Shadow Spell (28 page)

“And I thought, when I watched you tonight, in the horrible heat of battle, in the bright lights of the kitchen, how can I let myself be too afraid to have what I love? Why do I keep convincing myself I might be like my father, or let what he did define the whole of my life? I owe Cabhan a debt.”

“Cabhan?”

“He thought to hurt and shame and shake me by bringing the image of my father to me. And he did, right enough, but that was from me. And seeing plain what I held in me, I could start seeing the truth. He didn't leave me, or my mother, or the rest of us. He left his own shame and his mistakes and failures because he couldn't stand and look at them in the mirror.”

“You always stand, you always look.”

“I try, but I didn't look from the right angle. I didn't let myself tip the glass. It's my mother who stayed, with the shame he left her with, who lived—in her own dithering way—with mistakes and failures that were his. And she stood, and stayed, for me and my family, even after we were grown. She's happy now, free of that whether she knows it fully or not. I'm free of it as well. So I owe Cabhan a debt. But it won't stop me from doing all I can to send him to hell.”

“Then I owe him a debt alongside you. And we'll send him to hell together.”

* * *

IT WAS HARD OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS OUTSIDE OF THE
cocoon of the cottage to stop himself from radiating joy. He had to go about his work, and avoid contact with Meara until they were inside that sanctuary.

He felt Cabhan probing once or twice, but lightly, cautiously. And there were bruises there, oh yes, they'd given the bastard a few bruises for his trouble.

He'd come into it weaker than he'd been—and thinking their circle damaged when it was stronger and more vital than it had ever been.

And yet.

“You have doubts,” he said to Branna. Only hours remained, so he'd come home to help however he could.

“It's a good scheme.”

“And still?”

She took out the dream potion, padded it carefully in a silver box that had come down through their family, placing it alongside the bloodred brew she hoped would end Cabhan.

“A feeling, and I don't know if it's a true one. I wonder if I was so confident on the solstice that now I doubt when it's time to try again. Or if there's truly something I'm not seeing, not doing that needs seeing, needs doing.”

“It's not only on your shoulders, Branna.”

“I know it. Whatever Fin thinks, I know that very well.” She gathered the tools she'd cleansed and charmed to wrap in a roll of white velvet.

She opened a drawer, took out a smaller silver box. “I have something for you, whatever tonight brings.”

Curious, he opened it, saw the ring, the deep glow of the ruby in hammered gold. “This came to you, down from our great-grandmother.”

“Now it's yours if you want it for Meara. She's my sister, and that bind only tightens when you give her the ring. Another circle, and it should be hers. But only if it's what you want.”

He came around the work counter, drew her in. “After the night's done. Thank you.”

“I want it ended, now more than ever. I want to see you and Meara make your lives together.”

“We'll end it. We're meant to.”

“Your heart's talking.”

“It is, and if your head wasn't talking so bloody loud, you'd hear your own.” He drew her back. “If you won't trust your heart, trust your blood. And mine.”

“I am.”

He gathered his own tools and readied himself for the night to come.

They met at the big stables, and at Fin's request, Connor saddled Aine, the white filly Fin bought to breed with Alastar.

“I thought Fin was taking Baru, his stallion.”

Connor glanced back at Meara. She wore sturdy boots, rough pants, a thick belt with her sword and sheath carried on it. He knew Iona had braided charms in her hair.

And she wore his necklace over a flannel shirt.

“So he is. We're to take Aine, and Iona and Boyle take Alastar. The third horse makes the getting there easier.”

“So we're riding to Sorcha's cabin.”

“In a way. You're prepared for what's to come?”

“As well as I can be.”

He reached across the saddle for her hand. “We'll come through it.”

“I believe that.”

Together, they led the horse out to join the others in the pale light of a crescent moon. “Once we're there it must go quickly, without a missed step. My father, Iona's grandmother, Fin's cousin, they'll have ahold of things, and they'll bring us back should things go wrong.”

“You'll bring me back,” she said.

