Dark Witch (28 page)

“There you are. I wanted to ask if . . .” With his gaze shifting from Iona to Boyle, Mick flushed. “Beg pardon. I’m interrupting.”

“No, that’s fine.” Boyle shuffled his feet, turned. “We’re just finished with Spud here.”

“I’ll dose him, chart it,” Iona offered.

“Thanks for that.”

Alone, Iona leaned against the horse. “He’s been starting conversations,” she realized. “He never does that, but he has been, ever since . . . And he bought me Cokes.” She stepped out, picked up the bottle she’d set outside the stable door, took a long pull.

“Hell, Spud, I think maybe I am being wooed. And I have absolutely no idea how to handle it. Nobody ever really tried before.”

With a sigh, she studied the bottle in her hand, wondered what it said about her that her heart was so easy it could be touched by a damn soft drink.

Just . . . see what happens, she warned herself, then went to get Spud’s medicine.

* * *

NOTHING HAPPENED REALLY—CONVERSATIONS, SMALL ATTENTIONS
, casual offers of help. But he made no move toward more. A good thing, Iona reminded herself as she helped Branna prepare the group dinner. She’d meant everything she’d said to him when he’d brought the flowers to her, the apology to her.

For once in her life she intended to be sensible, to be safe, to look—both ways—before she leaped.

“Your thoughts are so loud they’re giving me a headache,” Branna complained.

“Sorry, sorry. I can’t seem to stop the loop. Okay, we’ll put it on pause. I’ve never made scalloped potatoes before. Not even out of a box.”

“Don’t talk of potatoes in a box in this kitchen.”

“Only as an insult. Am I doing it right?”

“Just keep doing the layers as I showed you.” At the stove, Branna stirred the glaze she intended to use on the ham she had baking.

“Fancy meal for a strategy meeting.”

“I was in the mood. And now we’ll have cold ham for days if I’m not in the mood again.”

Conscientiously, Iona sprinkled flour over the next layer of sliced potatoes. “I was thinking about Boyle.”

“Is that a fact? Never would I have guessed.”

Rolling her eyes at Branna’s back, Iona added the salt and pepper, started the butter. “How do you know? I can’t figure out how you know, sensibly, and that’s what I’m working on. Is he just missing the sex, maybe even the companionship on some level? Is he feeling guilty because he hurt me, trying to be nice to make up for it, to be friendly because that’s what I asked? Or, does he, maybe, care more than he thought?”

“I’m the wrong one to ask about matters of the heart. Some say I barely have one.”

“No one who knows you says that.”

Some did, and there were times she wished they had the right of it.

“I don’t know about men, Iona. Whenever I think I do, think I’ve got it all in a box, just as it is, it all scrambles out when I’m not looking. When I get it all back in, it’s something else than it was.

“I know my brother, but a brother’s a different thing.”

“Love shouldn’t be hard.”

“There I think you’re wrong. I think it should be the hardest thing there is, then it’s not so easily given away, or taken away, or just lost.”

Stepping away from the stove, she moved over to check Iona’s progress. “Well, it’s taking you long enough as you’ve all but placed each slice of potato like an explosive, so careful and precise. But you’ve got that done. Take it over and pour that hot milk right over it.”

“Just pour it over it?”

“Yes, and not drop by drop. Dump it on, put on the cover, stick it in the oven. Timed this first part, for thirty minutes.”

“Okay, got it.” And as if it might explode, Iona let out a breath of relief when she had it inside the oven with the ham.

“You know they shouldn’t both fit in there.”

“They fit as I want them to. Now I think we’ll do a side of the green beans I blanched and froze from the garden last year, then we’ll . . . There’s someone coming now,” she said as she heard the sound of cars. “Let’s just see who it is, and how we can put them to use in here.”

“I’m all for it. You know,” Iona continued as they walked to the front of the cottage, “I think my goal should be to be able to put one really good meal together—figure out what that is, make it my thing. Oh, Iona’s making her brisket. I’m not even sure what brisket is, but it could be mine.”

“A fine goal indeed.”

Branna opened the door. Outside Meara stood beside her truck, Fin climbed out of his, and both Connor and Boyle shoehorned their way out of a bright red Mini.

