Shadow Spell

5

AGOOD 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.
But amused or not, he watched the mists that swirled or crawled—and found nothing in them but moisture. For now.
On a damp evening when work was done, he sat on the cottage stoop with some good strong tea and watched Meara train Iona. Their swords clashed, sharp rings though Branna had charmed them to go limp as noodles should they meet flesh.
His cousin was coming along well, he judged, though he doubted she’d ever match the style and ferocity of Meara Quinn.
The woman might have been born with a sword in her hand the way she handled one. The way she looked with one—tall and curved like a goddess, all that thick brown hair braided down her back.
Her boots, as broken-in as his own, planted on the soggy ground, then danced over it as she drove Iona back, giving her student no quarter. And those dark eyes—a prize like the gold-dust skin of her gypsy heritage—sparkled fierce as she blocked an attack.
Sure he could watch her swing a sword all day. Though he did wince in sympathy as she drove his little cousin back, back, in an unrelenting attack.
Branna came out holding a thick mug of tea of her own, sat beside him.
“She’s improving.”
“Hmm? Oh, Iona, yes. I was thinking the same.”
Placidly, Branna sipped her tea. “Were you now?”
“I was. Stronger than she was when she came to us, and she wasn’t a weakling then. Stronger though, and surer of herself. Surer, too, of her gift. Some of it’s us, some of it’s Boyle and what love does for body and soul, but most of it was always inside her, just waiting to blossom.”
He patted Branna’s knee. “We’re lucky, we two.”
“I’ve thought so a time or two.”
“Lucky in who we came from. We always knew we were loved and valued. And what we have, what we are, was indeed a gift and not something to be buried or hidden away. The two of them striking swords in the rain? Not so lucky as we. Iona had and has her granny, and that’s a treasure. But beyond that, for them their family’s . . . well, f*cked, as Meara’s fond of saying.”
“We’re their family.”
“I know it, as they do. But it’s a wound that can’t fully heal, isn’t it, not to have the full love of those who made you. The indifference of Iona’s parents, the full mess of Meara’s.”
“Which is worse, do you think? That indifference, which is beyond my understanding, or the full mess? The way Meara’s da ran off, taking what money was left after he bollocksed all they had? Leaving a wife and five children alone, or just never giving a damn all along?”
“I think either would leave you flattened. And just look at them. So strong and full of courage.”
Iona stumbled back, slipped. Her ass hit the soggy grass. Meara leaned down, offered a hand, but Iona shook her head, set her teeth. And rolled over, sprang up. Moved in, sword swinging.
Now Connor grinned, slapped his sister’s leg.
“Though she be but little, she is fierce!”
“Because it’s true, I’ll forgive you for quoting the English bard when I’ve a pot of Guinness stew on the simmer.”
His mind went directly to food. “Guinness stew, is it?”
“It is, and a fine round of sourdough bread with the poppy seeds you’re fond of.”
His eyes lit, then narrowed. “And what will I be doing to deserve it?”
“On your next free day I need you to work with me.”
“I will of course.”
“The magicks we made for the solstice . . . I was so certain it would work. But I missed something, just as Sorcha missed something when she sacrificed herself and poisoned Cabhan all that time ago. Every one of us since has missed something. We need to find what’s missed.”
“And we will. But you can’t leave us out of it, Branna. You didn’t miss, the whole of us did. Fin—”
“I know I have to work with him. I have, and I will.”
“Does it help to know he suffers as you do?”
“A little.” She leaned her head on his shoulder a moment. “Small of me.”
“Human of you. A witch is as human as any, as Da always told us.”
“So he did.”
For a few moment they sat quiet, side by side, as swords rang.
“Cabhan’s healing, isn’t he?” She said it quietly, just to him. “Gathering himself for the next. I feel . . . something in the air.”
“I feel it, too.” Connor watched, as she did, the deep green shadows of the woods. “As his blood, Fin would feel more. Is there stew enough for the whole of us?”
