Shadow Spell (7 page)

And the beauty of it, that lift in the air, that spread of wings, nearly silent. Nearly. A soft gasp from the boy, still trying to cling to his boredom as both hawks perched on a branch, folded their wings, and stared down like golden gods.

“Will you trust me with your camera, Tom?”

“Oh, sure. I wanted to get some pictures of Taylor with the hawk. With . . . Roibeard?”

“And I will. You turn, back to them, look over your left shoulder there, Taylor.” Though Roibeard would answer without, Connor laid a bit of chicken on the glove.

“Gross.”

“Not to the bird.”

Connor angled himself. “Just lift your arm, as you did the first time. Hold it steady.”

“Whatever,” Taylor mumbled, but obeyed.

And the hawk, fierce grace in flight, swooped down, wings spread, eyes brilliant, and landed on the boy's arm.

Gobbled the chicken. Stood, stared into Taylor's eyes.

Knowing the moment well, Connor captured the stunned wonder, the sheer joy on the boy's face.

“Wow! Wow! Dad, Dad, did you see that?”

“Yeah. He won't . . .” Tom looked at Connor. “That beak.”

“Not to worry, I promise you. Just hold there a minute, Taylor.”

He took another shot, one he imagined would sit on some mantel or desk back in America, of the boy and the hawk staring into each other's eyes. “Now you, Tom.”

He repeated the process, snapped the picture, listened to his clients talk to each other in amazed tones.

“You've seen nothing yet,” Connor promised. “Let's move into the woods a bit. You'll all have a dance.”

It never got old for him, never became ordinary. The flight of the hawk, the soar and swoop through the trees always, always enchanted him. Today, the absolute thrill of the boy and his father added more.

The damp air, fat as a soaked sponge, the flickers of light filtering through the trees, the swirl of the oncoming autumn made it all a fine day, in Connor's opinion, to tromp around the wood following the hawks.

“Can I come back?” Taylor walked back to the gates of the school with Roibeard on his arm. “I mean, just to see them. They're really cool, especially Roibeard.”

“You can, sure. They'd be pleased with a bit of company.”

“We'll do it again before we leave,” his father promised.

“I'd rather do this than the horseback riding.”

“Oh, you'll enjoy that as well, I wager.” Connor led them inside at an unhurried pace. “It's pleasant to walk the woods on the back of a good horse—a different perspective of things. And they've fine guides at the stables.”

“Do you ride?” Tom asked him.

“I do, yes. Though not as often as I might like. The best, of course, is hawking on horseback.”

“Oh man! Can I do that?”

“That's not in the brochure, Taylor.”

“It's true,” Connor said as he gently transferred Roibeard to a perch. “It's not on the regular menu, so to speak. I'm just going to settle things up with your da if you want to go out, have another look at the hawks.”

“Yeah, okay.” He studied Roibeard another moment with eyes filled with love. “Thanks. Thanks, Connor. That was awesome.”

“You're more than welcome.” He transferred William as Taylor ran out. “I didn't want to say in front of the boy, but I might be able to arrange for him to have what we'd call a hawk ride. I'd need to check if Meara can lead your family—she's a hawker as well as one of the guides at the stables. And if you'd be interested.”

“I haven't seen Taylor this excited about anything but computer games and music for months. If you can make it happen, that would be great.”

“I'll see what I can do, if you give me a minute or two.”

He leaned a hip on the desk when Tom stepped out, took out his phone. “Ah, Meara, my darling, I've a special request.”

* * *

A FINE THING IT WAS TO GIVE SOMEONE THE LINGERING
glow of memories. Connor did his best to do the same with his final client of the day—but nothing would quite reach the heights of Taylor and his da from America.

Between his bookings, he took the Peregrines—Apollo included—out beyond the woods, into the open for exercise and hunting. There he could watch the stoop with a kind of wonder that never left him. There he could feel the thrill of that diving speed inside himself.

As he was a social creature like the Harris's, he enjoyed doing the hawk walks, but those solo times—only himself and the birds and the air—made up his favorite part of any day.

Apollo took a crow in midstoop—a perfect strike. They could be fed, Connor thought as he sat on a low stone wall with a bag of crisps and an apple. They could be trained and tended. But they were of the wild, and the wild they needed for their spirit.

So he sat, content to wait, to watch, while the birds soared, dived, hunted, and prized the peace of a damp afternoon.

No fog or shadows here, he thought. Not yet. Not ever as he and his circle would find the way to preserve the light.

And where are you now, Cabhan. Not here, not now, he thought as he scanned the hills, rolling back and away lush and green. Nothing here now but the promise of rain that would come and go and come again.

