Dark Witch (31 page)

When she reached the downed tree, the wall of vines, she drew her sword.

“I am Iona. I am the Dark Witch. I am the blood. I am one of three, and this is my right.”

She slashed out. The vines fell with a sound like glass shattering, and she rode through.

Like the dream she’d had that night at Ashford, she thought. Riding alone through the deep forest, through air so much stiller than it had a right to be, where the light went dim though the sun showered down.

She saw the ruins ahead, vine– and brush-covered as if it grew out of the trees. She walked the horse toward it, and toward the stone that bore Sorcha’s name.

Now her skin vibrated. Not nerves, she realized, but power. Energy. Alastar quivered under her, let out a bugle that sounded of triumph.

“Yes, we’ve been here before. The place of our blood. The place where our power was born.” She dismounted, looped the reins, knowing Alastar would stay with her, stay close.

She took the vial from her pocket, crushed it under her boot.

So it would begin.

From the bag she’d secured to the saddle, she took the flowers first. Simple wood violets, then a small flask holding bloodred wine.

“For the mother of my mother and hers, and all who lived and died, who bore the gift with its joys and sorrow, back to Teagan who is mine, and the Dark Witch who bore her.”

She laid the flowers by the stone, poured wine over the ground in tribute.

Speaking the words of the spell only in her mind, pulling power up from her belly, she took the four white candles from the bag, set them on the ground at the compass points. Next, the crystals, between each point.

As she laid them, Alastar let out a warning chuff. She saw fingers of fog crawling over the ground.

We’re with you
. Connor’s voice sounded in her ear.
Finish the circle.

She drew her athame, pointed north. Flame sparked on the first candle.

“You think that can stop me?” Cabhan spoke with amusement. “You come here, where I rule, and play your pitiful white magick.”

“You don’t rule here.”

The second candle flamed.

“See.” He threw his arms high. The stone around his neck flamed with light both dark and blinding. “Know.”

Something changed. The ground tipped under her feet as she struggled to finish the ritual. The air turned, turned until her head spun with it. The third candle flamed, but she fell to her knees, fighting the terrible sensation of dropping from a cliff.

The vines drew back from the ruin. The walls began to climb, stone by stone.

Night fell like a curtain dropped.

“My world. My time.” The shadows seemed to lift from him. The stone pulsed, a dark heart over his. “And here, you are mine.”

“I’m not.” She got painfully to her feet, laid a hand on Alastar’s flank as he reared. “I’m Sorcha’s.”

“She sought my end, gained her own. It’s she who sleeps in the dark. It’s I who live in it. Give me what you have, what weighs on you, what it demands from you, what it takes from you. Give me the power that fits you so ill. Or I take it, and your soul with it.”

She lit the last candle. If they could come, they would come, she thought. But she couldn’t hear them through the rush in her ears, or sense them through the stench of the fog.

No retreat, she told herself. And never surrender.

She drew her sword. “You want it? Come and get it.”

He laughed, and the sheer delight on his face added a terrible beauty.

“A sword won’t stop me.”

“You bleed, so let’s find out.” She punched power into the sword until it flamed. “And I bet you’ll burn.”

He swept an arm out, and from feet away, threw her back, knocked her to the ground. Winded, she tried to push to her feet. Alastar reared again, screaming in rage as his hooves lashed out.

She saw Cabhan’s face register pain, and shock with it. Then he hunched, dropped to all fours, and became the wolf.

It leapt at Alastar, scoring the horse’s side.

“No!” Like lightning, Iona surged to her feet, charged.

Her sword whistled through the air, but the wolf streaked to the side, then barreled into her with a force that propelled her, had her skidding on her back, and her sword flying away.

The wolf straddled her, jaws snapping. And became a man again.

“I’ll burn him to cinders,” Cabhan warned. “Hold him back or I set him on fire.”

“Stop! Alastar, stop!”

She felt his rage even as he obeyed. And felt the amulet she wore vibrate between her and Cabhan.

