Shadow Spell (12 page)

And more stirred by one than he could remember.

8

M
EARA TOLD HERSELF TO FORGET ABOUT IT. TO PUT IT
aside as a moment of insanity caused by extreme stress. It wasn't every day, was it, your two good friends grabbed hold of you and took you flying so you winked out of one place, winked into another?

Where you looked at a man you'd cared for the whole of your life, and thought him dead?

Some women would have run screaming, she thought as she put her back into mucking stalls. Some would have fallen into hysterics.

All she'd done was kiss the man who wasn't dead at all.

“I've kissed him before, haven't I?” she muttered and pitched soiled hay into the barrow. “You can't know someone almost from birth, run in the same pack all along, be best mates with his sister, and not. It's nothing. It's not a thing at all.”

Oh God.

She squeezed her eyes shut, leaned on her pitchfork.

Sure she'd kissed him before, and he her.

But not like that. Not like that, no. Not all hot and heavy with tongues and teeth and her heart racing.

What must he think? What did she think?

More, what the bloody, bleeding hell was she to do when next she saw him?

“Okay.” Iona stepped into the stall behind her, leaned on her own pitchfork. “I've given you thirty-two minutes, by my mark. That's my limit. What's going on?”

“Going on?” Flustered, Meara tugged the brim of her cap down lower, and tossed another scoop into the barrow. “I'm pitching horse shit, as you are.”

“Meara, you barely looked at me, much less spoke when we got here this morning. And you're in here muttering under your breath. If I did something to piss you off—”

“No! Of course you didn't.”

“I didn't think so, but something's got you muttering and hunching off with your eyes averted.”

“Maybe I've got my monthlies.”

“Maybe?”

“I couldn't think fast enough if I'd been bitchy recently when I did have them. My mother—”

Iona jabbed a finger to stop her. “You didn't think fast enough there either. When it's your mother, you spew. You're not spewing, you're hiding.”

“I am not.” Insulted, Meara angled away. “I'm merely taking some time with my thoughts.”

“Is it about last night?”

Meara straightened up like a flag pole. “What about last night?”

“Connor. Black magickal burn.”

“Oh. Well, yes, of course. Of course, it's that.”

Eyes narrowed in speculation, Iona circled her finger in the air. “And?”

“And? That should be enough for anyone. It would send most people into hospital with collapsed nerves.”

“You're not most people.” Now Iona moved in closer, crowding the space. “What happened after you left Fin's?”

“Why would anything happen?”

“There!” Iona pointed. “You looked at the ground. Something happened, and you're evading.”

Why, oh why, was she such a miserable liar when it mattered? “I'm looking at the horse shit I'm not shoveling.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“Oh, oh, that's below the belt.” It was Meara's turn to point an accusatory finger. “That sorrowful look, the little catch in your voice.”

“It is,” Iona admitted with a quick smile. “But it's still true.”

Losing the battle, Meara leaned on her pitchfork again. “I don't know what to say about it, or do about it.”

“That's why you tell a friend. You're close to Branna—and I don't mean that below the belt. If you can talk to her, I'll cover for you while you go over.”

“You would,” Meara said with a sigh. “I'll need to talk to her, that's clear enough. I'm not sure how. It might be better to talk to a cousin rather than a sister right off. Sort of like stepping-stones. It's just that . . .”

She stepped to the opening of the stall, looked up, looked down to be sure Boyle, Mick, or any of the stable hands weren't loitering nearby.

“It was scary, last night. And I was turned upside down right off at being whisked magickally from one kitchen to the next in a couple blinks of the eye.”

“You'd never flown before? Oh God, Meara, you had to be upside down. I guess I assumed Branna would have taken you now and then. For, well, fun.”

“It's not that she won't use power for a bit of fun now and then. But she's pretty bloody responsible with it.”

“You don't have to tell me.”

“Then we're there, where we weren't, and Connor . . . In that first moment, I thought he was dead.”

“Oh, Meara.” Instinctively, Iona reached out to hug her. “I knew he wasn't—that connection among the three—and I nearly lost it.”

“I thought I'd—we'd—lost
him
, and my head was already spinning, my guts twisted sideways. Then Branna and Fin working on him, and you as well. And I could do nothing.”

“That's not true.” Iona pulled back, gave Meara a little shake. “It took us all. It took our circle, our family.”

“I felt useless all the same, but that's not important. It was such a relief when he came back, and so much himself. And I thought I'd calmed and settled. But when he drove me home, it started rolling around inside me again, and before I knew it, before I could think straight, I told him to pull over.”

“Were you sick? I'm so sorry.”

“No, no, and he thought the same. But I went a bit mad, really. I just jumped him, right there in his lorry.”

Shock had Iona's mouth falling open as she took a jerky step back. “You— You hit him?”

“No! Don't be an idjit! I kissed him. And not at all like a brother or a friend, or someone you're welcoming back from death.”

“Oh.” Iona drew the syllable out.

“Oh,” Meara echoed, doing a restless circle around the stall. “Then, as if that wasn't enough, I pulled back. You'd think I'd've got my head back in place, but no, I did it all over again. And being a man, after all, he had no objections, and would've moved on from there if I hadn't found my sanity again.”

“I shouldn't be surprised. I'm not really surprised. I thought there was something . . . but when I first got here this winter, I thought there was something between you and Boyle.”

“Oh Jesus.” Completely done, Meara covered her face with her hands.