“Isn’t that the cutest thing?” With a laugh, Iona stepped closer. “How did you guys fit in there?”

“It wasn’t a simple matter,” Connor told her. “Nor was driving it, as Boyle’s knees sat at his ears the whole way. But she cleaned up well, and runs fine enough. Seems a better fit for you.”

“Get in and see,” Meara suggested.

Obliging, Iona slid in, put her hands on the wheel. “Much more my size. Is this from the friend you told me about?” she asked Connor. “It’s great. It’s really adorable, but I don’t think I can afford adorable at this point.”

“But you like it,” he prompted. “The look of it, the color and feel and so on.”

“What’s not to like?” In fact, she could already picture herself driving around like a little red rocket. “It’s just perfect. Do you think he’d consider holding it, letting me pay some now, some later?”

“Well, he might, but it’s already sold.” Connor glanced at Branna, got her nod. “Happy birthday.”

“What?”

“It’s Connor and Boyle who found the car, and we all put in a share to buy it. For your birthday,” Branna added. “Do you think we didn’t know it’s your birthday?”

“I didn’t— I thought with everything that’s going on it was better to— But you can’t just . . . A car? You can’t.”

“Already have,” Connor pointed out. “And whatever else there is, a birthday’s a thing to remember. We’re your circle, Iona. We wouldn’t be forgetting yours.”

“But it’s a
car
.”

“One that’s over ten years old, and truth be told, wheezes like an asthmatic on damp mornings. Which is nearly daily,” Fin commented. “But she’ll do for you.”

She began to laugh, and to weep. On a combination of both, she scooted out to throw her arms around Connor as he stood closest. Then she spun to each one in turn.

When her body pressed to Boyle’s, her arms squeezed hard around him, he struggled not to make it more. To just let it be.

“I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to say it. It’s amazing! Beyond amazing. Thank you so much. All of you.”

“There’ll be a bit of paperwork to see to,” Fin put in, “but you can see to it later. Now you should try it out, shouldn’t you?”

“I should drive it. I should
drive
it.” On another laugh, Iona spun in a circle. “Someone has to go with me on my first voyage. Who wants to go?”

Every man stepped back as one.

“Cowards,” Meara said in disgust. “What do you say, Branna? We could squeeze in.”

“I expect we could, but I’ve dinner on.”

Meara only let out a snort. “Well, I’m not afraid. I’m with you, Iona.”

She jumped in, waited while Iona slid behind the wheel.

Iona started the car, bounced on the seat, wiggled into it. She lurched forward three times. Fit, start, fit, start, fit, start, then zipped down the road weaving like the cloth loop on a potholder loom.

“Ah God,” was all Boyle managed.

“I told you I put a little charm for safety on it,” Connor reminded him. “She just needs a bit of practice as she’s a Yank after all. So Fin here’s contributed bottles of champagne to the birthday feast, and being Fin, it’s fancy and French. I say we have the first bottle waiting for her.”

“We’ve important business to discuss as well,” Branna reminded him. “And should be doing that with clear heads rather that French bubbles.”

“It’s her birthday.”

“Ah well.” On a sigh, Branna relented. “One bottle among us shouldn’t hurt anything.”

* * *

“I SHOULD’VE BEEN AFRAID,” MEARA MUTTERED TO CONNOR
on the return as Fin popped the first cork. “She’s a right terrible driver.”

“Only needs practice.”

“Please the gods and be right on that as I thought she’d do us both in the first kilometer. Still, it’s worth it. She never expected such a thing. Not just the gift, but the whole of it. And I think for all my family is fucked, I’ve never given a thought but there’d be a bit of a fuss for my birthday.”

“We’ve cake as well.”

“I never doubted it.” In the mood, Meara gave him a quick and affectionate one-armed hug.

He linked his arm around her before she could pull away, did a quick step. Laughing, she mimicked the footwork, then reached for the glass Fin held out. “I’ll take that for certain.”

“I’m going to make a toast,” Iona decided. “Because I’ve thought of what I want to say. In addition to thank you, which just doesn’t cover it. All of you, you’re mine, and that’s a gift I’ll always treasure. Every one of you is a gift to me, a blend of friends and family that’s stronger and truer and brighter than anything I ever imagined having. So, to all of us, together.”

She sipped. “Oh God, that’s really good!”