His gaze lowered to it; his lips peeled back in a snarl.

Then he smiled again, terrifyingly, into her eyes.

“Sorcha betrayed me with a kiss. I’ll draw what’s in you into me the same way.”

“I won’t give it to you.”

“But you will.”

Pain exploded, unspeakably. She screamed, unable to stop. Red everywhere, as if the world caught fire. She heard Alastar’s screams join hers. Ordered him to
run, run, run
. If she couldn’t save herself, she prayed she could save him.

Above all, she would never give up. She would never give her light to the dark.

“A kiss. You’ve only to give me one kiss, and the pain will vanish, the burden will drop.”

Somewhere in her frantic mind she realized he couldn’t take it. He could kill her, but he couldn’t take what she was. She had to surrender it.

Instead she groped, found her athame with a shuddering hand.

She wept, couldn’t stop that either, but through the screams and sobs she managed one word. “Bleed.”

And plunged the knife into his side.

He roared, more fury than pain, and, leaping up, dragged her with him, holding her a foot above the ground by a hand clamped around her throat.

“You’re nothing! Pale and weak and human. I’ll crush the life out of you, and your power with it.”

She kicked, tried to call for fire, wind, a flood, but her vision grayed, her lungs burned.

She heard another roar, and flew, hitting the ground hard enough to shock her bones and clear her vision.

She saw Boyle, his face a mask of vengeance, pummeling his fists into Cabhan’s face.

With each hit, flames leapt.

“Stop.” She couldn’t get the word out, no more than a croak, even as Boyle’s hands burned.

She managed to gain her knees, swayed as she fought to find her center.

The man dropped away. The wolf slipped out of Boyle’s hold and bunched for attack.

The hound streaked into the clearing, snarling, snapping. Hawks dove, talons slicing at the wolf’s back.

An arm circled her waist, lifted her to her feet. Hands linked with hers.

“Can you do it?” Branna shouted.

“Yes.” Even the single word cut her throat like shards of glass.

The fog thickened, or her vision grayed. But all she could see through it were vague shapes, the flash of fire.

“We are the three, dark witches we, and stand this ground in unity. Before the longest day departs, we forge all light against the dark. On this ground, in this hour, we join our hands, we join our power. Blood to blood, we call on all who came before, flame to flame, their fires restore. Match with us, your forces free. As we will, so mote it be.”

Light, blinding, heat churning, and the wind that whirled it all into a maelstrom.

“Again!” Branna called out.

Three times three. And as she cast the spell, her hands caught tight with her cousins’, Iona felt she
was
the fire. Made of heat and flame, and a cold, cold rage that burned in its core.

Even as she pushed to finish, the fog vanished. She saw blood, smoke, both Fin and Meara at the edge of—not in—the circle, swords in hand. And Boyle, kneeling on the ground, pale as death, his hands raw and blistered.

Alastar, blood seeping from his wounds, nudged his head against Boyle’s side, while the hound guarded him. Two hawks perched in branches beside the stone cabin.

“Boyle.” Iona stumbled forward, fell to her knees beside him. “Your hands. Your hands.”

“They’ll be all right. You’re bleeding. And your throat.”

“Your hands,” she said again. “Connor, help me.”

“I’ll see to it. Here now, this isn’t for you. You’re hurt, and I’ll do better without you.”

“Here, little sister, let me help you.” Fin crouched down as if to lift Iona into his arms.

“I’ll tend her.” Briskly, Branna took Iona’s arm. “Help Connor with Boyle as he’s taken the worst of it.”

“His hands were on fire.” When her head spun, Iona simply slid to the ground. “His hands.”

“Connor and Fin will fix him right up, you’ll see. Quiet now, cousin. Meara, I want his blood. Find something to put it in. The blood, the ash. Look at me now, darling. Look at me, Iona. It’ll hurt a little.”

“You, too.”

“Just a little.”

