Dark Witch (6 page)

Branna barely lifted her eyebrows. “I imagine it does, yes.”

“Then there was school and work, and I was involved with someone for a while. One day I looked at him and thought, Why? I mean, we didn’t have anything for each other but habit and convenience, and people need more, don’t they?”

“I’d say they do.”

“I want more, sometime anyway. Mostly, I never felt like I fit. Where I was, something always felt a little skewed, not quite right. Then I started having the dreams—or I started remembering them, and I went to visit Nan. Everything she told me should’ve sounded crazy. It shouldn’t have made sense, but it did. It made everything make sense.

“I’m babbling. I’m so nervous.” She picked up a cookie, stuffed it in her mouth. “These are good. I’m—”

“Don’t be saying you’re sorry again. It’s coming on pitiful. Tell me about the dreams.”

“He wants to kill me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Or I didn’t. Nan says his name is—was—is Cabhan, and he’s a sorcerer. Evil. Centuries ago our ancestor, the first dark witch, destroyed him. Except some part of him survived it. He still wants to kill me. Us. I know that sounds insane.”

Placidly, Branna sipped her tea. “Do I look shocked by all this?”

“No. You look really calm. I wish I could be really calm. And you’re beautiful. I always wanted to be beautiful, too. And taller. You’re taller. Babbling. Can’t stop it.”

Rising, Branna opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of whiskey. “It’s a good day for a little whiskey in your tea. So you heard this story about Cabhan and Sorcha, the first dark witch, and decided to come to Ireland to meet me.”

“Basically. I quit my job, I sold my stuff.”

“You . . .” For the first time Branna looked genuinely surprised. “You sold your things?”

“Including twenty-eight pairs of designer shoes—bought at discount, but still. That stung some, but I wanted the break clean. And I needed the money to come here. To stay here. I have a work visa. I’ll get a job, find a place to live.”

She picked up another cookie, hoping it would stop the flood of words, but they just kept pouring out. “I know it’s crazy spending so much to stay at Ashford, but I just wanted it. I’ve got nothing back there but Nan, not really. And she’ll come if I ask her. I feel like I might fit here. Like things might balance here. I’m tired of not knowing why I don’t belong.”

“What was your work?”

“I was a riding instructor. Trail guide, stable hand. I’d hoped to be a jockey once, but I love them too much, and didn’t have the passion for racing and training.”

Watching her, Branna only nodded. “It’s horses, of course.”

“Yeah, I’m good with them.”

“I’ve no doubt of that. I know one of the owners of the stables here, the hotel uses them for guests. They do trail rides, and riding lessons and the like. I think Boyle might find a place for you.”

“You’re kidding? I never figured to get stable work right off. I figured waitress, shop clerk. It would be fabulous if I could work there.”

Some would say too good to be true, but Iona had never believed that. Good should be true.

“Look, I’ll muck out stalls, groom. Whatever he needs or wants.”

“I’ll have a word with him.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Iona said, reaching for Branna’s hand. As they touched, gripped, heat and light flashed.

Though Iona’s hand trembled, she didn’t pull away, didn’t look away.

“What does it mean?”

“It means it may be time at last. Did cousin Mary Kate give you a gift?”

“Yes. When I went to see her, when she told me.” With her free hand, Iona reached for the chain under her sweater, took out the copper amulet with the sign of the horse.

“It was made by Sorcha for her youngest child, her daughter—”

“Teagan,” Iona supplied. “To shield her from Cabhan. For Brannaugh it was the hound—I should have realized that when I saw the dog. And for Eamon, the hawk. She told me the stories as long as I can remember, but I thought they were stories. My mother insisted they were. And she didn’t like Nan telling them to me. So I stopped telling her—my mother—about them. My mother prefers to just sort of glide along.”

“That’s why it is the amulet wasn’t passed to her, but to you. She wasn’t the one. You are. Cousin Mary Kate would come, but we knew she wasn’t the one, but like a guardian for the amulet, for the legacy. It was passed to her by others who guarded and waited. Now it comes to you.”

And you, Branna thought, have come to me.

“Did she tell you what you are?” Branna asked.

“She said . . .” Iona let out a long breath. “She said I’m the Dark Witch. But you—”

“There are three. Three is good magick. So now we’re three. You and I, and Connor. But each must accept the whole, and themselves, and the legacy. Do you?”

Hoping for calm, Iona took a gulp of whiskey-laced tea. “I’m working on it.”

“What can you do? She wouldn’t have passed this to you unless she was sure. Show me what you can do.”

“What?” Iona wiped suddenly damp palms on her jeans. “Like an audition?”

“I’ve practiced all my life; you haven’t. But you are the blood.” Branna tilted her head, her beautiful face skeptical. “Have you no skills as yet?”

