Shadow Spell (25 page)

She groped for Connor's hand, comforted when he took it. “I couldn't get out, and it all got darker and darker. I couldn't speak or move, as if bound up, and it was so bitter cold. Then you were there, Connor, talking to me, and there was light. You were the light. You told me to take your hand. I didn't know how, but you said to take your hand.”

“And you did.”

“I didn't think I could, it hurt so. But you kept saying I could. Kept telling me to take your hand and go with you.”

She linked fingers with him now, a strong grip.

“When I did, it was like being pulled out of a pit while something fought to drag me back, pulled out and out, and the light, it was blinding. Then I felt the rain again. It hurt, everything, all at once. My body, my heart, my head. The shadows were horrible, but I wanted to go back where I didn't feel the pain.”

“Part of it was shock,” Branna said. “And what he'd used to take you. Then the abrupt yank back. It's why Connor put you to sleep.”

“I owe you all.”

“We're a circle,” Boyle began. “Nothing's owed.”

“No, I do. Owe you for coming for me—and yes, any of us would for the other. And I owe you my apology for being so foolish as to give him the chance to take me. And doing that put us all at risk.”

“It's done.” Boyle reached over, poked her shoulder.

“It is,” Branna agreed. “Now you'll have some tea and quiet up in bed.”

“I've slept enough.”

“Not nearly enough, but you can take your tea out by the fire until you're ready to go up.”

“I'll tuck you up.”

Meara frowned at Fin. “I can move my arse from here to there.”

“Now then, you're not after an argument after such a fine apology, are you?” He settled it by going around the table, plucking her right out of her chair. “You're a sturdy girl, Meara Quinn.”

“Oh, am I now?”

He shot Connor a grin over his shoulder, carted her into the sofa. He gave the fire a little boost with a finger flick, then set her down, pulled the pretty throw over her while she eyed him balefully.

“I hate being tended.”

“So do I, like poison. That's why I'm doing it. You deserve a bit of a pinch.”

“Go on then, make me feel guiltier than I already do.”

“No need for that.” He sat down, just above her hip, gave her a brief study. And pulled the blue chalcedony out of his pocket. “I thought you might want this.”

“Oh. How did you—”

“It was a quick trip to the stables to fetch your jacket, and this out of the pocket.” He dangled it by the band. “Do you want it or no?”

“I do, very much.”

He laid it around her neck himself. “Have more of a care with it, and with him.”

“I will.” She looked up, into his eyes. “I swear it. Thank you. Thank you, Fin.”

“You're welcome, and maybe we'll see if there's any cakes to go with that tea.”

He started out, glanced back. She held the stones in her palm, stroked them gently with a finger.

Love, he thought. It could make you a fool or a hero. Or both at once.

18

M
EARA WOKE IN CONNOR'S BED. ALONE. THREE WHITE
candles glowed in clear glass domes on his dresser. Some magickal health thing, she supposed—as the scent of lavender—sprigs of it under the pillow along with more crystals—was likely meant for health and restful sleep.

The last she remembered, as she scanned back, she'd stretched out on the sofa downstairs, tucked in by Fin, waiting for the others to come in for their tea.

She wondered if they had.

It annoyed her she'd dropped off again like a sick child. And annoyed her more to find herself alone in bed.

When she eased out of bed, she found her legs a little wobbly, which added a third annoyance. She'd felt so strong after drinking the broth, found it lowering to realize she wasn't fully recovered.

Someone had changed her into her nightwear, and that was lowering as well.

She walked, a bit drunkenly, into the bath, peered at herself in the mirror over the sink. Well, it was God's holy truth she'd looked better, but she'd looked worse.

She frowned as she saw her toothbrush, the creams she used, other toiletries tucked neatly into a basket on the narrow counter.

They'd moved her in, hadn't they, while she slept. Just packed her up, settled her in without so much as a by-your-leave.

Then she remembered why, and sighed.

She deserved it, and had no ground to stand on. She'd put herself and everyone else at risk, given them hours of worry. No, she wouldn't question the decision; she wouldn't complain.

But she would damn well find Connor.

She cracked open the door leading to Iona's room. If Boyle and Iona had gone to Boyle's, as they did most nights now, Connor would be using this room. Though he should be using his own, with her.

Rain pattered, and without even a hint of moonlight she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark before she tiptoed into the room. She heard breathing, moved closer. She had a mind to just crawl right in with Connor, and they'd see what he had to say about it.