It did, a little more than a little, then relief, cool and soothing on her throat. Warm, healing down her sides where the bruising ran deep.

“It’s better. It’s all right. Boyle.”

“Shh. Hush now. That’ll take a bit longer, but he’s fine, he’s doing fine. Look and see while I finish.”

Through streaming tears, Iona looked over, saw Boyle’s hands. Still raw, but no longer blackened and blistered. Still, he’d gone gray with the treatment, and the pain.

“Can’t I help?”

“They’ve got him. I’ve just your ankle left here. It’s not broken, but it’s badly wrenched.”

“I wasn’t strong enough.”

“Hush.”

“Alastar. He hurt Alastar. He said he’d burn him alive.”

“He’s cut a bit, that’s all. Why don’t you see to that? See to your horse.”

“Yes. Yes. He needs me.”

She gained her feet, walked, a bit drunkenly, to the horse. “You’re so brave. I’m so sorry.”

Swallowing tears, she laid her hands on the first gash, and began to heal it.

“I’ve used two of the vials from your bag.” Meara handed them to Branna. “One for the blood, the other for the ash. I felt a bit like one of those forensic types.” Then she let out a shuddering breath. “Oh God, Branna.”

“We won’t talk of it here. We need to get home.”

“Can we?”

“I got us here. I’ll get us back.”

“Where did he go, bloody bastard?”

“I don’t know. We hurt him, and he lost blood—plenty of it—but it’s not finished. I saw him slide away, using the fog, into the fog. Our fire scorched, and well, but didn’t take him. It was not finished tonight, for all we thought it would be. I’m taking us back,” she called out. “Are you ready?”

“Christ, yes.” Fin put an arm around Boyle, helped him stand.

“I’m fine now, I’m fine. Help her get us home, the both of you.”

Nudging the other men aside, Boyle walked to Iona. “Let me see you.”

“I’m okay. Branna took care of it. Alastar. I can’t heal this scar. He’s scarred.”

Boyle studied the slash of white over the gray flank. “A battle scar, worn with pride. We’re going home now, all of us. Up you go. And none of that,” he added as the tears rolled. “Stop that now.”

“Not yet.” She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck as the ground tilted, as the air turned and turned.

And kept her silence as they left the clearing, and the ruins.

EPILOGUE

I
ONA ACCEPTED THE WHISKEY, WITH GRATITUDE, AND CURLED INTO
the corner of the living room sofa. The fire snapped, but brought comfort instead of fear and pain.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t good enough. He rolled right over me.”

“Bollocks to that.” Connor tipped more whiskey in his own glass. “Bloody, buggering bollocks to that.”

“Well said,” Branna agreed. “’Tis I who’s sorry. Every step in place, every detail. But one. I never thought of him slipping through time like that, not on command. I didn’t know he could so quickly, and with us so close.”

“No.” Fin shook his head when she glanced at him. “I never saw it coming. He’s too clever by half, changing the ground to one where his power burned stronger than we knew.”

“And where we couldn’t get to Iona. Where she was alone, after all.” Boyle reached over, took her hand, held it firmly in his.

“But you came, all of you.”

“Not as fast as I would like. It’s not enough to know where, but when. We might not have found you, but you called so strong. You believed, just as you said, and you called. You finished the circle, even with all that, you finished the circle, opened the power, and we could find you. And nearly took him.”

For a moment, Branna closed her eyes. “Nearly, I swear it was close.”

“It’s no fault of yours,” Connor told Iona, “or anyone’s come to that. It’s true enough we didn’t finish him, but we gave him a hell of a fight, and we hurt him. He won’t forget the pain we gave him this night.”

“And he’ll be more prepared for next time.” Meara lifted her hands. “It’s true, and needs to be said, so we don’t walk into that kind of trap again.”

“That’s fine, but . . . you’re burned.”

Meara glanced at her wrists, the backs of her hands, and the scatter of burns. “Blowback, mostly. What about you?”