“A fine toast, and fine champagne.” Branna opened a cupboard, took a wrapped gift off a shelf. “And from your grandmother. I put it aside for her as she asked me.”

“Oh, Nan.” Delighted, Iona set the glass aside to open the gift, took out a sweater in dreamy blues. “She’d have made it,” Iona murmured, rubbing it to her cheek. “It’s so soft. She’d have made it for me.”

She took out the card, opened that.

For my Iona. There’s love and charms and hope in every stitch. Wear it when you want to feel most confident and strong. With wishes for your happiness today, and all days.

Love, Nan

“She never forgets.”

“Put it on,” Meara urged her. “I’ve never seen a lovelier jumper.”

“Good idea. I’ll be right back.”

“When you’re back, we’ll begin,” Branna said. “We’ve time before the food’s done to talk of the solstice, and what we’ll do. We do it well and right,” she added, “and on Iona’s next birthday, we’ll have nothing but friends and food and wine. And that’s a gift for all of us.”

“Well said,” Fin murmured. “Put on your gift, as it brings your grandmother close. Branna and I will shroud the house. No eye, no ear, no mind but ours will know what we do here, say here, think here tonight.”

20

T
HEY USED LIGHT, NOT DARK, TO CLOAK THE COTTAGE AND ALL IN IT
. If Cabhan looked, as shadow, as man, as wolf, he would see only the light, the colors, hear only music, laughter.

It would, Branna explained, bore him, or annoy him. And he would think they simply played while he plotted.

“At moonrise, on the longest day, we form the circle on the ground where Sorcha lived, and where she died.”

Candles flickered throughout the kitchen where Branna spoke. The scents of cooking, the simmering hum of the fire, the steady breaths of the dog who slept under the table all spoke of ordinary things while they talked of the extraordinary.

And that, Iona realized, was the point.

“It’s for Fin to seek him, to lure him. Blood to blood.”

“You still doubt me.”

Branna shook her head. “I don’t. Or only a little,” she admitted. “Not enough to stop doing what has to be done. What I understand is this can’t be done without you, and shouldn’t be. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’ll have to be, won’t it?”

Their eyes held, a long, long moment. In it Iona felt thousands of words, scores of impossible feelings passed between them. Only them.

“I’ll get him there,” Fin said, and broke that moment.

“Meara and Boyle must stay inside the circle—at all costs. Not just to protect yourselves.” Branna turned to them. “But to hold it strong. And Fin as well must stay within it.”

“Damned to that.”

“Fin, you must,” Branna insisted. “Within the circle he can’t use what runs in you against you, or against us. And what you have will hold it without chink.”

“Four of us outside it, against him, are stronger than three.”

Facing him, Branna lifted her hands, palms up. And the flames of every candle burned brighter. “We are the three. We are the blood, and we must be the way.”

“Within the circle I’ll stay,” Fin told her. “Until or unless I feel we’ve more chance ending him with me outside of it. It’s the best bargain I can give you.”

“We’ll take it.” Connor spoke up, shifted his gaze from Fin to Branna, left it coolly on her. “And done.”

Branna started to speak, sighed instead. “And done then.”

“We have to take our guides,” Iona realized.

“We do, yes.” Branna drew her amulet from under her sweater, ran a thumb over the carved head that so resembled Kathel’s. “Horse, hound, hawk. And weapons and tools. I have a spell I’ve worked on for some time, and I think it’s an answer, but only if we draw him to the right place, the right time. And then we’ll need his blood to seal it.”

“What spell is this?” Fin demanded.

“One I’ve worked on,” Branna repeated. “I’ve used bits of Sorcha’s spells, others that have come down, something of my own.”

“And practiced it?”

Irritation flickered over her face. “It’s too risky. If he learns of it, he can and will block against it. It must be done the first time on Sorcha’s ground. You need to trust I know what I’m about.”

“You must be trusted,” Fin repeated.

“Bloody hell.” Branna started to shove back from the table, but Iona raised a hand.

“Just wait. What kind of spell? I mean, a banishing, a drawing, a vanquishing spell? What?”

“A vanquishing, a light spell, a fire spell. All of them in one, sealed with blood magick.”

“Light defeats the dark. Fire purifies. And blood is at the heart of all.”

