Shadow Spell (10 page)

“I'm making you some tea.”

“I don't want any fucking tea. Yes, I do.” He dropped down onto one of the stools at her work counter, rubbed Kathel when the dog laid his great head against Connor's leg. “It's not the shag or the woman or the hawk. It's all of it. All of this. All of it, and I let it bite me in the arse.”

“Some days I want to climb up on the roof and scream. Scream at everyone and everything.”

Calmer, Connor bit into the second biscuit. “But you don't.”

“Not so far, but it could come to it. We'll have some tea, then we'll work.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

She trailed her fingers over his back as she walked around him to the stove. “We'll have good days and bad until it's done, but until it's done we have to live as best we can.”

He stared at the back of her head as she put on the kettle, and decided not to tell her Fin had said the very same.

7

H
E THOUGHT TO GO TO THE PUB. HE WAS TIRED OF
magicks, of spells, of mixing potions. He wanted some light, some music, some conversation that didn't center on the white or the black, or the end of all he knew.

The end of all he loved.

And maybe, just maybe, if Alice happened to be about, he'd see if she was still willing.

A man needed a distraction, didn't he, when his world hung in the balance of things? And some fun, some warmth. The lovely, lovely sound of a woman moaning under him.

Most of all, a man needed an escape when the three most important women in his life decided to have a wedding-planning hen party—not a term he'd use in their hearing if he valued his skin—in his home.

But he'd no more than walked outside when he realized he didn't want the pub or the crowd or Alice. So he pulled out his phone, texted Fin on his way to his lorry.

House full of women and wedding talk. If you're there, I'm coming over.

He'd no more than started the engine when Fin texted back.

Come ahead, you poor bastard.

On a half laugh he pulled away from the cottage.

It would do him good, Connor decided, after most of a day huddled with his sister over spell books and blood magicks to be in a man's house, in male company. Sure they could drag Boyle down as well, have a few beers, maybe play a bit of snooker in what he thought of as Fin's fun room.

Just the antidote to a long and not quite satisfying day.

He took the back road, winding through the thick green woods on an evening gone soft and dusky. He saw a fox slink into the green, a red blur with its kill still twitching in its jaws.

Nature was as full of cruelty as of beauty, he knew all too well.

But for the fox to survive, the field mouse didn't. And that was the way of things. For them to survive, Cabhan couldn't. So he who'd never walked into a fight if he could talk his way out of one, had never deliberately harmed anyone, would kill without hesitation or guilt. Would kill, he admitted, with a terrible kind of pleasure.

But tonight he wouldn't think of Cabhan or killing or surviving. Tonight all he wanted was his mates, a beer, and maybe a bit of snooker.

Less than a half kilometer from Fin's, the lorry sputtered, bucked, then died altogether.

“Well, fuck me.”

He had petrol, as he'd filled the tank only the day before. And he'd given the lorry a good going-over—engine to exhaust—barely a month before.

She should be running smooth as silk.

Muttering, he pulled a torch from the glove box and climbed out to lift the bonnet.

He knew a thing or two about engines—as he knew a thing or two about plumbing, about carpentry and building, and electrical work. If the hawks hadn't taken him heart and mind, he might have started his own business as a man of all work.

Still, the skills came in handy in times such as these.

He played the light over the engine, checked the battery connection, the carburetor, flicked a hand to have the key turn in the ignition, studied the engine as it attempted to turn over with an annoying and puzzling grind.

He couldn't see a single thing amiss.

Of course, he could have solved it all with another flick of his hand and been on his way to mates, beer, and possibly snooker.

But it was a matter of pride.

So he checked the connections on the fuel pump, rechecked the connection on the battery, and didn't notice the fog swimming in along the ground.

“Well it's a bloody mystery.”

He started to spread his hands over the engine, do a kind of scan—a compromise before giving up completely.

And felt the dirty smudge on the air.

He turned slowly, saw that he waded ankle deep in the fog that went icy with his movement. Shadows drew in, dark curtains that blocked the trees, the road, the world. Even the sky vanished behind them.