Then as she leaned over the bed for a closer look, she clearly saw Iona, tucked up with Boyle, her head on his shoulder.

A sweet picture, she thought—and a private one. But before she could back away, Iona whispered, “Are you feeling sick?”

“Oh, no, no, I'm sorry.” Meara hissed it out. “So sorry. I woke, and I came in looking for Connor. I didn't mean to wake you.”

“It's all right. He's on the sofa downstairs. Do you need anything? I can make you some tea to help you sleep again.”

“I feel like I've slept a week.”

“And some of us haven't slept through one bloody night,” Boyle muttered. “Go away, Meara.”

“I'm going. I'm sorry.”

She went out through the hall door, heard the rumble of Boyle's voice, the murmur of Iona's laugh before she shut it behind her.

Fine for them, she thought, all curled up warm together, and here she was sneaking around in the middle of the night trying to find her man.

She was halfway down the steps before it struck her.

Her man? When had she started thinking of Connor as “her man”? She was fuddled up, that was all, just fuddled up from magicks dark and light. She wasn't thinking any way at all, not clearly, and should probably go straight back up to bed.

Sleep it all off.

But she wanted him, that was the hell of it. She wanted her head resting on his shoulder as Iona's was on Boyle's.

She made her way down.

He'd wrapped himself up in the throw on the sofa that was too short for him so his feet ended up propped on the arm of it, and his face half smashed into the pillow angled on the other arm.

The only way a man could be near to comfortable under the circumstances would be by drinking himself unconscious first. She shook her head, set her hands on her hips, and wondered how he managed to look so fecking adorable, considering.

They'd banked the fire so it burned low with simmering coals red as a beating heart. The light flickered over him, adding a bit of the devil to the adorable.

Regardless, she had some words to say to him, and he was about to hear them.

She started forward, eyes on his face, and tripped over the boots he'd tossed aside.

She landed on him, hard and full, getting an elbow in the belly for her trouble. So the first word she said to him was
oof
.

And his response was a muttered, “What the fuck!” as he levered up, grabbed her shoulders as if prepared to give her a good toss. Then he said, “Meara?” and pushed the hair out of her face.

“I tripped over your gigantic boots and into your bony elbow.”

“You may have collapsed one of my lungs. Here.” He shifted her, managed to sit with her half sprawled over his lap.

It was far from the way she'd intended things to go.

“Are you feeling sick then?”

Even as he lifted a hand to her brow as if to check for fever, she batted it aside. “Why is everyone thinking I'm sick? I'm not sick. I woke, that's all there is to it. I woke as I've slept most of a day and half a night away.”

“You needed to,” he said, altogether reasonable. “Do you want some tea?”

“I can see to my own tea if I'm in the mood for bloody tea.”

“Sure you're in some mood or the other.”

Tears wanted to fight their way through the annoyance, and she wouldn't have it. “You said you'd forgiven me.”

“I did. I have. Here now, you're cold.”

She batted again as he started to wrap the throw around her. “Leave off, will you leave off fussing over me.” Those insistent tears kept pushing up, shocking, shaming, stupefying her. “Just leave off.”

She tried to push away, roll up and off, but he wrapped his arms around her, held her in, held her tight. “Just calm yourself down, Meara Quinn. Be still a moment. Be quiet a moment.”

The effort of trying to pull away exhausted her, left her out of breath and ever closer to tears. “All right, I'm calm.”

“Not yet, but in a moment. Take a breath or two.” He rocked her gently, looked toward the fire, boosted the flames.

“Don't tend to me, Connor. It makes me want to blubber.”

“Blubber away then. It's all reaction, Meara, all natural from what was done to you, and what needed to be done to counter it.”

“When will it stop?”

“It's less than it was, isn't it now? And will be even less in the morning with more calm, more rest. Have a bit of patience.”

“I hate patience.”

He laughed, brushed his lips over her hair. “That I know, but you have it. I've seen it myself.”

But she had to dig and dig deep for it, Meara thought. Connor simply owned it, like the color of his eyes, the timbre of his voice.

“I don't hate your patience,” she murmured.

“That's good to know as it would be a hard thing to rid myself of it to please you. Tell me now, did something wake you, or did you wake natural?”

“I just waked, and you weren't there.” She heard it, the petulance in her voice. She could only hope that was part of the reaction as well, or else she'd learn to hate herself before much longer.

“If you forgive me, why are you sleeping down here with your feet hanging over the end of the sofa?”