“I’ve got some skills. It’s just I’ve never . . . except with Nan.” Annoyed, uneasy, Iona drew the candle on the table closer. “Now I’m nervous,” she muttered. “I feel like I’m trying out for the school play. I bombed that one.”

“Clear your mind. Let it come.”

She breathed again, slow and steady, put her focus, her energy on the candlewick. Felt the warmth rise in her, and light seep through. And she blew gently.

The flame flickered, swayed, then burned true.

“It’s so cool,” Iona whispered. “I’ll never get used to it. I’m just . . . magick.”

“It’s power. It must be trained, disciplined, and respected. And honored.”

“You sound like Nan. She showed me when I was little, and I believed. Then I thought they were just magick tricks, because my parents said they were. And I think—I know—my mother told her to stop or she wouldn’t let her see me.”

“Your mother’s mind is closed. She’s like a lot of others. You shouldn’t be angry with her.”

“She kept me from this. From what I am.”

“Now you know. Can you do more?”

“A few things. I can levitate things—not big things, and it’s fifty-fifty. Horses. I understand what they’re feeling. I always have. I tried a glamour, but that was a terrible bust. My eyes went purple—even the whites, and my teeth glowed like neon. I had to call in sick for two days before it wore off.”

Amused, Branna added more tea and whiskey to the cups.

“What can you do?” Iona demanded. “I showed mine. You show yours.”

“Fair enough then.” Branna flicked out a hand, and held a ball of white fire in her palm.

“Holy shit. That’s . . .” Warily Iona reached out, brought her fingertips close enough to feel the heat. “I want to do that.”

“Then you’ll practice, and you’ll learn.”

“You’ll teach me?”

“I’ll guide you. It’s already in you, but needs the route, the signs, the . . . finesse. I’ll give you some books to read and study. Take your week at the castle, and think about what you want, Iona Sheehan. Think carefully, for once it begins, you can’t go back.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

“I don’t mean to America, or your life there. I mean from the path we’ll walk.” She flicked her hand again and, with it empty, picked up her tea. “Cabhan, what is left of him, may be worse than what was. And what is left wants what you have, what we have. And he wants our blood. Your power and your life, you’ll risk both, so think carefully, for it’s not a game we’d be playing.”

“Nan said it had to be a choice, my choice. She told me he—Cabhan—would want what I have, what I am, and do whatever he could to get it. She cried when I said I was going to come, but she was proud, too. As soon as I got here, I knew it was the right choice. I don’t want to ignore what I am. I just want to understand it.”

“Staying is still a choice. And if you decide to stay, you’ll stay here, with me and Connor.”

“Here?”

“It’s best we stay together. There’s room enough.”

Nothing had prepared her for this. Nothing in her life measured as amazing a gift. “You’d let me live here, with you?”

“We’re cousins, after all. Take your week. Connor and I have committed, have taken an oath if the third came, we’d accept. But you haven’t had a lifetime, so think it through, and be sure. The decision has to be yours.”

Whatever it was, Branna thought, would change all.

4

T
HE RAIN SOAKED HER AGAIN ON HER TREK BACK,
but it didn’t dampen her mood. After warming her bones in the shower, Iona dug out flannel pants, a thermal T-shirt, then, dumping her suitcase on the floor—she’d unpack properly later—she crawled into bed.

And slept like the dead for four solid hours.

She woke in the dark, completely disoriented and starving.

Though her thoroughly disorganized possessions taunted her, she rooted through for jeans, a sweater, warm socks, boots. Armed with her guidebook and one of the books Branna had lent her, she took herself off to the hotel’s cottage restaurant for the food, the company.

A fire snapped in the hearth while she dug into a bowl of roasted vegetable soup and pored over her books. She liked the comfort of the mix of voices around her, Irish, American, German—and, she thought, possibly Swedish. She dined on fish and chips, and since it was her first night, treated herself to a glass of champagne.

The waitress had a smile as brilliant as her bright red hair, and gifted Iona with it as she refilled the water glass. “Are you enjoying your meal then?”

“It’s wonderful.” Drawing her shoulders up and in, in a self-hug, Iona beamed a smile back. “Everything’s just wonderful.”

“Would it be your first time at Ashford?”

“Yes. It’s amazing. It still feels like a dream.”

“Well, they say we should have better weather tomorrow if you’re after rambling about.”

“I’d like to.” Should she rent a car? Iona wondered. Try her luck on the roads? Maybe just a walk to the village, for now. “Actually, I took a walk through the grounds, the woods this afternoon.”

“In all that drench?”

“I couldn’t resist. I wanted to see my cousin. She lives nearby.”

“Is that the truth? Sure it’s nice to have family while you’re visiting. Who is she, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“They, really, though I only met Branna today. Branna O’Dwyer.”

