"Have you met witches who think badly of Woodbane?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How does that make you feel?" He poured more hot water into his cup and dipped in the mesh ball filled with tea leaves again.

"Angry," I said. "Embarrassed. Frustrated."

"Yes, any witch who can trace his or her heritage back to one of the Seven Great Clans has been given a gift. It's wrong to be ashamed of being Woodbane or to deny your heritage."

"If only I knew more about it," I said leaning forward. "I know I'm Woodbane. I know Maeve was from Belwicket, and they were a certain kind of Woodbane. I know you're Woodbane, and you're different. Your coven in New York was totally different from the covens I've seen. I read things in books, and it's like everyone blames the Woodbanes for everything. I hate it." I spoke more vehemently than I had intended to, and when Ciaran smiled at me, I was startled at how much it pleased me.

"Yes," he said, looking at me. "I hate it, too." He shook his head, watching me. "I'm proud of you, my youngest, unknown daughter. I'm proud of your power, your sensibility, and your intelligence. I deeply regret that I didn't see you grow up, but I'm glad I have the opportunity to know you now." He took a sip of his tea while I tried to get a handle on my emotions.

"But do I know you?" he murmured, almost to himself. "I think I don't."

My breath stopped as I wondered what he meant, if he was about to accuse me of trying to trap him. What could he do here, in a tea shop?

"But I want to change that," he said.

That night I found out that if you lie with your head flat on the open page of a textbook, you don't necessarily absorb the knowledge any faster than if you read the words. God, it was impossible to concentrate on this stuff! What the hell difference did it make what general did what in the Revolutionary War? None of this made any difference in my life whatsoever. All it did was prove I could memorize, and so what?

The phone startled me from my history-induced coma, and I could tell immediately it wasn't Hunter. Eoife? I had already called her to tell her about my tea with Ciaran, so it seemed unlikely she would call again so soon. Killian? Oh, God, could I handle another marathon Killian party?

"Morgan?" The voice on the other end greeted me before I could even say hello, and it took me a second to place it.

"Ciaran?"

"Right. Listen, Killian and I are having dinner at a place called Pepperino's. Would you like to come join us?"

My head felt foggy from too much studying. I tried to make sense of Ciaran's invitation. Dinner with my murderous father and unpredictable, charming half brother? Could I think of a better way to spend my Sunday night? "Sure, I'd love to. I'll be right there."

Pepperino's is an upscale Italian restaurant in downtown Widow's Vale. It has tuxedoed waiters, white tablecloths, and candles, and the food is incredible. My parents went there sometimes for a birthday or an anniversary. It was almost empty since it was late Sunday night, and the maitre d' led me to Ciaran's table.

"Morgan, welcome," said Ciaran, standing up. He shot Killian a glance, and Killian also stood up. I smiled at them both and sat down.

"We've just ordered," said Ciaran. "Tell me what you'd like. The waiter says the calamari ravioli is superb."

"Oh, no thanks," I said. "I already ate. Maybe just some tea?"

When the waiter came, Ciaran ordered me a cup of Darjeeling and a slice of mocha cheesecake. I watched him, thinking how incredibly different he was from the father I had grown up with—my real dad. My real dad was sweet, vague, and slow to anger. My mom usually takes care of the money, the insurance, anything complicated. Ciaran seemed like he was always in charge, always knew the answer, could always come through. It would have been quite different, growing up with him. Not better, I knew, though we did seem to have a connection. Just different.

Ciaran and Killian were drinking a wine that was a deep, dark purple-red. I detected a scent of crushed grapes and oranges and some kind of spice I couldn't identify. My mouth watered, and I wished I could have some, but I had sworn never to drink again for the rest of my life. I could almost taste the full, heavy flavor.

The waiter brought over their appetizers and my cheesecake at the same time, and we all began to eat. How could I make this meeting work for me? I needed information. Thinking about this, I took a bite of cheesecake and smothered a moan. It was incredibly rich, incredibly dense, with notes of sour cream riddled with streams of sweet, smooth coffee and dark chocolate. It was the most perfect thing I had ever eaten, and took tiny bites to make it last longer.

"Tell me about growing up here," said Ciaran. "In America, without knowing your heritage."

I hesitated. I needed to share enough to make him feel that I trusted him, yet also protect myself from giving him any knowledge he could use against me. Then it occurred to me that he was so powerful, he could use anything against me and my being on guard was a waste of time.

"When I was growing up, I didn't know I was adopted. So I believed my heritage was Irish, all the way through. Catholic. All my relatives are, all the people at my church. I was just one more."

"Did you feel like you belonged?" Ciaran had a way of cutting into the heart of a matter, slicing through smoke and details to get at the very core of the meaning.

"No," I said softly, and took another sip of the tea. It was light and delicate. I took another sip.

"You wouldn't have fit in any better in my village," Killian broke in. His face looked rough and handsome in the dim light of the restaurant, his hair shot through with gold and wine-colored strands. He didn't have Ciaran's grace or sophistication or palpable power, but he was friendly and charming. "It was a whole town of village idiots."

I was startled into laughter, and he went on. "There wasn't a normal person among us. Every single soul was some odd character that other people had to watch out for. Old Sven Thorgard was a Vikroth who had settled in our town, Goddess knows why. The only magick he worked was on goats. Healing goats, finding goats, making goats fertile, increasing goats' milk."

"Really?" I laughed nervously. As hard as Killian was trying to entertain us, Ciaran was still watching us both with a suspicious, dark expression. I wondered whether that was his response to Killian or just evidence that he was actually planning to do away with both of us.

"Really," Killian said. "Goddess, he was weird. And Tacy Humbert—"

At the mention of that name, Ciaran broke into a smile and shook his head. He drank some wine and poured a tiny drop more in Killian's glass. I relaxed a bit.

"Tacy Humbert was love starved," Killian said in a loud whisper. "I mean starved. And she wasn't bad looking. But she was such a shrew that no one would take her out more than once. So she'd put love spells on the poor sap."

Ciaran chuckled. "Her aim wasn't perfect."

"Perfect!" Killian exclaimed. "Goddess, Da, do you remember the time she zapped old Floss? I had that dog climbing all over me for a week!"

We all laughed, but I thought I detected a warning glance exchanged between Ciaran and Killian. I wondered what Ciaran's problem was. I loved hearing about the very different life Killian had lived in Scotland. "Here, top us up, Da." Killian said, holding out his wineglass.

With narrowed eyes Ciaran filled it half full, then put the bottle on the other side of the table. Killian gave Ciaran a challenging look, but being ignored, he sighed and drained his glass.

"Were there many Woodbane in your village?" I asked.

Killian nodded, his mouth full. He swallowed and said, "Mostly Woodbanes. A couple of others. People on the outside of the village or who had married into families. My Ma's family has been there longer than folks can remember, and they're Woodbanes back to the beginning."