Shadow Spell (27 page)

“Do you want his end, Fin, or do you want his blood?”

“I want both, and so do you, Branna. You can't shed it for gain or for joy.”

“Nor should you.”

“And I won't. We won't. But we'll shed it and worse in defense of the three. In defense of the light. If there's joy in it as well? A witch is still human for all that.”

“I'm with Fin on it,” Boyle said. “Iona's mine. And all of you my family. I'll stand for her, for you. I won't stand back.”

“They've said what I'd say.” Meara shrugged. “So that's done.” She set her hands on her knees. “So, as I have it, in a fortnight's time, we'll all—including horses, hounds, hawks, go dreaming ourselves back a few centuries. I'll sing, and like the Pied Piper's tune to rats, that will lure Cabhan. Three of us fight, three of us cast the spell to destroy him. When the job's done we take our bows, then wake up back here where we should take another bow for certain, as we've vanquished evil. Then I suppose we should all go to the pub for a pint.”

“That puts it all in a nutshell,” Connor decided.

“All right then. I think there should be whiskey all around as we're all raving lunatics.” She let out a breath, picked up a biscuit and bit in. “But at least one of us does indeed make brilliant gingerbread.”

Amused, Connor poured whiskey all around, lifted his glass, tapped it to Meara's. “Whether we're victorious or buggered, there's no five others I'd rather stand with. So fuck it all.
Sláinte
.”

And they drank.

* * *

THEY HAD WORK TO DO AND PLENTY OF IT. BRANNA BARELY
left her workshop. If her nose wasn't in a spell book—Sorcha's, her great-grandmother's, her own—she was at her work countertesting potions or writing spells.

When the life around them allowed, Connor joined her, or Iona or Fin. Meara found herself in the position of fetching, carrying, cooking—or splitting that chore with Boyle.

As often as she could she pulled one of them out for sword practice.

And all watched the woods, the fields, the roads for any sign.

“It's been too quiet.” Meara easily parried Connor's advance on one of the rare occasions she managed to drag him away from work or witchcraft.

“He's watching, and waiting.”

“That's just it, isn't it? He's waiting. I've barely seen a shadow of him for days now. He's keeping his distance. He's waiting for us to make the move as he knows we've one to make.”

She thrust, feinted, then swung up, nearly disarming him.

“You're not paying attention in the least,” she complained. “If these blades weren't charmed I could've sliced your ear off.”

“Then I'd only half hear your voice, and that would be a pity.”

“We should go at him, Connor.”

“We've a plan, Meara. Patience.”

“It's not about patience, but strategy.”

“Strategy, is it?” He twirled his free hand, stirred a little cyclone of air. When she glanced toward it, he moved in, and had his sword to her throat. “How's that?”

“Well, if you're after cheating—”

“And Cabhan will play nicely, of course.”

“Point taken.” She stepped back. “What I'm saying is we should feint.” She jabbed, shifted, jabbed again. “Make him think we've gone at him, let him score a point or two. He'll think we've made our move, so he won't expect it when we do.”

“Hmm. That's . . . interesting. Have you anything in mind?”

“You're the witch, aren't you, so you and your like would have to come up with the ritual of it.”

Lowering her sword, she worked through what she'd only half baked in her head.

“But what if we did it near here—near the cottage where we could retreat, as retreat would be part of it. Let him think he's routed us.”

“That's a hard swallow, but I see where you're going. Come on then.” He grabbed her hand, pulled her into the workshop where Branna funneled a pale blue liquid into a slim bottle. Iona crushed herbs with mortar and pestle.

“Meara's an idea.”

Eyebrows drawn together, Branna focused on the liquid sliding gracefully into the bottle. “I'm still working on the last idea that's come around.”

“It's perfect, Branna.” Iona stopped as Branna slid a crystal stopper into the bottle.

“And how many dream spells for six, and their guides, have you cast?”

“This will be my first.” But Iona smiled. “And it's perfect. You should have seen the stars,” she told Connor and Meara. “Tiny blue stars rising up, circling around the cauldron as she finished it.”

