Shadow Spell: Book Two of the Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy (9 page)

“Bruno?”

“My dog. Sweet little mutt who showed up at my door a couple years ago. Mangy, limping, half starved. We adopted each other. He’s used to hawks. He doesn’t bother my neighbor’s.

“A dog’s an asset on a hunt. Not that she needs one.” As he spoke, Sally dove—a bullet from a gun. As talons flashed, Megan let out a little hiss.

“Gets me every time. It’s what they do, need to do. God or the world or whatever you believe in made them to hunt and feed. But I always feel a little sorry about it. It took some time for me to stop being squeamish about feeding them during molting, but I got over that. Have you always lived in Mayo?”

“Always, yes.”

They exchanged some small talk—weather, hawking, a pub in Ennis he knew well—while Sally feasted on the small rabbit she’d taken down.

“I’m half in love with her already.” Megan lifted her arm, and the hawk responded, flying over to land. “Some of that’s just excitement and anticipation, but I think we’ll make that match you spoke of. Will you let me have her?”

“You made arrangements with Fin,” Connor began.

“Yeah, I did, but he said it would be up to you.”

“She’s yours already, Megan.” He looked from the hawk to the woman. “Else she wouldn’t have come to you after her feed. You’ll want to take her home.”

“Yes, yes. I brought everything, with my fingers crossed for luck. I nearly brought Bruno but thought they should get acquainted before a car trip.”

She looked at Sally, laughed. “I have a hawk.”

“And she has you.”

“And she has me. And I think she’ll always have you, so would you mind if I took a picture of you with her?”

“Ah, sure if you’re wanting.”

“My camera’s in my car.” She transferred Sally to Connor, dashed back to her car. And returned with a very substantial Nikon.

“That’s quite the camera.”

“And I’m good with it. Go to my website and see for yourself. I’m going to take a couple, okay?” she continued as she checked setting and light. “Just relax—I don’t want a studied pose. We’ll have the young Irish god with Sally, queen of the falcons.”

And when Connor laughed, she took three shots, fast.

“Perfect. Just one more with you looking at her.”

Obliging, he looked at Sally.
You’ll be happy with her,
he told the hawk.
She’s been waiting for you.

“Great. Thanks.” She slung the camera around her neck. “I’ll email you the best of them if you want.”

“Sure I’d like that very much.” He dug out one of the business cards he’d remembered to stick in his back pocket.

“And here’s one of mine. My website’s on it. And I wrote my personal email on the back when I got my camera. In case you have any questions or follow-ups about . . . Sally.”

“That’s grand.” He slipped it into his pocket.

Shortly, after helping Megan settle Sally in her container for the trip, Connor climbed back in his lorry.

“That’s grand? That’s all you have to say about it?” He cast his eyes to heaven as he drove. “What’s come over you, O’Dwyer? The woman was gorgeous, single, clever, and a keen hawker. And she gave you an open door a kilometer wide. But did you walk through it? You didn’t, no. ‘That’s grand’ is all you said, and let that open door sit there.”

Was it simply distraction, the burden of what he knew would have to be done, and the not knowing when it could or would be done? But it had always been there, hadn’t it, in the back of all? And had never interfered with his romantic maneuverings.

Had it all changed so much after the solstice? He knew he’d never known fear as sharp as when he’d seen Boyle’s hands burning, seen Iona on the ground bruised and bloody. When he’d known the lives of all of them depended on all of them.

Ah well, he thought, perhaps it was best to stay unentangled from those romantic maneuvers for a bit longer. No reason at all he couldn’t walk through that open door at a later date.

But for now, he needed to swing by the big stables, let Fin know the deal was done. Then his sister expected him, as this was, at least in theory, his free day.

He stopped at the stables where Fin made his home in the fancy stone house with a hot tub big as a pond on the back terrace and a room on the second floor where he kept magickal weapons, books, and everything else a witch might need—especially one determined to destroy a dark sorcerer of his own blood.

Beside it stood the garage with the apartment over it where Boyle lived—and where Iona would. And the barn for the horses—some for breeding, some for use at the working stables not far off.

