Blood Magick (12 page)

She might still have blasted him—she could work up a head of steam quickly and keep it pumping. But she caught the quick and concerned glance he sent the dog.

Bugger it.

“That’s fine then, as there’s plenty of work. Bring the dog. He’ll sleep through the ride, then Kathel can look after him.”

“I’d feel better about it. Oh, and there’s another thing. Iona tells me I’m having a party here for New Year’s Eve. So there’s that.”

“A party?”

“Why does everyone say it back to me as if I’ve used a foreign tongue?”

“That may be because I don’t recall you ever having a party.”

“There’s a first time,” he muttered, and got the dog.

S
HE
BLAMED
THE
DOG
. H
E
’
D
SOFTENED
HER
UP
,
AND
F
IN
,
with his fancy towels and bowls and utter love for a stable dog, had marched right through her defenses.

She’d said more than she’d meant to, and more than she’d admitted to herself. Words had as much power as deeds to her mind, and now she’d given them to him when it might have been more rational, more practical to keep them to herself.

But that was done, and she knew well how to shore up her defenses. Where Finbar Burke was concerned she’d been doing so for more than a decade.

And in truth, there was too much to do, too much going on around her, to fret about it.

They’d had a lovely, quiet Yule, made only more special by Iona’s grandmother joining them. As they observed the solstice and the longest night, she could begin looking toward spring.

But Christmas came first.

It was a holiday she particularly enjoyed—all the fussiness of it. She liked the shopping, the wrapping, the decorating, the baking. And this year in particular, all the work of it gave her a short respite from what she’d termed to Fin her
purpose
.

She’d hoped they’d host a big
céili
during the season, but it seemed too mixed with risks with Cabhan lurking. Next year for certain, she promised herself. Next year, she’d have her parents and other cousins, neighbors and friends and the rest.

But this year, it would be her circle, and Iona’s Nan, and that was a fine thing, and a happy one.

With her breads and biscuits baked, along with mince pie she’d serve with brandy butter, she checked the goose roasting in the oven.

“Your kitchen smells of my childhood.” Mary Kate, Iona’s grandmother, came in. Her face, still flushed from cold, beamed as she crossed the room to kiss Branna’s cheek. “Iona’s slipping some gifts under the tree, and likely shaking a few as well. I thought I’d see what I could do to help.”

“It’s good to see you, and I’m more than grateful to have a pair of skilled hands in here.”

Trim and stylish in a bright red sweater, Mary Kate walked over to sniff at pots. “I’m told you’ve taught Iona to cook a thing or two, which was more than I could do.”

“She’s willing, and getting better at the able. We’ll have some wine first, before we get down to it. It’s Christmas, after all. Did you get by to see the new house?”

“I did. Oh, it’s going to be fine, isn’t it? And finished, they tell me, by the wedding—or near enough. It’s a light in my heart to see her so happy.”

She took the wine Branna offered. “I wanted a moment alone with you, Branna, to tell you what it means to me you and Connor gave her a home, a family.”

“She’s family, and a good friend as well.”

“She’s such a good heart. It was hard for me to send her here. Not to Ireland, not to you.” Mary Kate glanced toward the front of the house. “But to what it would all mean. To send her, knowing what it could mean, and what I know it does. I thought to write to you, to tell you she was coming, and then I thought no, for that would be in the way of asking you, an obligation, to take her in, to help her hone her gifts. And it should be a choice.”

Once more Branna thought of Fin. “Do we have one?”

“I believe we do. I chose to give her the amulet, though it grieved me to do it. Once done it can’t be taken back. But it was hers to wear, hers to bear. I knew the first time I held her. I held you and Connor when you were only babes. And knew, as your father knew, and your aunt. And now the three of you are grown, and the time’s here, as it wasn’t with me and your father, your aunt.”

She walked to the window, looked out. “I feel him. He won’t bother with me—Iona frets over that, but he won’t bother with me. I’m nothing to him now. But I’ve power enough to help if help’s needed.”

“We may, when the day comes.”

“But that isn’t today.” Mary Kate turned again, smiled again. “So today I’ll help in the kitchen.” She took a long sip of wine.
“Nollaig Shona Duit
.
”

“We’ll see it is.” Branna tapped her glass to Mary Kate’s. “A very happy Christmas.”