She sighed in a way that told him she’d already thought of it herself. “I suppose there is. Ask them,” she said as she rose, “and I’ll make sure of it.”
He took her hand, kissed it. “As human as any, and braver than most. That’s my sister.”
“The thought of Guinness stew’s made you sentimental.” But she gave his hand a squeeze before she went inside.
It wasn’t the stew, though Christ knew it didn’t hurt a thing. But he worried about her more than she knew.
Then Iona feinted left, spun, struck from the right, and it was Meara who stumbled, slipped, and landed on the wet grass.
Iona immediately let out a whoop, began to jump in circles, sword raised high.
“Well done, cousin!” he called out over Meara’s strong, throaty laugh.
Iona made a flourishing bow, then on a squeak, straightened fast as the flat of Meara’s sword slapped her ass.
“Well done indeed,” Meara told her. “But I could’ve sliced open your belly while you were dancing about in victory. Finish me off next time.”
“Got it, but just one more.” She whooped again, jumped again. “That should do it. I’ll put the swords away, and go brag to Branna.”
“That’s fair enough.”
Iona took the swords, waved them both high, did another bow for Connor, then dashed inside.
“You trained her well,” Connor commented as he rose to walk over and offer Meara what was left of his tea.
“Cheers to me.”
“Did you let her knock you down?”
“I didn’t, no, though I’d considered doing just that to give her a boost. Didn’t prove necessary. She’s always been quick, but she’s learning to be sneaky as well.”
She rubbed her ass. “And now I’m wet where I wasn’t.”
“I can fix that.” He moved in a little closer, reached around her. His hands trailed lightly over the butt of her wet trousers.
Warmth seeped over, through, and his hands lingered. Something in her eyes, he thought, something in those dark, exotic eyes. He caught himself on the point of drawing her in when she stepped back.
“Thanks.” She polished off his tea. “And for that as well, though I could use a glass of that wine Branna’s so fond of.”
“Then come in and have one. I’m calling on the others to come. There’s Guinness stew and a fresh round of bread.”
“I should go on.” She shifted back, glanced toward her lorry. “I’m all but living here these days.”
“She needs her circle, Meara. It would be a favor to me if you’d stay.”
Now she looked over her shoulder, as if sensing something sneaking up behind her. “Is he coming already?”
“I can’t say, not absolutely. I’ll be hoping Fin can say more. So come inside and have some wine and stew, and we’ll be together.”
They came, as Connor knew they always would. So the kitchen filled with voices, the warmth of friends with Kathel stretched in front of the little hearth, and good, rich stew simmering on the stove.
As he’d get his Guinness in the stew, Connor opted for wine himself. Drinking it, he watched his besotted friend grin as Iona, once again, replayed her moment of victory.
Who would have thought Boyle McGraff would fall so hard, so fully? A man who said little, and in general paid more mind to his horses than the ladies. As loyal and true a friend as they came, and a brawler under the self-taught control.
And here was Boyle of the scarred knuckles and fast temper starry-eyed over the little witch who talked to horses.
“You’re looking sly and satisfied,” Meara commented.
“I’m enjoying seeing Boyle resemble an overgrown puppy when he looks at Iona.”
“They fit well, and they’ll make a good life together. Most don’t.”
“Ah now, not most.” It pinched his heart to hear her say it, know she felt it. “The world needs lovers who fit, or how would we go on? To be only one of one for a life? That’s a lonely life.”
“Being one of one means being able to go as you please, and not facing being one of two, then ending up the one of one when it all goes to hell.”
“You’re a cynical one, Meara.”
“And fine with it.” She shot him a look under arched brows. “You’re a romantic one, Connor.”
“And fine with it.”
She laughed, quick and easy, as she set the napkins she held on the table. “Branna says it’s serve yourself from the pot on the stove, so you’d best get in line.”
“That I will.”
He fetched wine for the table first to give himself a moment to open a bit, to test the air for any sense or sign before they sat and ate, and talked of magicks. Light and dark.
The stew was a bit of magick itself, but then Branna had a way.