Branna smiled. “You learn well. But it may come to nothing if not done at the right time, at the right place. It will come to nothing if we all, each one, don’t agree and stand together, in that time and place.”

“Then we will.” Iona lifted her hands as she looked from face to face. “We all know we will. You’d do anything you could to destroy him,” she said to Fin. “For Branna, for yourself, for the rest of us. In that order. And Branna would do anything to sever whatever link he might have with you, so you’d be free of it. Connor and Meara would stand for love and friendship, for what’s right and good whatever the risk or cost. Boyle would fight because that’s how he works. You just have to say when and where, and he’d be with you. And because, whatever’s changed between him and me, he’d never want anything to happen to me. And I would never want anything to happen to him.

“For love and friendship, for family and friends, we’ll stand together in the right time, in the right place and fight with each other. Fight for each other.”

After a moment’s silence, Fin picked up the champagne he’d ignored, lifted the glass toward Iona. “All right,
deirfiúr bheag
. We’ll be your happy few.” He shifted toward Branna. “Trust,” he said, waited.

“Trust.” She lifted her own glass, touched it to his. In that quiet clink a spark of light flashed, then softened away.

“With that settled, let’s get down to the nitty of it then.” Connor leaned forward. “Step-by-step.”

Boyle said nothing as Branna walked them through her plan, as that plan was revised, questioned, adjusted. He said nothing because looking at Iona as she’d spoken had given him all and every answer.

He’d hold on to them until it was time to give them back to her.

* * *

SHE COUNTED DOWN THE DAYS AS MAY DRIFTED INTO JUNE,
and let herself cling to each one for itself. She could prize the blue skies when she had them, welcome the rain when it fell. She came to believe that whatever happened on the longest day, she’d had these weeks, these months, and these people in her life, and so her life, even for that short time, had been richer than ever before.

She’d been given a gift and learned how to use it, how to trust and respect it.

She was, and ever would be, of the three. She was, and ever would be, a dark witch of Mayo, charged with power and with light.

She believed they would triumph, her nature demanded she believe. But that gift she’d been given demanded the respect of caution and care.

As the solstice approached, she wrote a long letter to her grandmother—pen and paper, she thought. Old-school, but it was important, felt important, to take the time, make the effort. In it she spoke of love, for her grandmother, her cousins, her friends. For Boyle, and the mistakes she’d made.

She spoke of finding herself, her place, her time, and what it meant to her to have come to Ireland. And to have become there.

She asked only one thing. If something happened, her grandmother would find the amulet, take it and Alastar, and pass them both to the next.

There would be a next if she failed. That, too, she believed absolutely.

However long it took, light would beat back the dark.

* * *

ON THE MORNING BEFORE THE SOLSTICE SHE WENT DOWN EARLY
, the letter in her back pocket. She tried her hand at cooking a full breakfast fry, and though she thought she’d never be more than a half-decent cook, it didn’t mean not making the effort.

Connor walked in, sniffing the air.

“And what’s all this then?”

“We’ll be busy tomorrow, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to do it up right and spare Branna the time. She was up late again, wasn’t she?”

“Barely sleeping the past week or so, and no amount of cajoling or arguing changes it.”

“I hear her music, like last night, and it smooths me right out. She does it on purpose.”

“Claims she thinks clearer when the two of us aren’t thinking.” He snagged a sausage from the plate. “You’re worried.”

“I guess I am, now that it’s down to hours instead of days. Why aren’t you?”

“We’re meant to do what we’re doing. If something’s meant, what’s the point in worrying over it?”

For comfort, she leaned against him a moment. “You smooth me out as much as Branna’s music.”

“I have every faith. In you.” He wrapped an arm around her waist for a squeeze. “In Branna, in myself. And in all the others as well, and as much. We’ll do what’s meant, and do our best. And that’s all anyone can ever do.”

“You’re right, on all of it.” She eased away to pile a plate full for him. “I feel him lurking, don’t you? I feel him around the edges of my dreams trying to get in. He nearly does, and part of me realizes I’m allowing it. Then there’s Branna’s music, and the next I know it’s morning.”

Iona got down another plate, arranged about half as much on it as she had for Connor. “I’m going to leave this warming in the oven for Branna.”

