The choir filed out, singing, their voices raised in one of my favorite hymns. Father Thomas, his censer swinging, walked past, followed by the cross and Father Bailey. When it was my pew's turn to leave, I fell in line. I felt pleased and calmed and was glad I'd be able to tell my parents I'd attended services today. The rest of the day stretched before me, open, and I began to think about what I should do.

I was almost to the doors when my gaze fell lightly on someone sitting in the last pew, waiting for his turn to exit. Then my heart stopped, and my breathing snagged in my throat. Ciaran. My father.

He saw me recognize him. Standing, he followed me as I left the church, passing through the tall, heavily carved wooden doors. My heart kicked into gear again and thumped almost painfully in my chest. This was my mother's soul mate: the one person meant for her to love and to love her. And they had loved each other desperately. But he'd already been married; Maeve wouldn't be with him, and so he had killed her.

Killed her. A cold knife of fear slashed through my belly. Ciaran could have killed me, too—hungry for my power, wanting to use it to strengthen Amyranth. I was entirely convinced that I was going to die at his hands until he had realized who I was and allowed Hunter to set me free and transport me to safety. Now we were going to meet again. What to expect? Should I be afraid now? How could we ever have a normal conversation?

Outside the church the sunlight hurt my eyes, and the daylight seemed harsh after the dim church. I smiled and nodded good-bye to several people, then took a left and walked around the side of the church to a small, winter-dead garden. Ciaran followed a few steps behind. When we were apart from everyone else, I turned back to him. My eyes drank him in, trying to see the person who had almost killed me in New York—and then had helped to save my life. Our eyes were similar; his hair was darker and flecked with silver. He was handsome and barely more than forty.

"My son contacted me," he said in his lilting accent, that deep, melodious voice that entered my bloodstream like maple syrup. "He said he was here with you. I thought perhaps he had called me at your request."

"Yes," I said, trying to project courage. "He did. I met Killian in New York, I realized he and I were half siblings, I don't have any other siblings except your other children—not by blood." Mary K., please forgive me again. "I asked him to call you. I decided I wanted to know you because you're my biological father." All this was true, more or less. Very subtly I shut down my mind so he couldn't get in and projected an air of innocence and frankness.

His eyes on me were as sharp as snakes' fangs. "Yes," he said after a moment. "You're the daughter I didn't know about. My youngest. Maeve's daughter. Your coloring is more like mine, but your mouth is hers, the texture of your skin, your height and slenderness. Why didn't she tell me about you I wonder?"

"Because she was scared of you," I said, trying to control the anger that was seeping in my voice. "You'd threatened her. You were married and couldn't be with her." You killed her. "She wanted to protect me."

Ciaran looked around. "Is there someplace we could go?"

I thought for a moment. "Yes."

The Clover Teapot had opened winter before last, on a little side street off Main. It was the closest thing we had to an English-style tea shop, and it seemed appropriate. Also, it was public and safe. I still wasn't sure what to expect from Ciaran. When we had ordered and sat at a small table by the front window, I felt his keen eyes on me again.

"Have you seen Killian?" I asked, playing with the handle of my teacup.

"Not yet, I will soon. I wanted to see you first."

We sat there, looking at each other, and I felt him cast his senses towards me. I shut him out gently, and his eyes widened almost in amusement.

"How long have you known you're a witch?" he asked.

"Four months, a little less."

"You're not initiated." It was a statement.

"No," I shook my head.

"Goddess," he said, and took a sip of his tea. "You know your powers are unusual."

"That's what they tell me."

"Who is your teacher? The Seeker?"

"Well, not really formally. It's hard because I also have regular school. And my parents don't feel comfortable with the whole Wicca thing," I'm surprised myself by saying. Ciaran was easy to confide in. I had to be on guard against that. Was he already spelling me, trying to get inside my mind?

"I can't believe any child of mine has to be concerned about such banalities," he said.

I sat there, trying not to look stupid. Despite having known he was coming, I felt ridiculously unprepared to deal with him, to have a conversation with him. How could I have a normal conversation with the man who had killed my mother, had tried to kill me? Only my sense of obligation to Starlocket and my affection for Alyce kept me from giving into fear and getting the hell out of here. Did he already know I was working for the council? He knew Hunter and I were—had been—going out. Was he just playing with me before he struck me down?

"You should have grown up surrounded by gifted teachers who would have helped you develop your natural powers," he went on. "You should have grown up among the moors and rocks and winds of Scotland. You'd be unmatchable." He looked regretful. "You should have grown up with me and Maeve." A spasm of pain crossed his face.

He was unbelievable. He had been married, had seduced my mother, then followed her to America and killed her because she wouldn't be with him. And Amyranth had no doubt been responsible for Belwicket's destruction! And now he was all upset because we hadn't been a happy little family. I looked down at my tea, numb with disbelief.

"I've asked people about you," he went on, and I almost choked on my lemon Danish. "I've found out surprisingly little. Just that Cal Blaire sniffed you out, revealed you to yourself, and then he and Selene tried to seize your power." His eyes were steady on my face. "And you resisted them. Did you help kill them?"

Blood drained from my face, and I felt almost faint for a moment. My anger fled. I had intended to control this interview, to lead him where I needed him to go, to get information out of him. What a naive plan that had been. "Yes," I whispered, looking out the lace-curtained window to the street outside. "I didn't meant to. But I had to stop them. They wanted to kill me."

"Just like you tried to stop me in Manhattan," he said. "Would you have killed me if you could? When you were on the table, knowing your powers were about to be taken from you?"

What kind of question was that? Would I kill him to save myself, when he had killed my mother, when I had never known him as a father? "Yes," I said, resenting his easy manner. "I would have killed you."

Ciaran looked at me. "Yes," he said. "I think you would. You're strong. Strong not only in your powers, but in yourself. There isn't anything weak about you. You're strong enough to do what needs to be done."

If he had been anyone else I would have blurted out often I felt afraid, weak, incapable, inadequate. But we weren't really having a father-daughter chat. I needed to give himself up to me.

"Do you still want to kill me, Morgan?" he asked, and the pull of his question felt like a tide, drawing me out to sea.

Resist, I thought. How to answer? "I don't know," I said finally. "I know I can't."

"That's an honest answer," he said. "It's all right. You must do what you can to protect, not only yourself, but your beliefs, your way of life, your heritage. Your birthright. And it's amazing how often others want to impinge on these things."

I nodded.

He looked at me speculatively, as if wondering if I were genuine. I tried to relax, but couldn't. My palms were sweating, and I rubbed them against my skirt. This was Ciaran, and as much as I wanted to take him apart and throw away the pieces, there was a part of me that still wanted to run in his arms. Father. How sick was that?