Some of the horses cropped in the paddock beyond the one set for jumping practice and lessons.

He spotted Meara, which surprised him, leading one out.

He hopped down from the lorry to greet Bugs, the cheerful mutt who made the barn his home, then hailed her.

“I’d hoped to see Fin, but didn’t expect to see you.”

“I’m fetching Rufus. Caesar was on the slate for guides today, but Iona says he’s got a bit of a strain—left foreleg.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“She says not.” She looped Rufus’s reins around the fence. “But we agreed to give him a bit of rest and keep an eye. Fin’s round and about somewhere. I thought this was your free day.”

“It is, but I had to meet a customer over at Mulligan’s farm. She bought Sally—one from the brood we had last spring.”

“And you’re a bit sulky over it.”

“I’m not sulky.”

“A bit,” Meara said, and bent to give Bugs a scratch. “It’s hard to raise a living thing, connect and bond with it, then give it to another. But you can’t keep them all.”

“I know it”—though he wished otherwise—“and it’s a good match. Sally took to her right off, I could see it.”

“She?”

“A Yank, moved here a few years ago, and intends to stay—even after her husband, now her former husband, moved back.”

Meara’s lips curved; her eyebrows lifted. “A looker, is she?”

“She is. Why?”

“No why, just I could hear it in your voice. Living hereabouts?”

“No, down in Clare. Still squeamish over the hunt, but a good hand and heart with the hawk. I thought I’d let Fin know we made the deal, then I’m off to home to work with Branna, as I promised.”

“I’m off as well.” She unlooped the reins. “Since you’ll talk to Branna before I do, tell her Iona’s after a trip to Galway City to look for a wedding dress, and soon.”

“That’s months off yet.”

“Only six, and a bride wants to find her dress before she digs into the rest of it.”

“Will they live there, do you think?”

Meara paused in the act of mounting, glanced toward Boyle’s rooms over the garage. “Where else? I don’t see them trying to squeeze the pair of them into Iona’s room at the cottage for the long term.”

He realized he’d miss her—or more them as it was now. Talk over breakfast, conversation before bed whenever the two of them stayed at the cottage.

“Boyle’s place is bigger than a single room, but sure it’s not big when you add children.”

“You’re jumping some steps ahead,” Meara observed.

“Not for the likes of Boyle and Iona.” Idly, he stroked the horse as he studied what Fin had built for himself—and for others as well. “They’ll want a house of their own, won’t they, not a couple of rooms over a garage.”

“I hadn’t thought of it. They’ll figure it.” She swung onto Rufus. “For now she’s thinking bridal dresses and bouquets, as she should be. There’s Fin now, with Aine.”

She studied the beautiful white filly Fin led out of the barn. “Soon to be a bride herself when we breed her with Alastar.”

“No white dress and bouquet for her.”

“But she’ll get the stud, and for some of us that’s fine and enough.”

She rode off on Connor’s laugh. And he watched her nudge Rufus into a lope as smooth as butter before walking over to meet Fin.

His friend crouched down to give Bugs a rub, smiling as the dog wagged everywhere and made growls in his throat.

Talking to the dog, Connor knew, as he himself did with hawks, Iona with horses, Branna with hounds. Whatever ran in Fin’s blood meant he could talk to all.

“Has he complaints then?” Connor wondered.

“He’s only hoping I didn’t forget this.” Fin reached in the pocket of his leather coat for a little dog biscuit. Bugs sat, stared up with soulful eyes.

“You’re a fine boy and there’s your reward.”

Bugs took it delicately before trotting off in triumph.

“Takes little to please him,” Connor commented.

“Well, he loves his life and would choose no other. A man would be lucky to feel the same.”

“Are you lucky, Fin?”

“Some days. But it takes more than a hard biscuit and a bed in a barn to content me. But then, I have more,” he added and stroked Aine’s throat.

“Sure she’s the most beautiful filly I’ve seen in my life.”