He watched Apollo soar again, for the joy of it now, felt his own heart lift. And knew for that moment alone he would face the dark and beat it back.

Rising, he called the birds back to him, one by one.

Once all the work was done, he made a final round with the birds and checked on all that needed checking on, then shoved his own glove in his back pocket and locked the gate.

Then he wandered, at an easy stroll, toward the stables.

He sensed Roibeard first, pulled out the glove and put it on. Even as he lifted his arm, he sensed Meara.

The hawk circled once, for the pleasure of it, then swooped down to land on Connor's gloved arm.

“Did you have an adventure then? Sure you gave the boy a day he'll not be forgetting.” He waited where he was until Meara rounded the bend.

Long, sure strides—a man had to admire a woman with long legs that moved with such steady confidence. He sent her a grin.

“And there she is. How'd the boy do?”

“He's mad in love with Roibeard, and expressed great affection for Spud, who gave him a good, steady ride. I had to stop once and give the sister a go at it or there'd have been a brutal sibling battle. She enjoyed it quite a lot, but not like the boy. And we won't be charging them for the few minutes of her go.”

“We won't, no.” He took her hand, swung it as they walked, kissed her knuckles lightly before letting it go. “Thanks.”

“You'll thank me for more, as the mister gave me a hundred extra.”

“A hundred? Extra?”

“That he did, as he judged me the honest sort and asked if I'd give half to you. Naturally, I told him it wasn't necessary, but he insisted. And naturally, I didn't want to be rude and refuse again.”

“Naturally,” Connor said with a grin, then wiggled his fingers at her.

She pulled euros from her pocket, counted them out.

“Well now, what should we do with this unexpected windfall? What do you say to a pint?”

“I say on occasion you have a fine idea. Should we round up the rest of us?” she wondered.

“We could. You text Branna, and I'll text Boyle. We'll see if we have any takers. It'd do Branna good to get out for an evening.”

“I know it. Why don't you text her?”

“It's easier to say no to a brother than a friend.” He met Roibeard's eyes, walked in silence a moment. And the hawk lifted off, rose up, winged away.

As Connor did, she watched the hawk for the pleasure of it. “Where's he going then?”

“Home. I want him close, so he'll fly home and stay tonight.”

“I envy that,” Meara said as she took out her phone. “The way you talk to the hawks, Iona to the horses, Branna to the hounds—and Fin to all three when he wants to. If I had any magic, I think that would be what I'd want.”

“You have it. I've seen you with the horses, the hawks, the hounds.”

“That's training, and an affinity. But it's not what you have.” She sent the text, tucked the phone away. “But I'd just want it with the animals. I'd go mad if I could read people, hear their thoughts and feelings as you can. I'd forever be fighting to listen, then likely be pissed at what I'd heard.”

“It's best to resist the eavesdropping.”

She gave him an elbow poke and a knowing look out of dark chocolate eyes. “I know good and well you've had a listen when you're wondering if a girl might be willing if you bought her a pint and walked her home.”

“That may have been the case before I reached my maturity.”

She laughed her wonderful laugh. “You've not hooked fingers around your maturity as yet.”

“I'm within centimeters now. Ah, and here's Boyle answering already. Iona's at the cottage practicing with Branna. He'll drag Fin with him shortly—and see if Iona will do the same with Branna.”

“I like when it's all of us together. It's family.”

He heard the wistfulness, swung an arm over her shoulders. “It's family,” he agreed, “right and true.”

“Do you miss your parents since they've settled down in Kerry?”

“I do sometimes, yes, but they're so bleeding happy there on the lake, running their B and B, and with Ma's sisters all chirping about. And they're mad about the FaceTime. Who'd've thought it? So we see them, and know what's what.”

He gave her shoulder a rub as they walked the winding road to Cong. “And truth be told, I'm glad enough they're tucked away south for now.”

“And here I'd be more than glad to have my mother tucked away most anywhere, and not for unselfish reasons such as your own.”

“You'll get through it. It's but another phase.”

“Another phase that's lasted near fifteen years. But you're right.” She wiggled her shoulders as if shaking off a small weight. “You're right. I put a bug in her ear today about how she might enjoy a long visit with my sister and the grandchildren. And that's shoving the same bug straight up Maureen's arse, which she well deserves. If that doesn't stick, I'm planning to bounce her from brother to sister to brother in hopes she lands somewhere that contents her.

“I'm not giving up my flat.”

“You'd go stark raving if you moved back in with your ma, and what good would that do either of you? Donal's done well by her, no question of it, but so have you. You give her your time, your ear, help with her marketing. You pay her rent.”

