to to do only good magick, but both of these revelations still weighed heavily on my mind.

Hunter would be here tonight. He hadn’t arrived yet, because I would have felt him. My witchy short-range sensors would have told me.

Twenty minutes later everyone in our coven, Kithic, was there, except for Hunter’s cousin, Sky Eventide. She was in England recovering from a failed romance, and I couldn’t help glancing across the circle at the source of her pain, Raven Meltzer. As usual, Raven had dressed for attention, wearing a red satin corset from the forties, complete with cone boobs and garters, which held up fishnet stockings marred by large, gaping holes. Men’s camouflage fatigues, hacked off to make shorts, completed the outfit, along with the motorcycle boots on her feet.

“Right, then, everyone,” Hunter said in that English accent that made me wild. “Let’s begin.”

“Welcome back, Hunter,” said Jenna Ruiz.

“Yeah, welcome back,” said Simon Bakehouse, Jenna’s boyfriend.

“It’s good to be back,” Hunter said, meeting my eyes. It was like being zapped by static electricity.

Hunter Niall. The love of my life. He was tall, thin, impossibly blond, and two years older than me. Besides having the English accent that I could listen to all day, he was brave, a strong blood witch, and knew more about magick and Wicca than I could imagine learning, despite my dedication to it. He had just gotten back from two weeks in Canada, where he had found his father, Daniel. And where he had met someone named Justine Courceau. found his father, Daniel. And where he had met someone named Justine Courceau. Finding out that he had kissed her had been one of the hardest things I’d ever learned. I’d forgiven him—I believed that he loved me and hadn’t meant to hurt me—but I didn’t think I’d ever beable to forget.

Ethan’s living room was carpeted, so Hunter had used sidewalk chalk to draw a perfect circle. The eleven of us stepped inside it; then Hunter closed it with a chalk line. He took four brass goblets and placed them at east, south, west, and north. One held dirt, to symbolize earth. Another held water, and a candle burned in the third: water and fire. The last cup held a cone of smoldering incense to represent air. When these were in place, he looked up and smiled at us.

“Did you all enjoy Bethany Malone’s circles while I was away?”

“She was pretty cool,” Raven said.

“She was really nice, in a different way,” Simon agreed. “There’s a difference in how you make a circle and how she did.”

I nodded. “That’s true. And I liked all the healing stuff she taught us.” An understatement. I was now taking private lessons from Bethany, focusing almost exclusively on healing. Giving my Wicca studies this focus seemed to have helped the rest of my life come into focus, too.

“Good,” said Hunter. “Maybe we’ll have her back as a guest circle leader sometime.” Some of us grinned, and Hunter went on. “Now, is there any circle business we need to take care of before we start? Where are we meeting next week?”

“We can have it at my house,” said Thalia Cutter.

After that, there was no more Kithic business, so Hunter cast our circle, dedicated it to the Goddess, and invoked the God and the Goddess to hear us.

“Now let’s raise our power,” said Hunter. “And while our power is high, we can each think about the meaning of rebirth, of spring, about how we can each strive to, in a sense, re-create our lives each spring.”

We joined hands—I was between Matt Adler and Sharon. This time Hunter began with a power chant, and we all added our voices to it as we felt ready. The ancient Gaelic words seemed to float above us, weaving a circle of power above our heads. Hunter’s voice was strong and sure, and in another minute I began to feel the incredible lightening of my heart that told me I had connected with the Goddess. It wasn’t like she spoke to me—but when I made a real connection to magick, the magick that exists everywhere, my worries dropped away. Pure, unquestioning joy filled my heart and my mind, and I felt a rush of love for everyone in my circle—even me—and everyone outside of my circle. It was this connection that made coming back to magick so necessary for me. It was question and answer, reason and instinct, need and fulfillment all at the same time.

Hands locked, we circled deasil around the room, our feet moving faster and faster as smiles lit our faces. Rebirth, I thought with wonder. Re-create my life. Begin anew. The quickening of life.These concepts seemed full of promise and hope, and I knew my exploration of them would be joyous and exciting.

“Morgan.” With zero warning my birth father, Ciaran MacEwan, was standing in front of me. My hands ripped away from Matt’s and Sharon’s, and my feet stumbled on the blue carpet.

I stared at him, my eyes widening with fear and shock. In a moment I realized that he was an image in front of me, not the real person. But a complete, realistic image, shimmering gently, as if with heat.