“And knows it well. But then modesty in a beautiful female’s usually of the false sort. I’m after riding her over, letting her and Alastar gander at each other. So how did you find Megan?”

“Another beauty for certain. They took to each other, her and Sally. She gave me the payment on the spot.”

“I thought they would.” He nodded, didn’t glance at the check Connor handed him, just shoved it in his pocket. “She’ll be back for another in a month or two.”

Now Connor smiled. “I thought the same.”

“And you? Will you be traveling to Clare to visit them?”

“It crossed my mind. I think no, and can only think I think no because there’s too much else crossing my mind.” Connor shoved fingers through his breeze-tossed hair. “I wake each morning thinking of it, and him. I never used to.”

“We hurt him, but he hurt us as well. We nearly didn’t get through to Iona in time. None of us will be forgetting that. For all we had together, it wasn’t enough. He won’t forget that.”

“We’ll have more next round. I’m going to work with Branna.” Lightly, he laid a hand on Fin’s arm. “You should come with me.”

“Not today. She won’t want me round today when she’s thinking it’ll just be the two of you together.”

“Branna won’t let her feelings get in the way of what must be done.”

“That’s God’s truth,” Fin agreed, and swung himself into the saddle. He let Aine dance a bit. “We have to live, Connor. Despite it, because of it, around it, through it. We have to live as best we can.”

“You think he’ll beat us?”

“I don’t. No, he won’t beat you.”

Deliberately, Connor slid a hand onto Aine’s bridle, looked into Fin’s stormy green eyes. “Us. It’s us, Fin, and will always be us.”

Fin nodded. “He won’t win. But before the battle, and bitter and bloody it’s bound to be, we have to live. I might choose another life if I could, but I’ll make the most of the one I have. I’ll come to the cottage soon.”

He let Aine have her head, thundered away.

With his mood mixed and unsteady, Connor drove straight to the cottage. The light filtered through the windows of Branna’s workshop, bounced over the colored bottles she displayed that held her creams and lotions, serums and potions. Her collection of mortars and pestles, her tools, the candles and plants she set about were all arranged just so.

And Kathel sprawled in front of her work counter like a guard while she sat at it, her nose in the thick book he knew to have been Sorcha’s.

The fire in the hearth simmered, as did something in a pot on her work stove.

Another beauty, he thought—it seemed he was surrounded by them—with her dark hair pulled back from her face, her sweater rolled up at the sleeves. Her eyes, gray as the smoke puffing from the chimney, lifted to his.

“There you are. I thought you’d be here long before this. Half the day’s gone.”

“I had things to see to, as I told you clear enough.”

Her brows lifted. “What’s bitten your arse?”

“At the moment, you are.”

No, his mood wasn’t mixed, he realized. It had tipped over to foul. He stalked to the jar on the counter beside the stove. There were always biscuits, and he was slightly mollified to find the soft, chewy ones she rolled in cinnamon and sugar.

“I’m here when I could get here. I had the hawk sale to deal with.”

“Was it a favorite of yours— Never mind, they all are. You have to be realistic, Connor.”

“I’m bloody realistic. I sold the hawk, and the buyer was beautiful, available, and interested. I’m bloody realistic enough to know I had to come back here for you and this, else I’d be having myself a good shag.”

“If a shag’s so bleeding important, go get it done.” Eyes narrowed, she fired right back at him. “I’d rather work alone than with you pacing about horny and bitter.”

“It’s that it
wasn’t
so bleeding important, hasn’t been so bleeding important since before the solstice that worries me.” He stuffed one cookie in his mouth, wagged the other in the air.

“I’m making you some tea.”

“I don’t want any fucking tea. Yes, I do.” He dropped down onto one of the stools at her work counter, rubbed Kathel when the dog laid his great head against Connor’s leg. “It’s not the shag or the woman or the hawk. It’s all of it. All of this. All of it, and I let it bite me in the arse.”

“Some days I want to climb up on the roof and scream. Scream at everyone and everything.”

Calmer, Connor bit into the second biscuit. “But you don’t.”