He only lifted his eyebrows when she jerked away, narrowed her eyes.

“Be sane, Meara. Fin's her landlord, how would I not know? I'm saying you're a good daughter, and have nothing to feel selfish over.”

“Wishing her elsewhere seems selfish, but I can't stop wishing it. And Fin doesn't charge half what that little cottage is worth.”

“It's family,” he said, and she sighed.

“How many times can you be right on one walk to the pub?” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her work jacket. “And that's enough bitching and carping from me for the same amount of time. I'm spoiling my own good day at work, and the extra fifty in my pocket.”

They passed the old abbey where tourists still wandered, snapping photos. “People always tell you things. Why is that?”

“Maybe I like hearing things.”

She shook her head. “No, it's because you listen, whether you want to hear it or not. I too often just tune it all out.”

He stuck his hand in her pocket to give hers a squeeze. “Together we probably come average on the graph of human nature.”

No, she thought. No, indeed. Connor O'Dwyer would never be average on any graph.

Then she let the worries and wondering go, walked with him into the warmth and clatter of the pub.

It was Connor who was greeted first by those who knew them—which was most. A cheery call, a flirtatious smile, a quick salute. He was the sort always welcome, and always at home where his feet were planted.

Good, easy qualities, she supposed, and something else she envied.

“You get us a table,” he told her, “and I'll stand the first round.”

She skirted through, found one big enough for six. Settling in, she took out her phone—Connor would be a bit of time due to conversing, she knew.

She texted Branna first.

Stop fussing with your hair. We're already here.

Then she checked her schedule for the next day. A lesson in the ring in the morning, three guideds—not to mention the daily mucking, feeding, grooming, and nagging of Boyle to make certain he'd seen to the paperwork. Then there was the marketing she'd neglected—for herself and her mother. Laundry she'd put off.

She could do a bit of the wash tonight if she didn't loiter overlong in the pub.

She checked her calendar, saw her reminder for her older brother's birthday, and added finding a gift to her schedule.

And Iona was due for another lesson in swordplay. She was coming along well, Meara thought, but now that Cabhan had put in an appearance, they'd be wise to get back to regular practice.

“Put that away now and stop working.” Connor set their pints on the table. “Workday's done.”

“I was checking on tomorrow's workday.”

“That's your burden, Meara darling, always looking forward to the next task.”

“And you, always looking to the next recreation.”

He lifted his glass, smiled. “Life's a recreation if you live it right.” He nodded as he spotted Boyle and Iona. “Family's coming.”

Meara glanced around. And put away her phone.

5

A
GOOD DAY'S WORK, A PINT, AND FRIENDS TO DRINK IT
with. In Connor's estimation, there was little more to wish for. Unless it was a hot meal and a willing woman.

Though he knew the pretty blonde—name of Alice—tossing him the occasional glance would be willing enough, he contented himself with the pint and the friends.

“I'm thinking,” he said, “now that Fin's joined us, you might consider combining the hawk and horse as Meara and I did today for the Yanks as a regular option.”

Boyle frowned over it. “We'd need an experienced falconer as the guide, and that limits us to Meara.”

“I could do it,” Iona protested.

“You've only hawked a few times,” Boyle pointed out. “And never on your own.”

“I loved it. And you said I was a natural,” she reminded Connor.

“You have a fine way with it, but you'd want to have a few goes on horseback. Even on a bike, as we do when we're giving the hawks some exercise in the winter.”

“I'll practice.”

“You need to be practicing more with a blade in your hand,” Meara told her.

“You always kick my ass.”

“I do.” Meara smiled into her pint. “I do indeed.”

“Our girl here's a quick study,” Fin commented. “And it's an interesting idea.”

“If we toyed with it . . .” Boyle sipped at his pint and considered. “The customers who booked the package would need some riding experience. The last thing we'd want is a rank novice going into a panic when a hawk lands on their arm and spooking the horse.”

“Agreed there.”

“The horses won't spook if I tell them not to.” Iona angled her head, smiled. “Here's Branna.”

She'd fussed with her hair, of course, and wore a red scarf over a jacket of strong, deep blue. The flat boots meant she'd walked from her cottage.

She ran a hand over Meara's shoulder, then dropped into the chair beside her. “What's the occasion?”

“Meara and I split a fine tip from an American today.”

“Good. So you'll buy your sister a pint, won't you? I could do with a Harp.”

“It's my round.” Meara rose.

“She's been brooding about her mother,” Connor said when she was out of earshot. “She could use a festive sort of evening. We'll have a meal, all right, and keep her mood up. I could do with some fish and chips.”