The girl’s smile didn’t dim, but her eyes showed new focus. “A cousin to the O’Dwyers, are you now?”

“Yes. Do you know them?”

“Everyone knows Branna and Connor O’Dwyer. He’s a falconer. The hotel will book hawk walks through the falconry school, and that Connor manages. It’s a very popular activity with the guests here. And Branna . . . she has a shop in Cong. She makes soaps and lotions and tonics and the like. The Dark Witch, it’s called, after a local legend.”

“I saw her workshop today. I’ll have to check out the shop and the falconry school.”

“Both are pleasant walks right from the hotel. Well then, enjoy your meal.”

The waitress left her to it, but Iona noticed she stopped by another server for a quick word. And both of them glanced back to Iona’s table.

So, she thought, the O’Dwyers were local interests. Hardly surprising. But it was weird sitting there eating her fish and chips knowing she’d become an object of speculation.

Did they all know Branna wasn’t merely the owner of the Dark Witch, but was one?

And so am I, Iona thought. Now I have to learn just what that means. Determined to do just that, she opened another book, and read her way through the rest of the meal.

The rain eased, but the night wind blew fierce, urging her to hurry back to the main hotel rather than strolling along the river Cong as she’d hoped.

She got “good evenings” and “welcome backs” from the staff as she stepped in, crossed through the lobby. Curious, she took brochures on the falconry school and the stables, then—what the hell, she was sort of on vacation—asked for tea to be sent to her room.

Once inside, she made herself set the brochures and books aside to deal, finally, with the unpacking.

After the brutal purge of her wardrobe, the selling of whatever she’d put aside, she still had more than enough. And she’d brought all she thought she’d need for her new life.

By the time she’d filled the wardrobe, the drawers, repacked items she decided could wait, the tea arrived, along with a plate of pretty cookies. Satisfied she’d done her chores, she changed back into her sleep pants, piled up the pillows and, sitting in bed, composed the email on her notebook to let her grandmother know she’d arrived safe, had met with Branna.

Ireland’s all you said and more, even just the little I’ve seen. So is Branna. It’s so generous of her to let me stay with her. The castle’s just awesome, and I’m going to enjoy every minute I’m here, but I’m already looking forward to moving in with Branna—and Connor. I hope I meet him soon. If I get the job at the stables, it’ll just be perfect. So think good thoughts.

Nan, I’m sitting in this wonderful bed in a castle in Ireland, drinking tea and thinking of all that’s yet to come. I know you said it could be a hard road, hard choices, and Branna sure as hell made that clear. But I’m so excited, I’m so happy.

I think, maybe, I’ve finally found where I fit.

Tomorrow I’ll check out the stables, the falconry school, the village—and Branna’s shop. I’ll let you know how it all goes. I love you!

Iona

She sent dutiful emails to her mother, her father. A few cheerful ones to friends and coworkers. And reminded herself to take some pictures to send next time.

She set the notebook aside to charge, retrieved the books, the brochures. This time she got into the bed, wiggled her shoulders back against the pillows.

Blissfully happy, she scanned the brochures, studied the photos. The school sounded absolutely fascinating. And the stables perfect. One of her mother’s favorite warnings was: Don’t get your hopes up.

But Iona’s were, high, high up.

She slipped the stable brochure under her pillow. She’d sleep on it for luck. Then she opened Branna’s book again.

Within twenty minutes, with the lights on, the tea tray still on the bed beside her, she’d dropped back into sleep.

And this time dreamed of hawks and horses, of the black hound. Of the deep green woods where a stone cabin nestled with fog crawling at its feet.

After dismounting a horse as gray as the fog, she walked through the mists, the hood of her cloak drawn up to cover her hair. She carried roses, for love, to the stone polished smooth and carved deep by magick and grief. There she laid the roses, white as the innocence she’d lost.

“I am home, Mother. We are home.” Dabbing the tears on her cheeks with her fingers, she traced the name.

SORCHA

The Dark Witch

And the words bled against the stone.

I am waiting for you
.

Not her mother’s voice, but his. With all that had been done, all that had been sacrificed, he survived.

She had known it. They had all known it. And hadn’t she come here, alone, for this as much as to visit her mother’s grave?

“You will wait longer yet. You will wait a day, a moon, a thousand years, but you will never have what you covet.”

You come alone, in the starlight. You look for love. I would give it to you.

“I am not alone.” She spun around. Her hood fell back and her bright hair caught the light. “I am never alone.”

The fog swirled, spun up, spun out, coalesced into the form of a man. Or what had been a man.

She’d faced him before, as a child. But she had more than rocks now.

A shadow he was, she thought. A shadow to haunt dreams and smother light.

Such a pretty thing. A woman now, ripe for plucking. Do you still throw stones?

Even as she stared into his eyes, she watched the red stone he wore around his neck gleam.