“I think it's right.” Branna rubbed the small of her back. “I added the amethyst as you suggested, Connor, and I think it's right. It needs to cure out of the light for at least three days.”

She lifted it, carried it over to a cupboard.

“Let me make you some tea,” Iona began, but Branna shook her head.

“Thanks, but no. I've had enough tea these last days to do me for six months. I'm after some wine.”

“Then we'll have some wine while you hear Meara's idea. Better, don't you feel like cooking something?” Connor tried out a winning smile. “Aren't you feeling a longing for your own kitchen, darling? This is the sort of idea that goes well with a good bowl of soup, and the full circle of us.”

Meara gave him a shove. “I think it's a good idea, and it should be heard by everyone. But I can make the soup while you sit and have your wine.”

“I'll make it, because despite the fact that my brother's thinking with his belly, I do miss my kitchen. We've vegetables in the garden still.” She pointed at Connor. “Go fetch some.”

“What's your pleasure?”

“Any and all. I'll make it up as I go. And since you've had some fine idea, Meara, you can tell me of it while I have the wine. I don't see why I should wait for the others. Leave that, Iona. We'll get back to it. Let's have a little kitchen time.”

Meara thought she was doing some making it up as she went as well. And by the time everyone arrived, she'd refined things a bit.

“So,” she finished, “by doing something now without any real stake in winning, we'd have him thinking we'd made our attack, bungled it, or at least failed at it. We're forced to retreat to the cottage—where we're protected. Confused-like, you know? And bitter. If we've had our arse handed to us, he wouldn't think we'd launch another attack in a matter of days.”

“If we go halfway, he could do real damage,” Boyle pointed out. “Why not go full-out?”

“We still need the time left for the plan we settled on. I've been working the spell around the night we chose,” Branna explained. “I wouldn't want to try it on another. It must be Samhain.”

“Her point is by losing we have a better chance of winning.” Connor gave Boyle a bump on the shoulder. “And I know losing, even by design, goes down hard.”

“We'd have to make it flashy. He won't be fooled by something that looks weak and tossed together.” But Fin smiled. “And we could give plenty of flash. Fire and storm, quake and flood. We throw the elements at him. It wouldn't be right—not on its own in any case, but it would be loud and strong and it would feel bloody fierce.”

“A call to the elements.” Now Branna began to smile. “Oh, we could make it fierce indeed. Even rock him on his heels a bit. We'd need to shield, for we've neighbors here. The field—the rise behind the gardens.”

“That's farther than I'd thought,” Meara began. “If we're going to be routed, that's a long road to retreat and safety.”

“We don't retreat,” Connor said. “At least not at a run. We fly.”

“Fly?” Meara let out a long breath. “I think I'll have some more wine on that notion.”

“That makes a statement, too.” Iona did the honors with the wine. “We're defeated, and have to fly to safety. When would we try it?”

“We're on a waning moon.” Connor glanced toward the window. “That could be useful. I'd like a go at it tonight, but I think closer to the real attack. Two nights more? If we get any singes from it, we'd have time to mend them.”

“Two nights more.” Branna walked over to stir her soup.

* * *

EVEN A FEINT REQUIRED PLANNING.

The three added more protection around the house. If Cabhan believed them weakened, he might try to come in for the coup de grace. They couldn't afford a single chink.

Meara thought of it as a kind of play. Though some would be scripted, and she'd gone over her part of it a dozen times and more, some would have to be written and delivered on the spot.

“I'm nervous,” she confessed to Connor. “More nervous than I was on the solstice.”

“You'll be fine. We all will. Remember defense is the first goal here. Offense is just a happy bonus.”

“It's nearly time.” As if to warm them, she rubbed her hands together. “He may not even come.”

“I think he will. He'll believe you're weak, and that we're fractured. He'll see a chance, want to take it. It's family he doesn't understand, and the bonds of friendship. But he'll understand what we lure him with.”

He took her hand, walked with her into the workshop where the others had already gathered.

Even for this, Meara thought, the ritual must be kept.

So they lighted the ritual candles, watched while the smoke from the cauldron rose in a pale blue.

Branna took the ritual cup she placed in the circle, and spoke words familiar now.