“Whose stomach are you thinking of?” Branna asked.

“My stomach, her mood.” He raised his glass. “And good company.”

* * *

IT WAS GOOD COMPANY. SHE'D INTENDED TO HAVE ONE PINT,
linger a bit, then go home, start the wash, throw together whatever was left in the larder for a quick dinner. Now she'd started on a second pint, and a chicken pie.

She'd leave her truck where it was at Branna's, walk home from the pub. Toss some wash in, make a market list—for herself and for her mother. Early to bed, and if she made the rise early enough, she could toss more wash in and be done with it.

Marketing on her lunch break. Go by her mother's after work—God help her—do her duty. Plant a few more seeds about going off to Maureen's.

Connor poked her in the ribs. “You're thinking too much. Try being in the moment. It'll amaze you.”

“A chicken pie in the pub is amazing?”

“It's good, isn't it?”

She took another bite. “It's good. And what are you going to do about Alice?”

“Hmm?”

“Alice Keenan, who's signaling her churning lust across the pub like one of those flag people.” She waved her arms to demonstrate.

“A pretty face, for certain. But not for me.”

Meara put on a look of amazement, sent it around the table. “Are you hearing that? Connor O'Dwyer saying a pretty face isn't for him.”

“Wants a ring on her finger, does she then?” Fin asked, amused.

“That she does, and as that's more than I can give, she's not for me to play with. But it is a pretty face.”

He leaned toward Meara. “Now, if you were to snuggle up here, give me a kiss, she'd think, ah, well, he's taken, and stop pining for me.”

“She'll have to pine, as other foolish women do.” She scooped up more chicken. “My mouth's occupied at the moment.”

“You put it on mine once.”

“Really?” Iona pushed her plate aside, leaned in. “Tell all.”

“I was but twelve.”

“Just shy of thirteen.”

“Just shy of thirteen is twelve.” She feigned stabbing him with her fork. “And I was curious.”

“It was nice.”

“How could I tell?” Meara countered. “It was my first kiss.”

“Aw.” Iona drew in a sighing breath. “You never forget your first.”

“It wasn't his.”

Connor laughed, gave Meara's braid a tug. “It wasn't, no, but I haven't forgotten it, have I?”

“I was eleven. Precocious,” Iona claimed. “His name was Jessie Lattimer. It was sweet. I decided we'd get married one day, live on a farm, and I'd ride horses all day.”

“And what happened to this Jessie Lattimer?” Boyle wanted to know.

“He kissed someone else, broke my heart. Then his family moved to Tucson, or Toledo. Something with a
T
. Now I'm going to marry an Irishman.” She angled over, kissed Boyle. “And ride horses all day.”

Her eyes sparkled when Boyle linked his fingers with hers.

“Who was your first, Branna?”

The minute the words were out, the sparkle changed to regret. She knew. Of course she knew even before Branna flicked a glance at Fin.

“I was twelve as well. I couldn't let my best friend get ahead of me, could I? And like Connor for Meara, Fin was handy.”

“That he was,” Connor agreed cheerfully, “for he made sure he was where you were every possible waking minute.”

“Not every, because it wasn't his first kiss.”

“I practiced a bit.” Fin tipped back in his chair with his pint. “As I wanted your first to be memorable. In the shadows of the woods,” he murmured, “on a soft summer day. With the air smelling of the rain and the river. And of you.”

She didn't look at him now, nor he at her. “Then the lightning struck, a bolt from the sky straight into the ground.” She remembered. Oh, she remembered. “The air shook with it, and the thunder that followed. We should have known.”

“We were children.”

“Not for long.”

“I've made you sad,” Iona said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

“Not sad.” Branna shook her head. “A bit nostalgic, for innocence that melts faster than a snowflake in a sunbeam. We can't be innocent now, can we, with what's come. And what will come again. So . . . let's have some whiskey in our tea and take the moment—as my brother's fond of saying. We'll have some music, what do you say to that, Meara? A song or two tonight, for only the gods know what tomorrow brings.”

“I'll fetch the pub fiddle.” Connor rose, brushed a hand over his sister's hair as he left the table. And, saying nothing, gave her the comfort she needed.

Meara stayed longer than she'd intended, well past a reasonable time to think of doing wash or making market lists. Though she tried to brush him off, Connor insisted on walking her home.

“It's silly, you know. It's not a five-minute walk.”

“Then it's not taking much of my time. It was good of you to stay because Branna needed it.”

“She'd do the same for me. And it lifted my mood as well, though it didn't get the wash done.”