“Not so far, but it could come to it. We’ll have some tea, then we’ll work.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

She trailed her fingers over his back as she walked around him to the stove. “We’ll have good days and bad until it’s done, but until it’s done we have to live as best we can.”

He stared at the back of her head as she put on the kettle, and decided not to tell her Fin had said the very same.

7

H
E THOUGHT TO GO TO THE PUB. HE WAS TIRED OF
magicks, of spells, of mixing potions. He wanted some light, some music, some conversation that didn’t center on the white or the black, or the end of all he knew.

The end of all he loved.

And maybe, just maybe, if Alice happened to be about, he’d see if she was still willing.

A man needed a distraction, didn’t he, when his world hung in the balance of things? And some fun, some warmth. The lovely, lovely sound of a woman moaning under him.

Most of all, a man needed an escape when the three most important women in his life decided to have a wedding-planning hen party—not a term he’d use in their hearing if he valued his skin—in his home.

But he’d no more than walked outside when he realized he didn’t want the pub or the crowd or Alice. So he pulled out his phone, texted Fin on his way to his lorry.

House full of women and wedding talk. If you’re there, I’m coming over.

He’d no more than started the engine when Fin texted back.

Come ahead, you poor bastard.

On a half laugh he pulled away from the cottage.

It would do him good, Connor decided, after most of a day huddled with his sister over spell books and blood magicks to be in a man’s house, in male company. Sure they could drag Boyle down as well, have a few beers, maybe play a bit of snooker in what he thought of as Fin’s fun room.

Just the antidote to a long and not quite satisfying day.

He took the back road, winding through the thick green woods on an evening gone soft and dusky. He saw a fox slink into the green, a red blur with its kill still twitching in its jaws.

Nature was as full of cruelty as of beauty, he knew all too well.

But for the fox to survive, the field mouse didn’t. And that was the way of things. For them to survive, Cabhan couldn’t. So he who’d never walked into a fight if he could talk his way out of one, had never deliberately harmed anyone, would kill without hesitation or guilt. Would kill, he admitted, with a terrible kind of pleasure.

But tonight he wouldn’t think of Cabhan or killing or surviving. Tonight all he wanted was his mates, a beer, and maybe a bit of snooker.

Less than a half kilometer from Fin’s, the lorry sputtered, bucked, then died altogether.

“Well, fuck me.”

He had petrol, as he’d filled the tank only the day before. And he’d given the lorry a good going-over—engine to exhaust—barely a month before.

She should be running smooth as silk.

Muttering, he pulled a torch from the glove box and climbed out to lift the bonnet.

He knew a thing or two about engines—as he knew a thing or two about plumbing, about carpentry and building, and electrical work. If the hawks hadn’t taken him heart and mind, he might have started his own business as a man of all work.

Still, the skills came in handy in times such as these.

He played the light over the engine, checked the battery connection, the carburetor, flicked a hand to have the key turn in the ignition, studied the engine as it attempted to turn over with an annoying and puzzling grind.

He couldn’t see a single thing amiss.

Of course, he could have solved it all with another flick of his hand and been on his way to mates, beer, and possibly snooker.

But it was a matter of pride.

So he checked the connections on the fuel pump, rechecked the connection on the battery, and didn’t notice the fog swimming in along the ground.

“Well it’s a bloody mystery.”

He started to spread his hands over the engine, do a kind of scan—a compromise before giving up completely.

And felt the dirty smudge on the air.

He turned slowly, saw that he waded ankle deep in the fog that went icy with his movement. Shadows drew in, dark curtains that blocked the trees, the road, the world. Even the sky vanished behind them.

He came as a man, the red stone around his neck glowing against the thick and sudden dark.

“Alone, young Connor.”

“As you are.”

Spreading his hands, Cabhan only smiled. “I’ve a curiosity. You have no need for a machine such as that to travel from one place to another. You have only to . . .”

Cabhan swung his arms out, lifted them. And moved two feet closer without visibly moving at all.

“Such as we respect our gift, our craft, too much to use it for petty reasons. I’ve legs for walking or, if needs be, a lorry or a horse.”