“This we drink, one cup for six, from hand to hand and mouth to mouth to fix with wine our unity. Six hearts, six minds as one tonight as we prepare to wage this fight. Sip one, sip all, and show each one here answers the call.”

Three times they passed the cup, hand to hand, mouth to mouth.

“A circle are we, two rings forming one three by three. Tonight we ask for strength and power to see us through the dark hour. Four elements we will call to bring about Cabhan's fall. Fire, earth, water, air we'll stir into a raging sea. As we will, so mote it be.”

The three closed the circle.

“We're ready. The circle's been cast, the spell begun. If we have time to cast a circle on the rise, so much the better.” Branna looked at Meara. “You'll know when to start.”

She hoped so.

They walked to the rise, carrying candles, cauldron, weapons, and wands, shielded from sight—but for Cabhan's. Connor told her they'd left a window for him.

As they topped the rise, he reached for her hand. She pulled sharply away.

And the play began.

20

I
TOLD YOU TO STAY CLEAR OF ME.”

“Ah now, Meara, it was just a pint in the pub.”

“Talk runs like a river, Connor, so I know just how you spent your time in the pub.” She sent him a look of absolute disgust. “And while I was barely able to stand after what was done to me. On your account done to me.”

“Jesus, Meara, it was just a bit of a flirt. Some conversation, a bit of fun.”

“Have all the fun and
conversation
you want, but don't think you'll come cozying up to me after.” Deliberately she quickened her pace. “I know your ways. Who better?”

“What do you want?” He hunched his shoulders as they climbed the gentle rise. “I needed a bit of a breather, is all, after being cooped up day after day in the cottage or slammed with work at the school. You could do little but sleep for hours at a go.”

“And why was that?” She stopped, rounded on him. “It's you and your magicks put me flat, isn't it?”

He planted his feet, glared back at her. “It's me and my magicks saved your bleeding life!”

“And while I was clinging to that life, you're off
conversing
with Alice Keenan at the pub.”

“Enough, enough, enough!” Branna blasted at both of them. “There's no time for this. Didn't I tell you my star chart has tonight as our best chance to finish this? We can't do what needs doing with the two of you sniping at each other.”

“I'm here, aren't I?” Meara jerked up her chin. “I'm here putting my life on the line yet again because I said I would. I keep my word. Unlike some.”

“A man buys a girl a pint, and suddenly he's a liar?”

“Lay the candles, Connor.” Branna shoved them at him. “And focus on what's at hand. By the gods, couldn't you have waited till we'd done this before sniffing around Alice Keenan?”

On an outraged hiss, Meara dumped her pack on the ground. “Oh, so it's fine and well for him to run around behind me after I've been useful?”

“That's not what I meant,” Branna said, her tone sharp, dismissive. “Stop acting the gom.”

“Now I'm the gom? You would take his part, even knowing he was off with that sleveen.”

“Stop, will you all stop?” Iona put her hands over her ears.

“Best stay out of it,” Boyle advised.

“I can't stay out of it. They're my family, and I can't take any more of this sniping and bickering. Give me those.” She snatched the candles from Connor, began to secure them in a circle on the rise. “How can we work together, do what we've all sworn to do, if we're fighting?”

“Easy for you to say.” Meara slammed a hand on the hilt of her sword. “When you've Boyle acting the lap dog for you at every turn.”

“I'm no one's dog, Meara, and mind yourself.”

“Didn't I tell you tonight wasn't the time?” Fin drew his athame out of its sheath, examined it in the light of the waning moon.

“If I said up, you'd say down,” Branna shot back. “For the spite of it.”

“And wasn't it you who said it must be the solstice? And here we are, months later, at your bidding again.”

“And I wonder still how much you held back that night. If my bidding was done, you would never be here, you would never be with us.”

“Branna, that's too much.” Connor laid a hand on her shoulder.
He's coming,
he told her, told the others.
Fast.

“Too much or not enough hardly matters now. We're here.”

Branna swept her hand out, lighted the candles. She set the bowl at the northmost point.

Behind her, Connor touched his fingers lightly to Meara's.

She drew in a breath, and braced for it.