They walked the quiet street, climbing the slope. The pubs would still be lively, but the shops were long snugged closed, and not a single car drove past.

The wind had come up, stirring the air. She caught the scent of heliotrope from a window box, and saw needle pricks of stars through the wisps of clouds.

“Did you ever think of going somewhere else?” she wondered. “Living somewhere else? If you didn't have to do what needs doing here?”

“I haven't, no. It's here for me. It's what I want and where. Have you?”

“No. I have friends who went off to Dublin, or Galway City, Cork City, even America. I'd think I could do that as well. Send money to my mother and go off somewhere, an adventure. But I never wanted it as much as I wanted to stay.”

“Fighting a centuries-old sorcerer powered by evil would be an adventure for most.”

“But it's no Grafton Street, is it now?” She laughed with him, turned the corner toward her flat. “Some part of me never thought it would happen. The sort of thing that happened in that clearing on the solstice. Then it did, all so fierce and fast and terrible, and there was no thinking at all.”

“You were magnificent.”

She laughed again, shook her head. “I can't quite remember what I did. Light and fire and wind. Your hair flying. All the light. Around you, in you. I'd never seen you like that. With your magick like the sun, all but blinding.”

“It was all of us. We wouldn't have beaten him back without all of us.”

“I know that. I felt that.” For a moment, she just looked out at the night, at the village that had been hers all of her life. “And still he lives.”

“He won't win.” He walked her up the open stairs to her door.

“You can't know, Connor.”

“I have to believe it. If we let the dark win, what are we? What's the purpose of it all if we let the dark win? So we won't.”

She stood for a moment beside a basket from which purple and red petunias spilled. “I wish you'd let Fin drive you home.”

“I have to walk off the fish and chips—and the pints.”

“You have a care, Connor. We can't win without you. And besides all that, I'm used to you.”

“Then I'll have a care.” He reached up, seemed to hesitate, then gave her braid a familiar tug. “You have one as well. Good night to you, Meara.”

“Good night.”

He waited until she went in, until the door closed and locked.

He'd nearly kissed her, he realized, and wasn't entirely sure the kiss would've been . . . brotherly. Should've skipped the whiskey in his tea, he decided, if it so clouded his judgment.

She was his friend, as good a friend as he had. He'd do nothing to risk tipping the balance of that.

But now he felt edgy and unsatisfied. Perhaps he should've given Alice a whirl after all.

With so much happening, so much at stake, he couldn't be easy leaving Branna alone at night—even if Iona stayed at the cottage. And he couldn't quite feel easy bringing a woman home with him, especially given the circumstances.

All in all, he thought as he left the village behind and took that winding road on foot, it was inconvenient. And just one more reason to send Cabhan screaming into hell.

He liked women. Liked conversing with them, flirting with them. He liked a dance, a walk, a laugh. And, Jesus, he liked bedding them.

The soft and the heat, the scents and the sighs.

But such pleasures were on an inconvenient pause.

For how much longer, he wondered, as Cabhan had struck out again.

Even as he thought it Connor stopped. Stood still and quiet—body and mind—on the dark road he knew as well as the lines on his own hand. And he listened, with all of himself.

He's there, he's there. Not far, not far enough—not close enough to find, but not far enough for true safety.

He touched the amulet under his sweater, felt its shape, felt its warmth. Then he spread his arms wide, opened more.

The air whispered around him, a quiet song that danced through his hair, kissed along his skin as power rose. As his vision spread.

He could see trees, brush, hear the whisper of air through them, the beating hearts of the night creatures stirring, the faster pulses of the prey hunted. He caught the scent, the sound of water.

And a kind of smear over it—a shadow clinging to shadows. Buried in them so he couldn't separate the shapes or substance.

The river. Beyond the river, aye. Though crossing it causes pain. Water, crossing water unsettles you. I can feel you, just feel you like cold mud oozing. One day I'll find your lair. One day.

The jolt burned, just a little. Hardly more than a quick zap of static electricity. Connor drew himself in again, pulled the magick back. And smiled.

“You're weak yet. Oh, we hurt you, the boy and me. We'll do worse, you bastard, I swear on my blood, we'll do worse before we're done.”

Not quite as edgy now, not quite as dissatisfied, he whistled his way home.

* * *

THE RAIN CAME AND LINGERED FOR A LONG, SOAKING VISIT.
Guests of Ashford Castle—the bulk of their clientele—still wanted their hawk walks.

Connor didn't mind the rain, and marveled, as he always did, at the gear travelers piled on. It amused him to see them tromp along in colorful wellies, various slick raincoats, bundling scarves and hats and gloves, all for a bit of cool September rain.