“Yet here you are, alone on the road.”

“I’ve friends and family close by.” Though when he tested, he found he couldn’t quite reach them—couldn’t push through the thick wall of fog. “What have you, Cabhan?”

“Power.” He spoke the word with a kind of greedy reverence. “Power beyond your ken.”

“And a hovel beyond the river to hide in, alone, in the dark. I’ll take a warm fire, the light of it, and a pint with those friends and family.”

“You’re the least of them.” Pity dripped like sullen rain. “You know it, as they do. Good for a laugh and the labor. But the least of the three. Your father knew enough to pass his amulet to your sister—to a girl over his only son.”

“Do you think that makes me less?”

“I know it. What do you wear? Given you by an aunt, as consolation. Even your cousin from away has more than you. You have less, are less, a kind of jester, even a servant to the others you call family, you call friends. Your great
friend
Finbar chooses one with no power over you as partner, while you labor for wages at his whim. You’re nothing, and have less.”

He eased closer as he spoke, and the red stone throbbed like a pulse.

“I’m more than you know,” Connor replied.

“What are you, boy?”

“I’m Connor, of the O’Dwyers. I’m of the three. I’m a dark witch of Mayo.” Connor looked deep into the black eyes, saw the intent.

“I have fire.” He threw his right hand out, held a swirling ball of fire. “And I have air.” Stabbed a finger up, twirled it, and created a small, whirling cyclone. “Earth,” he said as the ground trembled. “Water.”

Rain spilled down, hot enough to sizzle on the ground.

“And hawk.”

Roibeard dived with a piercing call, and landed soft as a feather on Connor’s shoulder.

“Parlor tricks and pets.” Cabhan raised his arms high, fingers spread wide. The red gem went bright as blood.

Lightning slapped the ground inches from Connor’s boots, and with it came the acrid stink of sulfur.

“I could kill you with a thought.” Cabhan’s voice boomed over the roar of thunder.

I don’t think so, Connor decided, and only cocked his head, smiled.

“Parlor tricks and pets? I bring fire, water, earth, and air. Test my powers if you dare. The hawk is mine for all time. He and me as part of the three will fulfill our destiny. Light is my sword, right is my shield, as long ago my path was revealed. I accept it willingly.”

He struck out then, with the sword formed from the ball of fire, cleaved the air between them. He felt the burn—a bolt, a blade sear across the biceps of his left arm.

Ignoring it, he advanced, swung again, hair flying in the cyclone of air, sword blazing against the dark.

And when he sliced it down, Cabhan was gone.

The shadows lifted, the fog crawled away.

“As I will,” Connor murmured, “so mote it be.”

He let out a breath, drew in another, tasted the night—sweet and damp and green. He heard an owl hoot on a long, inquisitive note and the rustle of something hurrying through the brush.

“Well now.” For a moment, Roibeard leaned in, and their cheeks met, held. “That was interesting. What do you wager my lorry starts up easy as you please? I’m off to Fin’s, so you can go ahead with me there and have a visit with his Merlin, or go back home. It’s your choice,
mo dearthair
.”

With you.
Connor heard the answer in his heart as much as his head.
Always with you.

Roibeard rose into the air and winged ahead.

Still throbbing with the echoes of power—dark and light—Connor got back in the lorry. It started easy, purred, and drove smoothly the rest of the way to Fin’s.

He walked straight in. A fire crackled in the hearth, and that was welcome, but no one sprawled on the sofa with a beer at the ready.

As at home there as he was in his own cottage, he started toward the back, and heard voices.

“If you want hot meals”—Boyle—“marry someone who’ll make them.”

“Why would I do that when I have you so handy?”

“And I was happy enough in my own place making do with a sandwich and crisps.”

“And I’ve a fine hunk of pork in the fridge.”

“Why are you buying a fine hunk of pork when you don’t know what in bloody hell to do with it?”

“Why wouldn’t I, again, when I have you so handy?”

Though his head ached a bit, like a tooth going bad, the exchange made Connor chuckle as he continued back.