He came as a man, the red stone around his neck glowing against the thick and sudden dark.

“Alone, young Connor.”

“As you are.”

Spreading his hands, Cabhan only smiled. “I've a curiosity. You have no need for a machine such as that to travel from one place to another. You have only to . . .”

Cabhan swung his arms out, lifted them. And moved two feet closer without visibly moving at all.

“Such as we respect our gift, our craft, too much to use it for petty reasons. I've legs for walking or, if needs be, a lorry or a horse.”

“Yet here you are, alone on the road.”

“I've friends and family close by.” Though when he tested, he found he couldn't quite reach them—couldn't push through the thick wall of fog. “What have you, Cabhan?”

“Power.” He spoke the word with a kind of greedy reverence. “Power beyond your ken.”

“And a hovel beyond the river to hide in, alone, in the dark. I'll take a warm fire, the light of it, and a pint with those friends and family.”

“You're the least of them.” Pity dripped like sullen rain. “You know it, as they do. Good for a laugh and the labor. But the least of the three. Your father knew enough to pass his amulet to your sister—to a girl over his only son.”

“Do you think that makes me less?”

“I know it. What do you wear? Given you by an aunt, as consolation. Even your cousin from away has more than you. You have less, are less, a kind of jester, even a servant to the others you call family, you call friends. Your great
friend
Finbar chooses one with no power over you as partner, while you labor for wages at his whim. You're nothing, and have less.”

He eased closer as he spoke, and the red stone throbbed like a pulse.

“I'm more than you know,” Connor replied.

“What are you, boy?”

“I'm Connor, of the O'Dwyers. I'm of the three. I'm a dark witch of Mayo.” Connor looked deep into the black eyes, saw the intent.

“I have fire.” He threw his right hand out, held a swirling ball of fire. “And I have air.” Stabbed a finger up, twirled it, and created a small, whirling cyclone. “Earth,” he said as the ground trembled. “Water.”

Rain spilled down, hot enough to sizzle on the ground.

“And hawk.”

Roibeard dived with a piercing call, and landed soft as a feather on Connor's shoulder.

“Parlor tricks and pets.” Cabhan raised his arms high, fingers spread wide. The red gem went bright as blood.

Lightning slapped the ground inches from Connor's boots, and with it came the acrid stink of sulfur.

“I could kill you with a thought.” Cabhan's voice boomed over the roar of thunder.

I don't think so, Connor decided, and only cocked his head, smiled.

“Parlor tricks and pets? I bring fire, water, earth, and air. Test my powers if you dare. The hawk is mine for all time. He and me as part of the three will fulfill our destiny. Light is my sword, right is my shield, as long ago my path was revealed. I accept it willingly.”

He struck out then, with the sword formed from the ball of fire, cleaved the air between them. He felt the burn—a bolt, a blade sear across the biceps of his left arm.

Ignoring it, he advanced, swung again, hair flying in the cyclone of air, sword blazing against the dark.

And when he sliced it down, Cabhan was gone.

The shadows lifted, the fog crawled away.

“As I will,” Connor murmured, “so mote it be.”

He let out a breath, drew in another, tasted the night—sweet and damp and green. He heard an owl hoot on a long, inquisitive note and the rustle of something hurrying through the brush.

“Well now.” For a moment, Roibeard leaned in, and their cheeks met, held. “That was interesting. What do you wager my lorry starts up easy as you please? I'm off to Fin's, so you can go ahead with me there and have a visit with his Merlin, or go back home. It's your choice,
mo dearthair
.”

With you.
Connor heard the answer in his heart as much as his head.
Always with you.

Roibeard rose into the air and winged ahead.

Still throbbing with the echoes of power—dark and light—Connor got back in the lorry. It started easy, purred, and drove smoothly the rest of the way to Fin's.

He walked straight in. A fire crackled in the hearth, and that was welcome, but no one sprawled on the sofa with a beer at the ready.

As at home there as he was in his own cottage, he started toward the back, and heard voices.

