Shadow Spell: Book Two of the Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy (17 page)

“Oh God.” Iona spoiled the attempt to sound concerned by choking off a laugh.

“Oh sure it’s an amusement to you.”

“Only a little, because I know it’s all right, and you wouldn’t have put her on Caesar if she couldn’t ride.”

“For all her hysterics, she rode like a bloody conquistador, and I have a suspicion she angled for the gallop all along. Fortunately, I was on your Alastar, and caught up with her easy. Grinning wide she was, though she tried to turn that around when I got hold of Caesar’s bridle and pulled him up. And I swear to you—”

Now she pointed, face livid. “I swear to you the two horses had a hearty laugh over it all.” She chugged down beer. “And after that one I had five teens. Five girl teens. And that I can’t talk about at all or I might have Spanish hysterics myself. And you.” She pointed again, an accusing jab at Iona. “You’ve a free day to play about in the gardens as you’re sleeping with the boss.”

“I’m such a slut.”

“Well, there you are.” Meara drank again. “And that’s why I won’t be doing any kitchen work or garden work, and if there’s spells or enchantments to be done, I’ll require another beer at the very least.”

Branna glanced over toward the jars at a trio of tiny pops—a sign the lids had sealed. “That’s a good sound. There’s no work at all. We’re having the day off.”

This time Meara drank slowly. “Has she fallen under a spell herself?” she asked Iona. “Or has she been into the whiskey?”

“Neither, but there should be whiskey later. We’re having a
céili
.”

“A
céili
?”

“I’ve the first of my harvesting done, and the jarring as well. We’ve had a summer day in October.” Branna dried off her hands, laid the cloth out. “So have your singing voice ready, Meara, and put on your dancing shoes. I’m in the mood for a party.”

“Are you sure this isn’t a spell?”

“We’ve worked and worried, planned and plotted. It’s time we took a night. We’ll hope he hears our music, and it burns his ears.”

“I won’t argue with that.” More contemplatively now, Meara took another sip of beer. “I hate to risk spoiling this rare mood of yours, but I should tell you I saw him twice today—the shadow. First of the man, and next the wolf. Just watching, no more than that. But sure it’s enough to play on the nerves.”

“He does it for that, so we’ll show him he can’t stop us from living. And speaking of just that, I’ll need you both upstairs.”

“You’re full of surprises and mystery,” Meara decided. “Do the others know you’re after having a party?” she asked as they started upstairs.

“Connor will let them know.”

Branna led them into her bedroom, where, unlike Connor’s, everything was perfectly in place.

She had the largest space—built to her specifications when she and Connor expanded the cottage. She’d painted the walls a deep forest green, and with the dark, tree-bark trim, she often thought it was like sleeping in the deep woods. She’d chosen the art carefully, following fancy with paintings of mermaids and faeries, dragons and elves.

She’d indulged herself with the bed, with a Celtic trinity knot carved into its high head– and footboard. A garden of pillows mounded on its thick white duvet. A chest, built and painted by her great-grandfather sat at its foot and held the most precious of the tools of her craft.

She fetched a long hook from her closet and, fitting it into the little slot in the ceiling, drew down the attic door and steps.

“I need to get something. I’ll only be a minute.”

“It always feels so peaceful in here.” Iona walked to the windows that looked out over fields and woods to the roll of green hills beyond.

“They do good work between them, Branna and Connor. I envy her en suite bath with that big tub and the hectare of counter. Of course if I had that much counter in my bath, I’d clutter it up. And hers has . . .”

Meara went to the door, peeked in. “A pretty vase of calla lilies, fancy soaps in a dish, three fat white candles on gorgeous silver holders. I’d say it was witchcraft, but she’s just brutal about tidiness.”

“I wish some of it would rub off on me,” Iona said as Branna came down the steps with a big white box. “Oh, let me help you.”

“I’ve got it, ’tisn’t heavy.” She laid the white box on the white duvet. “So when we talked about weddings, and dresses and flowers and all of that, I had this thought.”

After opening the box, she folded back layers and layers of tissue paper, then lifted out a long white dress.

Iona’s gasp was exactly the reaction she’d hoped for.

“Oh, it’s beautiful. Just gorgeous.”

“It is, yes. My great-grandmother wore it on her wedding day, and I thought it might suit for yours.”