“Fin and I took care of each other. Why didn’t you say something? Stubborn arse.” Connor rose, gripped her hands.

“I’ve worse cooking breakfast.”

“There’s no need for pain. Are you burned as well?” he asked his sister.

“Not a fucking mark. We have his blood, and the ash his torn flesh turned to. We’ll use it against him. We’ll figure out just how, and we’ll use it against him when next we come at him. And it won’t be his ground the next time. We’ll be sure of it.”

Iona didn’t ask how. Sitting there, with those she loved, with her hand in Boyle’s, she felt her faith come back.

“He couldn’t take it,” she said slowly, and touched her free hand to her amulet. “Even when I was helpless, or as close to helpless as I’ve ever been, even when he hurt me, he couldn’t take it from me. He needed me to give it to him. He could kill me, but he couldn’t take what’s in me. That pissed him off.”

“Good.”

Iona smiled. “Damn good. I stabbed him with my athame.”

“Did you now?” Fin rose, walked over, and, bending down, kissed her hard on the lips. “That’s our girl. A weapon of light against the dark. It may be why there was so much blood left for us.”

“We’ll use that as well. I’m putting a meal together. I can’t promise what it might be, but we’ll eat well tonight. And there’s a bottle yet of that French champagne. We didn’t finish it, but I’d say the first battle is ours, and we’ll celebrate that. You lot can give me a hand. Not the two of you,” Branna said to Iona and Boyle. “You took the worst of it, so you’ll sit there and drink your whiskey by the fire a bit.”

“I’ve not finished with the stubborn arse yet.”

Meara punched Connor’s shoulder. “Mind your own arse.”

“Why when yours is not only stubborn but shapely as well?”

“In the kitchen, I said.” And this time Branna rolled her eyes at Connor to give him a clue.

“Fine, fine, I’m half starved anyway.”

He trooped out, dragging Meara with him.

“I’ll take a look at the horses. So you can rest your mind there.”

Iona smiled at Fin. “Thanks. They’re fine, but it never hurts.”

Then she leaned her head back, closed her eyes. “I was fire,” she said softly. “Not just making it, being it. It was terrifying and glorious.”

“It was, looking at you with Connor and Branna, burning like a torch, all white and heat. It was terrifying, and glorious.”

“And still, it wasn’t enough. I wanted it to be over, now. Tonight.”

“Some things don’t happen as fast as you like.” Boyle turned her hand over in his, then gave in and pressed it to his cheek. “It doesn’t mean they won’t happen.”

“That’s right. And Branna’s right. When we weigh it all, we tipped the scales on this one. The way you flew through the fog. You and Alastar, you’re my heroes.”

“Since I know what store you put by the horse, I’m in fine company.”

“When I close my eyes and see your hands. See them on fire.”

“Look at them here. See that? Same as ever.”

Big, scarred. Precious.

“I didn’t think we’d get to you.” He spoke slowly, and with great care. “I didn’t think we’d get to you in time if at all, and that I might never see you again. I didn’t have your faith. I want you to know I have it now. So, you can say you’re my hero as well.”

She tipped her head to his shoulder a moment.

“And I think, all things considered . . .”

She took a sip of whiskey. “What things?”

“I’m saying, I think considering all of it, and the fact we’re done for now, and don’t know as yet what might be next. Considering all that, and all the rest, I think it would be best all around if you married me.”

She lowered the glass to stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I know all you said after I was, well, just a raving git, and I’ve done what you wanted, or tried my best to. But I think it’s time we were past that now, and considering it all, we’ll get married and put all that away.”

“Married.” Had the battle, the bruisings, the flaming addled her brain? “As in married?”

“It’s the sensible thing. We’re good for each other, as you’ve said yourself. And . . . we have horses in common.”

“Can’t forget the horses.”

“It matters,” he muttered. “You love me. You said you did, and you’re a woman honest about her feelings.”

“That’s true.”

“So, we’re good for each other, and have the horses. You love me and it’s the same for me, so we’ll just get married.”