“My aim is as true as it was ever.”

He laughed, weaved closer. She caught his scent, the hint of sulphur. Only a devil’s bargain could have given him the power to exist.

Your mother is gone, no skirts to hide behind now. I defeated her, took her life, rent her power with my hands.

“You lie. Do you think we cannot see? Do you think we do not know?” His amulet pulsed red—his heart, she thought. His center, his power. She meant to take it, at any cost. “With a kiss she burned you. And I marked you. You bear it still.”

She held up her hands, fingers curled toward him so the mark on his shoulder burned like a flame.

On his scream she leapt forward, snatching at the stone he wore. But he lashed out, fingers going to claws, and scored their grooves in the back of her hand.

Damned to you and all your blood. I will crush you in my fists, wring what you are out into a silver cup. And drink.

“My blood will send you to hell.” She struck out with her bleeding hand, driving her power through it.

But the fog collapsed so she struck only air. The red stone pulsed, pulsed, then vanished.

“My blood will send you to hell,” she repeated.

And in the dream he seemed to stare at Iona, into her eyes. Into her spirit.

“It is not for me, in this time, in this place. But for you in yours. Remember.”

And cradling her wounded hand, called to her horse.

She mounted. She turned once to look at the stone, the flowers, the home she’d once known.

“On my oath, on my love, we will not fail though it takes a thousand lifetimes.” She laid her hand on her belly, on the gentle bulge. “There is already another coming.”

She rode away, through the woods, toward the castle where she and her family were housed.

Iona woke trembling. Her right hand throbbing with pain, she groped for the light with her left. In its flash she saw the raw gashes, the run of blood. On a shocked cry, she scrambled up, dashed toward the bath, snatching a towel as she lurched toward the sink.

Before she could wrap the wound, it began to change. She watched in fascinated horror as the gashes in her skin closed, the blood dried, then faded, like the pain. Within seconds she examined her unmarked hand.

A dream, but not, she thought. A vision? One where she’d been an observer, and somehow a participant.

She’d
felt
the pain—and the rage, the grief. She’d felt the power, more than she’d ever experienced, more than she’d ever known.

Teagan’s power?

Lifting her gaze, Iona studied herself in the mirror, called back the images from the dream. But it
had
been her face . . . hadn’t it? Her build, her coloring.

But not, she thought now, her voice. Not even her language, though she’d understood every word. Old Gaelic, she assumed.

She needed to know more, to learn more. To find a way to understand how events that had happened hundreds of years before could draw her in so absolutely that she actually felt genuine pain.

Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water on her face, caught the time on her watch. Still shy of four
A.M
., but she was done with sleep. Her body clock would adjust eventually, and for now she might as well just go with it. Maybe she’d read until sunrise.

She walked back into the bedroom, started to lift the tea tray she’d ended up sleeping with. And she saw on the lovely white sheets three drops of red. Of blood. Hers, she realized.

The dream—vision—experience—hadn’t just given her pain. She’d bled in it.

What kind of power could drag her into her own dreams and cause her to bleed from an ancestor’s wound?

Leaving the tray where it was, she sat on the side of the bed, brushed her fingers over her throat.

What if those claws had struck there, slashed her jugular? Would she have died? Could dreams kill?

No, she didn’t want books, she decided. She wanted answers, and she knew who had them.

By six, fueled with coffee, she headed out once again past the fountains and flowers and green lawns to the thick woods. This time the light held soft and luminous to drip palely through branches as the wide path narrowed. And this time she saw the signposts for the falconry school, the stables.

Later that morning, she promised herself, she’d visit both, then top it off with a hike to Cong. But she wouldn’t be put off with a stack of books and a bit of tabletop magick.

The dream stayed with her so closely she caught herself checking her hand for claw marks.

A long, high note had her head snapping up, her gaze shooting skyward. The hawk soared across the pale blue, a gorgeous golden brown sweep that circled, then swooped. She swore she heard the wind of its wings as it danced through the trees, and landed on a branch overhead.

“Oh my God, look at you! You’re just gorgeous.”

He stared down at her, golden eyes steady, unblinking, his wings regally folded. She wondered fancifully if he’d left his crown at home.

Slowly, she dug into her back pocket for her phone, holding her breath as she hit camera mode. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s not every day a woman meets a hawk. Or a falcon. I’m not sure which you are. Just let me . . .” She framed him in, took the shot, then a second.

“Are you hunting, or just out for your version of a morning stroll? I guess you’re from the school, but—”

She stopped when the hawk turned its head. She thought she caught it, too, a faint whistle. In response, the hawk lifted off the branch, swooped and dodged its way through the trees and was gone.

“I’m definitely booking a falcon walk,” she decided, and checked her photos before she stuffed the phone away to hike on.