When she turned around, Connor just wrapped his arms around her. He had, Iona thought, the most comforting way.

“There now, stop the fretting. He’s never faced the like of us three, or the three with us.”

“You’re right again. So let’s eat, then I’m going to drive to work, taking the long way for practice.”

“You’d be there in half the time if I walked you.”

“True, but I wouldn’t practice.” Or be able to stop off at the hotel, ask if they’d post her letter the next day.

She kept her eyes peeled for any trace of fog, of the black wolf, of anything that alarmed her instincts or senses. She made it to Ashford Castle without incident or accident. Really, she thought she handled the Mini, the roads, the left-hand drive very well, whatever Meara said to the contrary.

Just as she believed she handled the throbbing nerves of the waiting, of the silence, very well.

Maybe her pulse jittered every time she looked out a window of the cottage to scan forest, road, hills. Maybe she recognized the ache of stress in her back and shoulders every time she prepared to lead a group through the green shadows and thick woods.

But she continued to look from the window, continued to guide groups. And that, Iona told herself as she pulled up to the stables, counted most.

As she was the first to arrive, she opened the doors, shifted to flip on the lights.

And there in the center of the ring stood the wolf.

The doors slammed behind her; the lights flashed off. For one shocked moment, all she could see were three red glows. The wolf’s eyes, and its power stone.

They blurred when it charged.

She threw up a hand—a block, a shield. The wolf struck it with such force she felt the ground tremble. Just as she felt the cracks zig across her block like shattering glass.

She watched the shadow of its shape bunch to charge again.

She heard the cries of the horses, full of fear. And that decided her course.

As the wolf charged, she vanished the shield, jumped to the left. The momentum carried it through so it struck the doors with the force of a cannonball. When they burst open, it was Iona’s turn to charge.

She rushed out, threw the shield behind her this time. It wouldn’t get through, wouldn’t harm the horses. Bracing her feet, she prepared to protect even as the wolf circled back. Even as it rose up on two legs and became a man.

“You’re a quick one, and clever enough.” As in the dreams, his voice was like cold hands gliding over the skin. And still, somehow seductive. “But young, in years and in power.”

“Old enough in both.”

He smiled at her. Something in her spirit repelled even as something in her body stirred.

“I could kill you with a look.”

“Not so far.”

“Your death isn’t my wish, Iona the Bright. Only give me what has come so late to you, what is still so young, so fresh in you.” Dark, dark eyes holding hers, he edged closer as he spoke in that silky voice. “I want only the power you don’t yet understand, and I’ll spare you. I’ll spare all of you.”

Her heart pounded, too hard, too fast. But her power stirred, in the belly, and would rise. She would make it rise.

“Is that all? Really? Ah . . . no.” She heard the cry of the hawk overhead, and now she smiled. “Company’s coming.”

“You’ll be the death of them. Their blood will stain your hands. Look. See. Know.”

She glanced down at her hands, at the blood staining them, dripping from them to pool on the ground. The sight of it, the warmth of it, sliced true fear through her belly, through her heart.

When she looked up Cabhan was gone. And Boyle rode like a madman on Alastar up the dirt path.

“I’m fine,” she called out, but her voice sounded tinny, and her knees wanted to buckle. “Everything’s fine.”

The hound streaked to her side as Boyle leapt from Alastar’s back. “What happened?”

When he started to grab her hands, she instinctively pulled them back. Then saw, both shocked and relieved, they were clean.

“He was here, but he’s gone.” She leaned against the horse, as much to soothe him as for his support. The hawk landed as lightly, as neatly on Alastar’s saddle as he might on a tree branch. And Kathel sat quiet at her side.

All of them here, she thought. Horse, hawk, hound.

And Boyle.

“How are you here?”

“I’d just saddled Alastar to ride him over when he let out a bloody war cry and bolted for the fence. I barely had time to jump on his back before we went over it. Let me look at you.” He grabbed her, spun her around. “You’re not hurt? You’re sure of it?”

“No. I mean yes, I’m sure. Alastar heard me.” She laid a hand on the horse’s neck. “They all heard me,” she murmured as the hawk watched her, as Kathel’s tail gave one quick thump. And her cousins pulled up in Connor’s truck, spewing dirt and gravel with the slam of brakes.