She decided her brain was working just fine, thank you. “What’s the same for you?”

“Jesus.” He had to stand for a moment, circle around the room. Stall by tossing more peat on the fire. “I never said it to a woman not my mother or related in some fashion. I don’t toss such things about as if they’re nothing.”

His hair, caught between brown and red, was a tumbled mess. She hadn’t noticed before, she realized. Or the blood on his shirt, the way his jaw set, so stubborn.

But she could see, very clearly, the intensity in his eyes.

“I believe you.”

“Some words matter more than others, and it’s one of those.”

“What’s one of those, exactly?”

“Love is. I know what love is, damn it, because you put it in me, and you’ve given it to me. And I’ll never be the same again. I’ll never feel it for anyone else.”

“It.”

“I love you, all right then?” He punched the words out like an argument waiting to happen, and she was totally, utterly done for.

“I’m saying it clear enough.” His brows drew together in that half scowl as he threw up his hands. “I love you. I . . . want to as well. I want all that I feel for you, as I’d only be half alive without it. And I want to marry you, and live with you, and have a family with you some time or other. But for now, I want you to stop making me run around it all, and just say it’s all right with you.”

She only stared at him a moment, as she wanted it all, every tiny detail of it, etched forever in her memory. “This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Oh bugger it. You want fancy words? Maybe I could pull some Yeats out or something.”

“No, no, no.” Laughing, she got to her feet, and felt stronger and surer than she’d ever felt before. “I meant it. This is romance, for me, from you. If you could say it just one more time. The three words, the word that matters more than others.”

“I love you. Iona Sheehan, I love you. Give me a bloody answer.”

“It was yes as soon as you opened your mouth. I just wanted to hear it all. It was yes the minute you asked.”

He blinked at her slowly, then narrowed his eyes. “It was yes? It’s yes?”

“I love you. There’s nothing I want more than to marry you.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well good. Grand. God.” He lunged at her, and she met him halfway. “God, thank God. I don’t know how much longer I could’ve done without you.”

“Now you’ll never have to know.” She gave herself over to the kiss, and all the promises in it. “You’ll never have to do without me.” She held on, tight, tight. “We did win tonight, in so many way. In ways he’ll never understand. We have love. He doesn’t know what it means. We have love.”

“I’m marrying a witch.” Hauling her off her feet, he circled with her. “I’m a lucky man.”

“Oh, you really, really are. When?”

“When?”

“When are we getting married?”

“Tomorrow would do me.”

Delighted, she laughed. “Not that soon. Talk about boots-first. I need a fabulous dress, and I need Nan to be here. And I haven’t met your family.”

“A lot of them are right in this house.”

“That’s true. We won’t wait too long, but long enough to do it right.”

“I have to buy you a ring. The boys were right, after all. I need to get you something shiny.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’re right, too, it has to wait a little bit of time. At least long enough to get a booking at Ballintubber Abbey.”

“At . . .” Joy all but drowned her. “You’d marry me there?”

“It’s what you want, isn’t it? And by God, it seems it’s what I want as well. There, in the ancient and holy place. It’s what’s meant for us.”

He grabbed her hands, yanked them to his lips, then laughed down at her. “You’ll be mine, and I’ll be yours. That’s what I want.”

She laid her cheek on his heart. Love, she thought, given freely, taken willingly.

There was no stronger magick.

“It’s what I want,” she murmured, then smiled when she heard Alastar bugle. “He knows I’m happy.” She tipped her head back. “Let’s go tell everybody else, and pop that champagne.”

With wine and music and light, she thought. They’d come through the fire, beaten back the dark for another day.

And now, on the longest day, when the light refused to surrender, she was loved. At last.

* * *

DEEP IN THE WOODS, IN ANOTHER TIME, THE WOLF WHIMPERED.
The man inside it cursed. And with arts as black as midnight, slowly began to heal.

Carefully, began to plan.