Strange, he felt he’d already had that beer. Quite a lot of beer, as he seemed to be floating right along, but on a floor tilted just a bit sideways.

He stepped into the kitchen where the lights burned so bright they made him blink, made his head pound instead of ache. “I could do with a hunk of pork.”

“There, you see?” Grinning, Fin turned—and the grin fell away again. “What happened?”

“I had a little confrontation. Jesus, it’s hot as Africa in here.”

He struggled out of his jacket, weaving a little, then stared at his left arm. “Look at that, will you. My arm’s smoking.”

When he pitched forward, his friends leaped to catch him.

“What the fuck is this?” Boyle demanded. “He’s burning up.”

“It’s hot in here,” Connor insisted.

“It’s not. It’s Cabhan,” Fin bit off the word. “I can smell him.”

“Let me get his shirt off.”

“The girls are always saying that to me.”

Impatient, Fin merely jerked a hand over Connor, and had him bare-chested.

Connor stared at his arm, at the huge black burn, the peeling and bubbling skin. He felt oddly detached from it all, as if he looked at some little wonder behind glass.

“Would you look at that?” he said, and passed out.

Fin pressed his hands to the burn. Despite the pain that scorched through him, he held them there. Held the burning back.

“Tell me what to do,” Boyle demanded.

“Get him water. I can stop it from spreading, but . . . We need Branna.”

“I’ll go get her.”

“It’ll take too long. Get him water.”

Closing his eyes, Fin opened, reached out.

Connor’s hurt. Come. Come quickly.

“Water’s not going to help.” Still Boyle knelt down. “Either of you. It’s burning your hands. I know what that’s like.”

“And you know it can be fixed.” Sweat popped out on Fin’s face, ran in a thin river down his back. “I can’t know how far this might take him if I don’t hold it.”

“Ice? He’s on fire, Fin. We can put him in a tub of ice.”

“Natural means won’t help. In my workshop. Get— No need,” he said with relief as Branna and Iona, with a wild-eyed Meara between them, popped into the kitchen.

Branna dropped down to Connor.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. Cabhan for certain, but that’s all I know. He’s feverish, a bit delirious. The burn under my hands is black, deep, it’s trying to spread. I’m holding it.”

“Let me see it. Let me do it.”

“I’m holding it, Branna. I could do more, but not, I think, all. You can.” He set his teeth against the pain. “I won’t let him go, not even for you.”

“All right. All right. But I need to see it, feel it, know it.” She closed her eyes, drew up all she had, laid her hands over Fin’s.

Her eyes opened again, filled with tears, for the pain under her hands was unspeakable.

“Look at me,” she murmured to Fin. “He can’t, so you look for him. Be for him. Feel for him. Heal for him. Look at me.” Her eyes turned the gray of lake water, calm, so calm.

“Iona, put your hands over mine, give me what you can.”

“Everything I have.”

“It’s cool, do you feel the cool?” Branna said to Fin.

“I do.”

“Cool and clear, this healing power. It washes away the fire, floods out the black.”

When Connor began to shiver, and to moan, Meara dropped down, pillowed his head in her lap. “Shh now.” Gently, gently, she stroked his hair, his face. “Shh now. We’re here with you.”

Sweat poured down Connor’s face—and ran down Fin’s.

Branna’s breathing grew shallow as she took in some of the heat, some of the pain.

“I’m holding it,” Fin said between his teeth.

“Not alone now. Healing hurts—it’s the price of it. Look at me, and let it go with me. Out of him we both love, slowly, coolly, out of him, into you, onto me. Out of him, into you, onto me. Out of him, into you, onto me.”

She all but hypnotized him. That face, those eyes, that voice. And the gradual lifting of the pain, the cooling of the burn.

“Out of him,” she continued, rocking, rocking. “Into you, onto me. And away. Away.”

“Look at me.” Now he told her as he felt her hands begin to tremble over his. “We’re nearly there. Boyle, in my workroom, a brown apothecary bottle with a green stopper, top shelf behind my workbench.”