Eyes wide, Iona took a quick step back. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t, Branna, it should be for you, for yours. It was your great-grandmother’s.”

“And she’s your blood as well as mine. It wouldn’t suit me, though it’s lovely. The style’s not for me. And she was petite, as you are.”

Head cocked, Branna held the dress in front of Iona. “I’ll ask you to try it on—indulge me in that. If it doesn’t suit, if it isn’t what pleases you, no harm done.”

“Try it on then, Iona. You’re frothing to.”

“Okay, okay! Oh, this is fun.” She began to strip, all but dancing as she did. “I never thought I’d be trying on a wedding dress today.”

“You’ve the unders for a honeymoon.” Meara raised her brows at Iona’s lacy pale blue bra and matching panties.

“I’ve bought an entire new supply. It’s proven to be an excellent investment.” She laughed as Branna helped her step into the dress.

“Button up the back, will you, Meara?” Branna said as Iona carefully slid her arms in the thin lace sleeves.

“There are a million of them, and so tiny, and pretty like pearls.”

“She was Siobhan O’Ryan, who married Colm O’Dwyer, and was an aunt to your own grandmother, Iona, if I’ve got it all straight. The length’s good as you’ll be wearing heels, I imagine.” Branna fluffed the tiers of lace-edged tulle.

“It might’ve been made for you the way it fits.” Meara continued to fasten buttons.

“Oh, it’s so beautiful.” Smiling at herself in Branna’s long mirror, Iona brushed fingertips over the lace bodice, down the tiered column of skirt.

“There! That’s the lot,’ Meara said as she did up the last buttons at the base of Iona’s neck. “You look a picture, Iona.”

“I do. I really do.”

“The skirt’s perfect, I think.” Nodding, Branna walked around Iona as her cousin swayed this way and that to make the skirt sweep. “Soft, romantic, just enough fuss but not too much. But I’m thinking the bodice could use some altering. It’s far too old-fashioned and far too modest. Vintage is one thing, covering you to the chin’s another.”

“Oh, but we can’t change it. You’ve kept it all these years.”

“What can be changed can be changed back again. Turn around here once.” She turned Iona herself, putting her back to the mirror. “These should go.” Branna swept her hands down the sleeves, vanishing them, glanced at Meara.

“Altogether better already. And the back here? Don’t you think . . .”

Branna pursed her lips as Meara traced a low vee, then with a nod, traced it herself to open the back to just above the waist. “Yes, she’s a lovely strong back and should show it off. Now the bodice.”

Head angling this way, that way, Branna walked a circle around Iona. “Perhaps this . . .” She changed the bodice to a straight line just above the breasts with thin straps.

Meara folded her arms. “I like it!”

“Mmm, but it’s not quite right.” Thinking, imagining, Branna tried an off-the-shoulder style, with a hint of cap sleeves. Stepped back to study with Meara.

They both shook their heads.

“Can I just—”

“No!” And both of them snapped out the denial as Iona started to peek over her shoulder.

“The first you did was better by far.”

“It was, but . . .” Branna closed her eyes a moment until the image formed. Then opening them, she waved her hands slowly over the bodice.

“That!” Meara laid a hand on Branna’s shoulder. “Don’t touch it. Let her look now.”

“All right. If you don’t like it, you’ve only to say. Turn around, have a look.”

And the look said it all. Not just a contented smile now, but a stunned gasp followed by a luminous glow.

Bride-white lace formed a strapless bodice with the curve of a sweetheart neckline. From the nipped waist, the lace-edged tulle fell in soft, romantic tiers.

“She likes it,” Meara said with a laugh.

“No, no, no. I love it more than I can say. Oh, Branna.” Tears glimmered now as she met her cousin’s eyes in the glass.

“The back was my notion,” Meara reminded her, and had Iona angling to look. “Oh! Oh, Meara. It’s fabulous. It’s wonderful. It’s the most beautiful dress in the world.”

She spun around in it, laughed through the tears. “I’m a bride.”

“Almost. Let’s play a bit more.”

“Oh please.” As if to protect, Iona crossed her arms over the bodice. “Branna, I love it exactly as it is.”

“Not with the dress, for it couldn’t be more perfect for you. No veil you said, and I agree. What about something like this?”