“If you want hot meals”—Boyle—“marry someone who'll make them.”

“Why would I do that when I have you so handy?”

“And I was happy enough in my own place making do with a sandwich and crisps.”

“And I've a fine hunk of pork in the fridge.”

“Why are you buying a fine hunk of pork when you don't know what in bloody hell to do with it?”

“Why wouldn't I, again, when I have you so handy?”

Though his head ached a bit, like a tooth going bad, the exchange made Connor chuckle as he continued back.

Strange, he felt he'd already had that beer. Quite a lot of beer, as he seemed to be floating right along, but on a floor tilted just a bit sideways.

He stepped into the kitchen where the lights burned so bright they made him blink, made his head pound instead of ache. “I could do with a hunk of pork.”

“There, you see?” Grinning, Fin turned—and the grin fell away again. “What happened?”

“I had a little confrontation. Jesus, it's hot as Africa in here.”

He struggled out of his jacket, weaving a little, then stared at his left arm. “Look at that, will you. My arm's smoking.”

When he pitched forward, his friends leaped to catch him.

“What the fuck is this?” Boyle demanded. “He's burning up.”

“It's hot in here,” Connor insisted.

“It's not. It's Cabhan,” Fin bit off the word. “I can smell him.”

“Let me get his shirt off.”

“The girls are always saying that to me.”

Impatient, Fin merely jerked a hand over Connor, and had him bare-chested.

Connor stared at his arm, at the huge black burn, the peeling and bubbling skin. He felt oddly detached from it all, as if he looked at some little wonder behind glass.

“Would you look at that?” he said, and passed out.

Fin pressed his hands to the burn. Despite the pain that scorched through him, he held them there. Held the burning back.

“Tell me what to do,” Boyle demanded.

“Get him water. I can stop it from spreading, but . . . We need Branna.”

“I'll go get her.”

“It'll take too long. Get him water.”

Closing his eyes, Fin opened, reached out.

Connor's hurt. Come. Come quickly.

“Water's not going to help.” Still Boyle knelt down. “Either of you. It's burning your hands. I know what that's like.”

“And you know it can be fixed.” Sweat popped out on Fin's face, ran in a thin river down his back. “I can't know how far this might take him if I don't hold it.”

“Ice? He's on fire, Fin. We can put him in a tub of ice.”

“Natural means won't help. In my workshop. Get— No need,” he said with relief as Branna and Iona, with a wild-eyed Meara between them, popped into the kitchen.

Branna dropped down to Connor.

“What happened?”

“I don't know. Cabhan for certain, but that's all I know. He's feverish, a bit delirious. The burn under my hands is black, deep, it's trying to spread. I'm holding it.”

“Let me see it. Let me do it.”

“I'm holding it, Branna. I could do more, but not, I think, all. You can.” He set his teeth against the pain. “I won't let him go, not even for you.”

“All right. All right. But I need to see it, feel it, know it.” She closed her eyes, drew up all she had, laid her hands over Fin's.

Her eyes opened again, filled with tears, for the pain under her hands was unspeakable.

“Look at me,” she murmured to Fin. “He can't, so you look for him. Be for him. Feel for him. Heal for him. Look at me.” Her eyes turned the gray of lake water, calm, so calm.

“Iona, put your hands over mine, give me what you can.”

“Everything I have.”

“It's cool, do you feel the cool?” Branna said to Fin.

“I do.”

“Cool and clear, this healing power. It washes away the fire, floods out the black.”

When Connor began to shiver, and to moan, Meara dropped down, pillowed his head in her lap. “Shh now.” Gently, gently, she stroked his hair, his face. “Shh now. We're here with you.”

Sweat poured down Connor's face—and ran down Fin's.

Branna's breathing grew shallow as she took in some of the heat, some of the pain.

“I'm holding it,” Fin said between his teeth.

“Not alone now. Healing hurts—it's the price of it. Look at me, and let it go with me. Out of him we both love, slowly, coolly, out of him, into you, onto me. Out of him, into you, onto me. Out of him, into you, onto me.”