Once he'd mounted, she swung up behind him. He glanced at Boyle and Iona already on a restless Alastar.

Wants to be going, he does, to be doing.

He saw Fin gather up the little mutt, mount the black stallion, then hold his hand down to Branna.

“It's hard for her,” Connor murmured. “To go with him this way.”

“Hard for him as well.”

But Branna mounted, then signaled to Kathel. The hound raced off. Overhead Roibeard called, and Fin's Merlin answered.

“Hold on to me,” Connor advised, and the three horses leaped forward in a gallop.

Then they flew.

“Sweet Jesus!” Meara's big laugh followed the exclamation. “This is brilliant! Why haven't we done this before?”

The wind streamed by, cool and damp, while clouds winked over the moon and away again. The air filled with the scent of spice and earth, of things going bold before they settled down to rest.

They flew, riding the air above that earth, into the deep, and straight through the vines to Sorcha's cabin.

“Quickly now,” Connor told her.

He had to leave her to move to Branna and Iona, to cast the circle, a hundred candles, the bowls, the cauldron.

Branna opened the silver box, removed the dream potion.

“Spirits ride upon this night. We come to join them with our light. In this place and in this hour, we call upon bright things of power. We are the three, and are three more. Together we walk through the door and into the dreaming there to find the meaning of our destiny. So we drink one by three and one by three.”

She poured the potion into a silver cup, lifted it up. Lowered it, sipped.

“Body, blood, mind, and heart, into the dreaming we depart.”

She passed the cup to Fin. He sipped, repeated the words, and then to Iona, and around the circle.

It tasted of stars, Connor thought as he took his turn, one by three.

He joined hands, his sister's, Meara's, and with her circle said the words.

“With right, with might, with light we seek the night. A dreamwalk back in time, Cabhan's evil to unwind. To the time of the return of Sorcha's three. As we will, so mote it be.”

There wasn't a floating as he'd experienced before, but a kind of swimming through mists and colors with voices murmuring behind, before, and images just on the edges of his vision.

When the mists cleared, he stood as he had been, with his circle, and his hand clasped with Meara's, his other with Branna's.

“Did we go back?”

“Look there,” Connor said to Meara.

Vines covered the cabin, but it stood. And bluebells bloomed on the ground beneath the gravestone.

The horses stood with the hawks on branches above them. Kathel sat calm as a king beside Branna, while Bugs quivered a little between Fin's boots.

“We're all here, as we should be. You'll call him now, Meara.”

“Now?”

“Start,” Branna confirmed, and took out the vial filled with red. “Draw him in.”

Inside the vial brilliance pulsed and swirled. Liquid light, magick fire.

“In the center of the circle.” Connor took her by the shoulders, kissed her. “And sing, whatever happens.”

She had to steady herself, calm her heart, then open it.

She'd chosen a ballad, sang in Irish though he doubted she knew the meaning of all the words. Heartbreaking they were, and as beautiful as the voice that lifted over the clearing, into the night, and across all the dreaming time.

He'd ask her to sing it for him, he decided, when they were done with dark things, when they were alone. She would sing it again, for him.

“He hears,” Fin whispered.

“It's a night that calls to black and white, to dark and light. He'll come.”

Branna stepped out of the circle, then Connor, then Iona.

“Whatever happens,” Connor said again. “Sing. He's coming.”

“Aye.” Fin stepped out of the circle, leaving Boyle to guard Meara.

He drew a sword, and set it to burning.

It came on the fog, a shadow that became a wolf. It stalked toward the line of four witches, then whirled and leaped at the circle.

Boyle blocked Meara's body with his, but the wolf leaped back from the fireball Iona threw.

It paced the clearing, eyed the horses until Alastar pawed the ground, then it rose up to a man.

“Do you think to try for me again? Do you think to destroy me with song and your weak white magick?” He waved a hand and the flame on Fin's sword died.

Fin simply lifted it, caught the fire again.

“Try me,” Fin suggested, and stepped forward in front of the three.

“My son, blood of my blood, you are not my enemy.”