She ran a finger over Iona’s cap of sunny hair so Iona wore a rainbow of tiny rosebuds on a sparkling band. “That suits the dress, and you, I think—and something for your ears. Your Nan might have just the thing, but for now . . .” She added tiny diamond stars.

“That works well.”

A dress, Branna thought, suited to the shower of sunlight and the glimmer of the moon. Suited for a day of love and promises, and a night of rejoicing.

“I don’t have the words to thank you for this. It’s not just the dress—how it looks, which is beyond anything I hoped for. But that it’s from family.”

“You’re mine,” Branna told her, “as is Boyle.” She slid an arm around Meara’s waist. “Ours.”

“We’re a circle as well, we three.” Meara took Iona’s hand. “It’s important to know that, and value that. Beyond all the rest, we’re a circle as well.”

“And that’s beyond anything I once hoped for. On the day I marry Boyle, my happiest day, you’ll both stand with me. We’ll stand, we three, the three and all six. Nothing can ever break that.”

“Nothing can or will,” Branna agreed.

“And now I see why you decided to celebrate. Spanish hysterics be damned,” Meara announced. “I’m in the mood to sing and put my dancing shoes on.”

15

T
HE KITCHEN SMELLED OF COOKING, AND THE PEAT FIRE
in the hearth. It glowed with light, shoving the bright, celebrational glow against the dark that pressed against the windows. The dog stretched by the fire, big head on big paws, watching his family with an amused eye.

There was music, full of pipes and strings, rollicking out of the little kitchen iPod while they put the finishing touches on the meal. Voices mixed and mingled, song and conversation as Connor swung Iona around in a quick dance.

“I’m still so clumsy!”

“You’re not at all,” he told her. “You’re only needing more practice.” He twirled her once, and twice on her laugh, then passed her smoothly to Boyle. “Give her a spin, man. I’ve primed her for you.”

“And I’ll break her toes when I trod on her feet.”

“You’re light enough on them when you’ve a mind to it.”

Boyle only smiled and lifted his beer. “I haven’t had enough pints for that.”

“We’ll tend to that as well.” Connor grabbed Meara’s hand, sent her a wink, then executed a quick complicated step, boots clacking, clicking on the glossy wood floor.

And Meara angled her head—a silent acceptance of the challenge. Mirrored it. Two beats later they clicked, stomped, kicked in perfect unison to the music, and, Iona thought, to some energetic choreography in their minds.

She watched them face each other, torsos straight and still while their legs and feet seemed to fly.

“It’s like they were born dancing.”

“I can’t say about the Quinns,” Fin commented, “but the O’Dwyers have always been musical. Hands, feet, voices. The best
céilies
hereabouts have forever been hosted by the O’Dwyers.”

“Magickal,” she said with a smile.

His gaze slid toward Branna, lingered a moment. “In all ways.”

“And what about the Burkes? Do they dance?”

“We’ve been known to. Myself, I do better at it with my hands on a woman. And since Boyle’s not making the move, I’m obliged to.”

He surprised Iona by pulling her to him, circling her fast, then dropping into steps that took the dance into a half time. After a moment’s fumbling, she caught on, matched him well enough, with his arms guiding her.

“I’d say the Burkes hold their own.”

When he twirled her around, she levitated herself a few inches off the floor and made him laugh.

“As does the American cousin. I’m looking forward to dancing with you at your wedding. It may be I’ll have to be standing in for the groom on that, while he stands on the sidelines.”

“Now I see I’ve no choice in the matter, or find myself shown up by Finbar Burke.”

Boyle snatched Iona away, solved the issue of his less talented feet by lifting her off hers and turning circles.

And Branna found herself facing Fin.

Connor saw the moment, squeezed Meara’s hand in his.

“Will you?” Fin asked.

“I’m about to put dinner on the table.”

He said, “Once,” and took her hand.

They had a way, Connor thought, a smooth way of flowing along with the music, in time, in step, as if they’d been made to move together.

His soft heart ached for them, both of them, for it was love ashimmer in their steps. Around the kitchen, they turned, flowed, turned, eyes for each other only, easy and happy as they’d once been.

Beside him, Meara stopped as he had, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

For one lovely moment, all was right in the world. All was as it had been once, how it might be yet again.

Then Branna stopped, and though she smiled, the lovely moment shattered.

“Well now, I hope you’ve all worked up an appetite.”