“God, this is good!” Iona spooned up more. “I have to learn how to cook like this.”
“You’re doing well with the side dishes,” Branna told her. “And Boyle’s a steady cook. He can handle that, and you’ll do the sword fighting.”
“Maybe so. After all, I did knock Meara on her ass.”
“Will she never tire of saying it?” Meara wondered. “I see now I’ll have to knock her on her own a dozen times to dim her victory light.”
“Even that won’t.” Iona smiled, then sat back. “You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?”
“I didn’t, no, and I’m wishing I had so we could all pity you.”
“We’ll have a toast then.” Fin lifted his glass. “To you, deifiúr bheag, a warrior to be reckoned with. And to you, dubheasa,” he said to Meara, “who made her one.”
“That was smoothly done,” Branna murmured, and drank.
“Sometimes the truth is smooth. Sometimes it’s not.”
“Smooth or not, the truth’s what’s needed.”
“Then I’ll give you what I have, though it’s but little. You hurt him,” he said to Connor. “You and the boy, Eamon. But he heals. And you, the three, you feel that, as I do.”
“He gathers,” Connor said.
“He does. Gathers the dark and the black around him, and into him. I can’t say how, or we might find a way to stop it, and him.”
“The red stone. The source.”
Fin nodded at Iona. “Yes, but how did it come to him? How was it imbued, how can it be taken and destroyed? What price did he pay for it? Only he knows the answers, and I can’t get through to find them, or him.”
“Across the river. How far I can’t say,” Connor added, “but he’s not on our side of it, for now.”
“He’ll stay there until he’s full again. If we could take him on before he gains back what you and the boy took, we would finish him. I know it. But I’ve looked, and can’t find his lair.”
“Alone?” Fury fired Branna’s voice. “You went off looking for him on your own?”
“That slaps at the rest of us, Fin.” Boyle’s voice might have been quiet, but the anger simmered under it. “It’s not right.”
“I followed my blood, as none of you can.”
“We’re a circle.” It wasn’t anger in Iona’s voice, in her face, but a disappointment that carried a sharper sting. “We’re a family.”
For a moment Fin’s gratitude, regret, longing rose so strong Connor couldn’t block it all. He caught only the edge, and that was enough to make him speak.
“We’re both, and nothing changes it. Alone isn’t the way, and yet I thought of it myself. As have you,” he said to Boyle. “As have all of us at one time or another. Fin bears the mark, and did nothing to put it there. Which of us can say, with truth, if we were in his place, we wouldn’t have done the same?”
“I’d have done the same. Connor has the right of it,” Meara added. “We’d all have done the same.”
“Okay.” But Iona reached over to Fin. “Now don’t do it again.”
“I’d take you and your sword with me as protection, but there’s no purpose to it. He’s found a way to cover himself from me, and I’ve yet to find the way under it.”
“We’ll work longer and harder.” Branna picked up her wine again. “All of us needed time as well after the solstice, but we’ve not been hiding in the dark licking our wounds. We’ll work more, together and alone, and find whatever we’ve missed.”
“We should meet like this more than we have been.” With a glance around the table, Boyle spooned up more stew. “It doesn’t have to be here, though Branna’s far better at cooking than me. But we could meet at Fin’s as well.”
“I don’t mind the cooking,” Branna said quickly. “I enjoy it. And I’m here or over in the workshop most days, so it’s easy enough.”
“Easier if it was planned, and we could all give you a hand,” Iona decided, then glanced around as Boyle had. “So. When shall we six meet again?”
“Now it’s paraphrasing the English bard.” Branna rolled her eyes. “Every week. At least every week for now. More often if we feel we should. Connor’ll be working with me on his free days, as you should, Iona.”
“I will. Free days, evenings, whatever we need.”
There was a pause that went on just a beat too long for comfort.
“And you, Fin.” Branna broke the bread she’d barely touched in half, took a bite. “When you can.”
“I’ll keep my schedule loose as I can.”
“And all of that, all of us, will be enough,” Connor determined, and went back to his stew.