“I am your death.” Fin leaped forward, swinging out, but cleaved only fog.

The rats came, a boiling flood of them, red eyes feral. Those that streamed to the circle screamed as they flashed into flame. But Meara saw one of the candles gutter out.

Now she drew her sword and sang.

Aine reared, hooves flashing. Her eyes rolled in fear. Fin grabbed her reins, used the sword to set a ring of fire around her. While the two stallions crushed the rats, the hawks dived for them.

The bats spilled out of the sky.

Connor saw another candle wink out.

“He's attacking the circle to get to her. It must be now, Branna.”

“We have to pull him closer.”

Connor threw his head back, called the wind. The torrent of it tore through those thin wings until the air filled with smoke and screaming.

Meara's voice wavered as a single twisted body fell at the circle's edge, and a third candle went out.

“Steady, girl,” Boyle murmured.

“I'm steady.” Drawing in air, she lifted her voice over the screams.

“I'll slice open your throat and rip your heart out through it.” Cabhan, his eyes nearly as red as his stone, threw black lightning at the circle.

Boyle took an opening, jabbed through with his knife, drew first blood. The explosion of air knocked him back. The blood on the tip of his knife hit the ground and sizzled black as pitch.

“It has to be now,” Connor shouted, and began the chant.

The power rose up, clear heat. Again he heard voices, not only Meara's and Iona's, but others. Distant, murmuring, murmuring through the thinning Veil. Over them Meara's song rang, filled his heart with more.

Fin swept his sword so the candles reignited, so the flames ran straight.

The rats turned away, flowing toward the three. Cabhan dropped to all fours. The wolf charged Kathel.

Connor felt Branna's fear, turned with her as did Iona to shoot power toward the wolf. But the ground heaved under it—Fin's work. Kathel's jaws snapped over the wolf's shoulder, and Roibeard dived.

It screamed, fought its way clear to run toward the trees beyond the clearing.

“Cut it off,” Connor shouted. “Drive it back.” But his heart stopped when both Boyle and Meara ran clear of the circle to join Fin.

It darted right, turned and, desperate, began to charge. Meara's sword flamed. The tip of it scorched fur before the wolf checked, turned again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Connor caught movement. He glanced over, saw three figures by the cabin. A wavering vision, as their voices struggled to reach through the Veil.

Then he knew only his sister, Iona, only the three and the hot rush of power.

She suspended the vial in front of them, and with hands linked, minds linked, powers linked, they hurtled it toward the wolf.

The light exploded, a thousand suns. It charged into him, through him.

“By the power of three you are ended. With our light your dark is rended. With our light this web is spun, with our blood you are undone. No life, no spirit, no magicks left for thee. As we will so mote it be.”

The light flashed again, brighter still. It bloomed in his eyes, simmered in his blood. And through it, again, he saw three figures. One held out a hand to him, reaching. Reaching.

Then they were gone, and so was the light. The dark fell, lifted only by moonglow and the circle of candles. Breaking his link with the three, Connor rushed to Meara.

“Are you hurt? Anywhere?”

“No, not a bit.”

“You weren't to stop singing, you weren't to step out of the circle.”

“My throat got dry.” She smiled, her face smeared with soot, and threw her arms around him. “Did we end it? Did we end him?”

“Give me a moment.” Ash and blood littered the ground, tiny splotches of black still burned. “By the gods what's left of him should be here. Give me a moment.”

“He's not. I can feel him.” Fin swiped blood from his face. “I can feel him, I can smell him. I can find him. I can finish him.”

“You can't leave the clearing.” Branna grabbed his arm. “You can't or you may not get back.”

Face fierce, Fin wrenched his arm free. “What difference does it make if I end him, end this?”

“This isn't your place.”

“And it isn't your choice.”

“Nor can it be yours,” she said, and flung him back into the circle. “Connor.”

“Bloody hell.”

With considerable regret, he rushed Fin, pinned him, and got a fist in his face for the trouble before Boyle joined in.