Fin murmured something to her, in Irish, but too soft and low for Connor to understand. Her smile fell toward sorrow as she turned away.

“We’ll have more music after our meal, and there’s wine aplenty.” Movements brisk, Branna turned the music down. “Tonight’s not for work or worries. We’ve food fresh from the garden tonight, and our own Iona made the soup.”

That pronouncement brought on a long, hushed silence that hung until Iona rolled out a laugh. “Come on! I’m not that bad a cook.”

“Of course you’re not,” Boyle said with the air of a man facing a hard, unhappy task. He went to the stove, spooned up a taste straight from the pot. Sampled, lifted his eyebrows, sampled again. “It’s good. It’s very good indeed.”

“I don’t know if a man in love’s to be trusted,” Connor considered. “But we’ll eat.”

They ate a bounty from the garden, kept the conversation light and away from all things dark. Wine flowed freely.

“And how’s your mother faring in Galway?” Fin asked Meara.

“I’m not ready to say she’s there to stay, but closer to it. I had a talk with my sister, who’s that surprised it’s a happy arrangement—for now in any case. My mother’s working in the garden, and keeping it in trim. And she’s struck up a bit of a friendship with a neighbor who’s a keen gardener herself. If you could hold the cottage a bit longer—”

“As long as you need,” Fin interrupted. “I’ve a mind to do a few updates there. When you’ve time enough, Connor, we could talk about a bit of work on the place.”

“I’ve always time enough for that. I’ve missed the challenge and fun of building and fixing since we finished off the cottage. Did you truly do the soup, Iona, for it’s more than good.” So saying, he took another ladle from the tureen.

“Branna watched me like Roibeard, and took me through it step by step.”

“I’m hoping you’ll be remembering the steps, as I’ll be asking you to make it at home.”

Pleased, Iona grinned at Boyle. “We’ll have to plant tomatoes. I’m pretty good with a garden. We could try some next year—in patio pots.”

“Sure maybe we’ll find something with a bit of land by then, and you can have a proper garden.”

“It may be you’ll be too busy with weddings and honeymoons next spring to plant tomatoes,” Meara pointed out.

“And we’ve more than enough here to share,” Branna added. “You haven’t found a place that suits you more than where you are?”

“Not yet, and no hurry on it,” Boyle said, glancing at Iona.

“None,” she confirmed. “We like being close to all of you, and to the stables. In fact, we’re both set on staying close, so until we find something that hits all the notes, we like just where we are.”

“Building your own tends to hit those notes, as I’ve reason to know.” Fin poured more wine, all around.

“You wrote a bloody opera when you built your house,” Boyle commented.

“Sure what fun it was to have a hand in that,” Connor remembered. “Though Fin was as fussy as your aunt Mary about everything from a run of tile to cabinet pulls.

“That’s what makes it a satisfying endeavor, if you’re in no particular hurry. There’s land behind my own place,” Fin continued, “where a house could be tucked nicely in the trees if someone liked the notion of that. And I’d be willing to sell a parcel to good neighbors.”

“Are you serious?” Iona’s spoon clattered against her bowl.

“About good neighbors, yes. I’ve no wish to be saddled with poor ones, even with plenty of space between.”

“A cottage in the woods.” Eyes shining, Iona turned to Boyle. “We could be excellent neighbors. We could be
amazing
neighbors.”

“When you bought all that, you said it was to keep people from planting houses around you.”

“People are one thing,” Fin said to Boyle. “Friends and family—and partners—there’s another thing entirely. We can take a look around some time or another if you’ve any interest.”

“I guess now’s too soon,” Iona said with a laugh. “But then I don’t have a single idea how to design or build a house.”

“Sure you’re lucky you have a couple of cousins who do,” Connor pointed out. “And I know some good workmen here and about if you decide to go that way. Which would suit me down to the ground,” he added, “if I’ve a vote in it. I can go hawking back there as I do, and have the benefit of stopping in for a bowl of soup.”

“He thinks with his stomach,” Meara commented. “But he’s right enough. It would be a lovely spot for a cottage, and just where you want it to be. It’s a fine notion, Fin.”

“A fine notion, but he’s yet to talk price.”

Fin smiled at Boyle, lifted his glass. “We’ll get to that—after your bride’s had a look.”