“You needed quiet and rest, that's all.” Because he trusted her calm now, he managed to shift them both so they wedged together in the corner of the sofa, looking toward the fire. “You were asleep before we brought out the tea, and never stirred when I carried you up, and Branna got you in your nightclothes. It's healing, darling, the sleep's a healing thing, and your mind and body, even your spirit took what it needed.”

“I thought you didn't want to be with me, and I hunted you down to fight about it.”

“Then I'm glad you tripped over my boots as this is nicer than a fight.”

“I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to keep being sorry.” He traced a finger over the stones around her neck.

“Fin went to the stables and got it for me.”

“I know.”

“I won't take it off again.”

“I know.”

Trust, patience, forgiveness. No, she didn't deserve him, she thought, and pressed her face to his throat. “I hurt you.”

“You did, yes.”

“How do you love so easy, Connor? So free and easy. I don't mean how it always was with us, or how it is for you with Branna.”

“Well, I'm new with it myself, so I don't know for certain. I can say it was like holding something you've had so long and is just another part of you. Then tilting that something a little. You know how you hold a piece of glass, then change the angle just a bit, and it catches the sun, makes that beam? You can kindle a fire that way, just tilting the glass. Something like that, and what was already there tipped and caught all the light.”

“It could tip another way, and lose it again.”

“Why would it when the light's so lovely? Do you see the fire there?”

“I do, of course.”

“All it takes is a bit of tending, a stir, more fuel, and it'll burn day and night and night and day, give you light and warmth.”

“You could forget to stir it, or run out of fuel.”

Laughing, he nuzzled at her neck. “Then you'd be careless, and shame on you for it. Love needs tending, is what I'm saying. It's some work to keep the light and the warmth, but why would you want to be cold in the dark?”

“No one would want to, but it's easy to forget to tend things.”

“I expect sometimes both tend, and other times one may tend more as the other forgets for a bit, then it might shift over again.”

It was all a matter of balance, he thought, with some care and effort tossed in.

“What's easy isn't always what's right, and it may take a reminder here and there. Over it all, Meara, I've never known you to just settle on the easy. You've never been afraid of the work.”

“What I can lift or carry or clean or put my back into, no. But emotional work is another matter.”

“I haven't seen you shirk on that area either. You don't credit yourself near enough. Friendships take tending as well, don't they? How have you managed to remain such good, strong friends, not only with me, but Branna, Boyle, Fin, now Iona? Then there's family,” he said before she could comment. “And families take considerable tending. You've done more than many would for yours.”

“Yes, but—”

“And grumbling about it doesn't matter,” he said, anticipating her. “It's the doing that counts at the end of the day.”

He kissed her between the eyes. “Trust yourself.”

“That's the hard part.”

“Well then, practice. You didn't learn how to ride a horse by standing back and wondering if you might fall off.”

“I've never in my life fallen off a horse.”

“There, you see my point in it all.”

It was her turn to smile. “Aren't you the clever one?”

“That makes you the lucky one, to have such a clever man in love with you. With patience enough to let you practice until you catch up.”

“It makes my heart shake when you say it,” she admitted. “It makes me so afraid when you say it to me my heart shakes.”

“Then you'll tell me when it stops shaking and grows warm instead. Now try to sleep again.”

“Here?”

“Here's where we are, and we're cozy, aren't we? And the fire's nice. Do you see the stories in the fire?”

“I see the fire.”

“There're stories in the embers, in the flames. I'll tell you one.”

He spoke of a castle on a hill, and a brave knight on a white stallion. Of a warrior queen skilled with bow and sword who rode the sky on a golden dragon.

All so fanciful, she thought, and so pretty she nearly saw what he drew with his words.

And she drifted off to sleep again with a smile on her face, and her head pillowed on his shoulder.

* * *

IT TOOK THREE DAYS BEFORE SHE WAS ABLE TO BE UP AND
awake more than down and asleep. She spent the whole of the first day in bed, on the sofa, or doing what small chores Branna would assign her. But by the second, she felt able to return to the stables for part of the day, help with grooming, feeding.

And made her apologies to her coworkers.

By the third, she'd found Meara again.

It felt so good she sang as she shoveled shit.

“Look at you, giving Adele a run for her money.”

“The woman's got a brilliant throat.” Meara paused, smiled back at Iona who leaned on the open stall door. “Sure I never really understood that saying about how at least you have your health. Never really sick a day in my life. A strong constitution and a best friend who's a witch with exceptional healing powers saw to that. Now that I've been down, I'm learning to give thanks for being up again.”

“You look great.”

“And feel even better.”