“I know there wasn't, ever, anything but family, friends. So I decided the something I thought I felt between you and Connor was the same.”

“It is! Of course it is. This was a result of trauma.”

“A coma's a result of trauma. Making out in a truck—lorry—is a result of something else entirely.”

“It wasn't making out, just a couple kisses.”

“Tongues?”

“Oh bloody hell.” She yanked off her cap, tossed it down, stomped on it.

“Does that help?” Iona wondered.

“No.” Disgusted, Meara grabbed the cap, beat it against her thigh. “How can I tell Branna I've been snogging her brother in his lorry on the side of the road like a horny teenager?”

“The same way you told me. What about—”

“Do the two of you intend to stand around all morning, or will you be hauling that manure out?” Boyle stepped to the opening, scowled at them.

“We're nearly done,” Iona told him. “And we have something we have to discuss.”

“Discuss later, haul manure now.”

“Go away.”

“I'm the boss here.”

She merely stared at him until he shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked away.

“Don't worry, I won't say anything to him.”

“Oh, it doesn't matter.” Mortified all over again, Meara shoveled more manure. “Connor will for certain. Men are worse than women about such matters.”

“What did you say to Connor? After.”

“I told him that was the end of it, and I wasn't going to talk about it.”

“Right.” Iona managed to hold back the laugh, but not the toothy smile. “That'll work.”

“We can't have a mad, momentary impulse twisting things up. We've more important things to concern us, as a whole.”

Iona said nothing for a moment, then stepped over, gave Meara another hug. “I understand. I'll go with you when you talk to Branna if you want.”

“Thanks for that, but it's best I do it on my own.”

“Go this morning, get it off your mind. I'll cover for you.”

“It would be good to get it out and gone, wouldn't it?” And maybe her stomach would stop rolling around, she considered as she pressed a hand to it. “I'll finish up here, then run over. Once it's said, I can put it aside and concentrate on what needs doing without it nagging at me.”

“I'll smooth it with Boyle.”

“Tell him I've my monthlies or some other female thing. It always shuts him up.”

“I'm aware,” Iona said with a laugh, and went back to her own stall.

* * *

DO IT QUICK, MEARA ORDERED HERSELF AS SHE STRODE
through the woods. Get it over. Branna would hardly be mad about it—more likely she'd laugh, and think it a fine joke.

That would be grand, and then she could think of it as a fine joke herself.

Imagine Meara Quinn lusting for Connor O'Dwyer. And she could admit there were little pockets of lust burning in uncomfortable places.

But a talk with Branna would quash all that, and things would be back as things should be.

Maybe she'd had a little twinge over him now and then through the years. What woman wouldn't feel a twinge or two for the likes of Connor O'Dwyer?

The man made a picture, didn't he? All long and lean and that curling mop of hair, that pretty face, that knowing grin. Add in his caring ways, for he had that as much as the pretty.

A temper to be sure, but less than hers by far. By a few thousand kilometers, truth be told. And a far happier, steadier outlook on life than most, including herself.

For all he'd faced the whole of his life, he kept that happy outlook, those caring ways. You mixed the power in, for it was an awesome thing to behold even for one who'd known and seen it all her life, and the full package of him packed a solid punch.

And he knew it well, used it well—on more than a fair share of females to her way of thinking.

Not that she held that against him. Why not pluck the flowers along the way?

For her, for sense and logic, she'd stick with being his friend rather than part of a bouquet.

She sighed, hunched her shoulders as the air chilled. She'd have to speak to him of it—foolish to tell herself otherwise. But after she'd told Branna and they'd had a good laugh over it.

She'd be able to talk to Connor, make it all a fine joke, after she told Branna.

She dug into her pocket for her gloves as the wind kicked up. And to think they'd called for a bright morning, she thought as clouds smothered the sun.

And she heard her name on the wind.

Pausing, she looked over in that direction, saw she stood at the big downed tree by the thick vines. By the place where beyond lay the ruins of Sorcha's cabin, and the land that could slip in and out of time on Cabhan's whim.

He'd never before called to her, bothered with her. Why would he? She had no power, was no threat. But he called now, and the voice that oozed seduction pulled at something inside her.

She knew the dangers, knew all the warnings and risks, yet found herself standing at the curtain of vines without realizing she'd walked to them. Found herself reaching.

She'd just have a look, just a quick look is all.

Her hand touched the vines, and a dreamy warmth came with the touch. Smiling, she started to part them while fog oozed through their tangles.

The hawk cried as it dove. It sliced a path along those vines so she stumbled back. Shuddered and shuddered with the fog swimming nearly to her knees.

Roibeard perched on the downed tree, looked at her with eyes bright and fierce.

“I was going in, have a look. Can you hear him as well? It's my name he's calling. I only want to see.”

When she reached out again, Roibeard spread his wings in warning. Behind her Branna's hound let out a soft woof.

“Come with me if you like. Why don't you come with me?”

Kathel caught the hem of her jacket in his teeth, pulled her back.

“Stop that now! What's wrong with you? What's . . . What's wrong with
me
?” she murmured, swaying now, knees watery, head light.

“Bugger it.” She laid an unsteady hand on Kathel's great head. “Good dog, smart and good. Let's get away from here.” She looked back at Roibeard, and at the shadows dimming again as the sun struggled through the mists. “Let's all get away from here.”

She kept her hand on the dog, walking fast while the hawk swooped and glided overhead. Never in her life was she so glad to see the woods behind her, and the home of the Dark Witch so close at hand.