“A canny businessman he’s always been,” Branna said. “She’ll fall in love and pay any price.” But she said it with humor, not sting. “And it is a fine notion. More, it’s saved me a quandary, for the field behind here is for Connor. But with Iona being family, I’ve been torn about it—even though . . . I’ve walked it countless times, and it never said Iona. I could never see you and Boyle making your home there, though you’d have been in sight of our own, and it’s a pretty spot with a lovely view of things. I never could understand the way of that. Now I do. You’ll have your cottage in the woods.”

She lifted her glass in turn. “Blessed be.”

* * *

BRANNA BROUGHT OUT HER VIOLIN AFTER THE MEAL, AND
joined her voice with Meara’s. Only happy tunes, and lively ones. Connor fetched the boden drum from his room, added a tribal beat. To Iona’s surprise and delight, Boyle disappeared for a few moments and came back with a melodeon.

“You play?” Iona gaped at Boyle, at the little button accordion he held. “I didn’t know you could play!”

“I can’t, not a note. But Fin can.”

“I haven’t played, not a note, in years,” Fin protested.

“And who’s fault is that?” Boyle shoved the instrument at him.

“Play it, Fin,” Meara encouraged. “Let’s have a proper
seisiún
.”

“Then no complaints when I make a muck of it.” He glanced at Branna. After a moment she shrugged, tapped her foot, and began something light and jumpy. With a laugh, Connor danced fingers and stick over the colorful drum.

Fin caught the time and the tune, joined in.

Music rang out, paused only for more wine or a discussion of what should be next. Iona scrambled up for a notepad.

“I need the names of some of these! We’ll want some of them at the wedding reception. They’re so full of fun and happy.” Imagining herself in her perfect wedding dress, dancing to all that lively joy with Boyle, surrounded by friends and family, she beamed at him. “The way our life together’s going to be.”

At Meara’s long, exaggerated
awwww
, Boyle kissed Iona soundly.

So in the warm, bright kitchen there was laughter and song, a deliberate and defiant celebration of life, of futures, of the light.

Outside, the dark deepened, the shadows spread, and the fog slunk along the ground.

In its anger, and its envy, it did what it could to smother the house. But protections carefully laid repelled it so it could only skulk and plot and rage against the brilliance—searching, searching for any chink in the circle.

Meara switched to water to wet her throat, brought a glass over to Branna. She felt suddenly tired, and a little drunk. It was air she needed more than water, she thought. Air cool and damp and dark.

“After Samhain,” Connor said, “we’ll have a real
céilie
, invite the neighbors and those all around as Ma and Da did. Near Christmas, do you think, Branna?”

“With a tree in the window, and lights everywhere. With enough food to set the tables groaning. I’ve a fondness for Yule, so that would suit me.”

It was rare for Connor to slide into her mind, but he did now.

He’s close, circling close, pressing hard. Do you feel him?

Branna nodded, but kept smiling.
The music draws him like a wasp to the light. But we’re not ready, not altogether ready to take him on.

Here’s a chance to try, and we shouldn’t miss taking it.

Then tell the others, this way. We’ll try the chance, and hope surprise is enough.

Connor saw, as Branna did, that Fin already felt that pressure, those dark fingers scrabbling against the bright. He saw Iona jolt, just a little, as he slid his thoughts into her head.

Her hand squeezed Boyle’s.

He glanced toward Meara.

The instant he realized she wasn’t there he felt her,
saw
her reach out to open the front door of the cottage.

The fear gripped his throat like claws, all but drawing blood. He shouted for her, in his mind, with his voice, and rushed out of the room.

Nearly half asleep, floating on the shadows soft and dim, she stepped outside. Here’s what she needed, here’s what she had to have. The dark, the thick and quiet dark.

Even as she started to draw in a deep breath, Connor caught her around the waist, all but threw her back into the cottage.

Everything shook—the floor, the ground, the air. To her stunned eyes, the dark mists outside the door bowed inward as if something large and terrible pushed its weight against them. Boyle slammed the door on it, and the dull roar—like an angry surf—that rolled with it.

“What happened? What is it?” Meara shoved against Connor, who’d thrown his body over hers.

“Cabhan. Stay back,” Branna snapped, and flung the door open again.

A storm raged outside, the shadows twisting, knotting. Under them came a kind of high shriek and a rumble that was thousands of wings beating.