Fog dropped, a thick curtain, and with it came a bitter, bone-deep cold. A roaring ripped through it, shivered over the high grass.

Even as she drew her sword, Connor whipped her aside.

She felt something streak by her, grazing her arm, leaving a frigid burn of pain behind. She didn't have to feign the fear and confusion. Both rose up in her like a flood.

Then Connor's voice sounded in her head.
I'm with you. I love you.

She spun, moving back-to-back with Boyle, readied to attack or defend.

The ground trembled under her feet as Fin called to earth.

“Danu, goddess and mother, by your power will this earth quake and shudder.”

Even protected by the ritual, Meara nearly pitched forward when the ground heaved.

“On Acionna, on Manannan mac Lir I call,” Branna shouted. “On Cabhan's head your wrath will fall.”

Rain poured out of the sky, as if some deity had turned the course of a raging river.

Through the fog, the deluge, she saw glowing streaks of black winging like arrows. And to her shock, the fog hissed. It curled around her leg like a snake. Instinctively she sliced out at it, rent it. Black blood splattered from the mists.

Balls of fire catapulted out, burning the black arrows to cinder on Iona's call. “Power of fire in Brighid's name to scorch the dark with light and flame.”

She felt Boyle lurch, whirled to defend, and saw him hack at a thorny tendril of fog striking toward Fin.

She dove under, sliced and struck, then had to cling to the ground as it heaved up under her.

“Sidhe, heed your servant, your son, and with your breath bring his damnation.”

She watched Connor, a flame within the flames lift his arms high. As she struggled to her feet she saw the boiling sky above open. And whirl.

Came the lightning, spearing out of the dark to strike the quaking earth. Even the rain sparked with fire. She saw Iona fall, saw Boyle spring over to lift her. Flames shot from her hands at the wolf, at the man, at the twisting, snaking branches of fog.

She fought her way through, back toward the circle where the candles still glowed like beacons. Back toward Connor, who'd gripped Branna's hand, then Iona's, so the three of them lit, candles themselves.

It howled, the wolf.

It laughed, the man.

The candles, wax and witch, sputtered and began to dim.

“Pull it back!” Branna shouted. “We've lost it. We've lost the night. It's drained from us. Flee, while we can.”

Connor gripped Meara around the waist—strong hands, face fierce, sheened with sweat, with blood. “I'll steer clear of you after I save your life a second time.”

Spinning through the air, showers of stars, sparks of fire. Light so brilliant she had to squeeze her eyes tight, turn her head.

Falling, too fast, too fast, so the speed sucked the air from her lungs.

The next she knew she was sprawled over Connor on the kitchen floor with his heart galloping under her like a runaway horse.

A terrible roar swept over, around, rattling the windows. Great fists pounded at the doors, the walls, so the cottage shook. For a moment Meara braced for it to collapse on their heads.

Then there was silence.

The others lay, like survivors of some terrible smashup. Kathel leaped over her to Branna, licked at her face, whined.

“I'm all right, there now. We're all right.”

“That should convince him we'd gone to war tonight, as it bloody well convinced me.” Connor stroked Meara's hair as he shifted her. “Are you hurt?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. You're bleeding.”

He swiped his fingers over a gash on his temple. “Didn't dodge fast enough.”

“Here, let me see to it.” Branna scooted over. “Iona—”

“I know what you need.” As she ran toward the workshop, Meara tugged up her trouser leg, saw the livid bruise circling just above her ankle.

“Here, let me see to that.” Even as Branna tended him, Connor reached out, laid his hands on the bruising.

“The fog—it turned to snakes. And thorns. It grew thorns.”

“Not thorns, teeth.” Fin, his face shiny with sweat, sat on the kitchen floor with his back braced against a cupboard.

“You're hurt. A bit of that for Connor's head,” Branna snapped to Iona as she pushed up to go to Fin. “See that it's clear and clean. Were you bitten?” she demanded of Fin.

“I'm just winded.”

She pressed her hand to his chest. “It's more. Let me see.”

“I'll tend to myself when I've my breath back.”

“Oh, bollocks.” With a flash of her hand, she stripped him to the waist.

“If you're after getting my clothes off, we could do with some privacy.”

“Shut it.” She looked over her shoulder, spoke urgently. “Iona, the balm!”

“I'll see to myself,” Fin began.

“I'll put you under if you don't be still, be quiet. You know I can and will. Connor, I need you.”

“How bad is it?”

He saw for himself when he pushed across the kitchen floor.

Raw and black puncture wounds ran down both sides of Fin's torso, as if a monstrous jaw had closed over him.

“They're not deep.” Branna's voice stayed low and steady. “Thank the gods for that. And the poison . . .” She looked up sharply. “What did you do to stop the spread of it?”

“I'm his blood.” Breathing labored, Fin spoke slowly, almost too precisely. “What he makes from his weakens in mine.”

“There's pain,” Connor said.

“There's always pain.” But he hissed out a breath as Branna worked deeper. “Christ Jesus, woman, your healing's worse than the wound.”

“I have to draw it out, weakened or not.”

“Look at me, Fin,” Connor ordered.

“I'll take my own pain, thanks.”

Connor merely gripped Fin's jaw in his hand, turned his head.

He's taking the pain, Meara realized. Taking Fin's pain so the healing goes quickly. And so, she knew, Branna couldn't take it herself.

Boyle got out the whiskey, so she stood to fetch glasses. Then sitting on the floor again, passed them out when Branna sat back, nodded.

“That will do.”

“A bit more of a dust-up than we reckoned on.” Mirroring Fin, Connor leaned back against the cupboards. His own face shone now, from the sweat of the effort, of the pain. “But we singed his ass more than a bit, and we're safe and whole.”

“He'll think we're cowed,” Branna said. “He'll think we're bickering among ourselves, licking our wounds, questioning if we should ever try such a thing again.”

“And when we go at him in two days' time, we'll burn him to ashes before he knows we've duped him. A fine show, one and all.” He lifted his glass. “A notion of brilliance, Meara my darling, and one that may have turned the tide good and hard. It's hardly a wonder I love you.”

He drank, as did the others, but Meara held her glass and studied him.

“No taste for your whiskey?” he asked her.

“I'm waiting for my heart to shake. It may be I'm in a bit of shock. Why don't you tell me again? We'll see if it gets through.”

He set his glass aside, walked over on his knees to where she sat on the floor. “I love you, Meara, and ever will.”

She downed the whiskey, set the glass down, rose up on her knees to face him. “No, it's not shaking. But really, what sort of weak and foolish heart shakes in fear of love. Will yours?” She laid her hand on his chest. “Let's see if it does. I love you, Connor, and ever will.”

“It may have stopped for a second.” He closed his hand over hers, held it to him. “But there's no fear, there's no doubt. Do you feel that? It's dancing, with joy.”

She laughed. “Connor O'Dwyer of the dancing heart. I'll take you.” She threw her arms around him, met his mouth with hers.

“Would you like us to move along then?” Boyle replied. “Give the two of you your privacy there on the kitchen floor?”

“I'll let you know,” Connor murmured, then went back to kissing his love.

He stood, plucked her up, swept her up, gave her a toss to make her laugh again. “On second thought, we'll get out of your way.”

He carried her from the room on more laughter.

“It's what you've always wanted,” Fin said to Branna.

“What I knew could be, felt should be, and yes, what I wanted.” She let out a sigh. “I'll put on the kettle.”

* * *

LATER, WRAPPED UP WITH MEARA IN BED, THE HOUSE QUIET
around them, and moonlight coming through the window, Connor asked her.

“Was it the battle that did it? The knowing of life and death that steadied your heart?”

“You took his pain.”

“What? Who?”

“Down in the kitchen. Though he didn't want it of you, you wouldn't let him hurt, so you took Fin's pain. I thought, That's who he is, down into it. A man who'd take on the pain of a friend—or anyone else for that matter. A man of power, of kindness. Of fun and music and loyalty. And he loves me.”

She laid a hand on his cheek. “I've loved you as long as I can remember, but I wouldn't let myself have it, have that gift you spoke of, or give it. That was fear.