•   •   •

IT TOOK A LITTLE MAGICK TO EXPAND THE TABLE TO FIT
seven people and all the food, but she’d wanted a feast—and no more talk of Cabhan.

“We won’t be eating like this tomorrow at my sister’s,” Meara announced as she sampled Branna’s stuffing. “Between Maureen and my mother, we may be in a runoff for the worst cook in Ireland.”

“So we’ll fill up tonight, eat careful there, and be back here for leftovers.” Connor stabbed a bite of goose.

“It’s my first major holiday with Boyle’s family.” Happiness rolled off Iona as she looked around the table. “I’m taking bread pudding—and I won’t be in the runoff, as Nan walked me through it. We’re going to pick a holiday, Boyle, for us to host. Make a tradition. How’re things going on New Year’s, Fin?”

“They’re coming.”

“I could make bread pudding.”

He smiled, adoring her. “I’m having it catered.”

“Catered?”

He flicked a glance at Branna’s instant shock. “Catered,” he said firmly. “I look at a menu, say, this, and that, and some of these, hand over the money, and it’s done.”

“You’ll enjoy the party more without having to fuss,” Mary Kate said lightly.

“It’s for certain everyone will, as they’d enjoy it less if I’d tried my hand at making the food.”

“God’s truth,” Boyle said, with feeling. “He’s hired Tea and Biscuits for the music.”

“You hired a band?”

This time Fin shrugged at Branna. “People want music, and they’re a good band. If guests want to pick up a fiddle or pipe or break out in song, that’s fine as well.”

“It’ll be good
craic
,” Connor decreed.

“How many are coming?” Branna wondered.

“I don’t know, precisely. I just set the word out.”

“You could have half the county there!”

“I didn’t set word that far out, but if that’s the case, the caterer will be busy.”

“Patrick and I used to have parties that way,” Mary Kate remembered. “Oh, we couldn’t afford a caterer in those days, but we’d just set the word out with friends and neighbors. It’s friendly. A good
céili
.”

“Branna’s not happy with the idea altogether,” Connor put in. “She’d rather we didn’t have any sort of party until we’ve done with Cabhan.”

“We won’t bring him to the table tonight,” Branna said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Did I hear Kyra got a ring for Christmas, Connor?”

“You did, and you’ve ears to the ground, as she only got it last night, I’m told. She’s flashing what there is of it everywhere.” Thinking of their office manager, he wagged his fork at Fin. “Be sure you get into the school and make over it like it was the Hope Diamond. She gets her nose out of joint easy.”

“I’ll be sure to do that. My ear to the ground tells me that Riley—you remember Riley, Boyle, as his face ran into your fist some months back.”

“He earned it.”

“He did, and it seems he earned the same again from one Tim Waterly, who owns a horse farm in Sligo. I’ve had some dealings with Tim, and we’ve dealt together well. You’d think him a mild-mannered sort of man, but in this case, Riley’s face ran into Tim’s fist during a lively discussion on if trying to pass off moldy hay was good business practice.”

“He’s a fucker is Riley, right enough. I’m begging your pardon, Nan.”

“No need, for a man who’d try to sell moldy hay, or worse, mistreat a horse as he did your sweet mare Darling, is a fucker indeed. Would you pass me those potatoes, Meara? I think I’ve room for another bite of them.”

They ate their way through the feast, and some groaned their way through the cleanup, but somehow managed pie or trifle or some of both. There was Fin’s champagne, and gifts exchanged. Delighted hugs, and a pause as carolers wandered by.

And no sign of Cabhan, Branna thought as she checked out the windows yet again.

When she slipped out to the kitchen to check from there, Fin followed her.

“If you don’t want Cabhan brought up, stop looking for him.”

“I’m after another bottle of champagne.”

“You’re after worrying yourself to distraction. He’s burrowed in, Branna. I’ve my own way of looking.”

He got out the bottle himself, set it on the counter.

“I just want tonight to be . . . unspoiled.”

“And it is. I’ve something for you.”

He turned his hand, empty, turned it again, and held out a box wrapped in gold paper and topped with an elaborate silver bow.

“We’ve exchanged our gifts.”

“And one more yet. Open it, and I’ll open this.” He turned to the champagne.

Thrown off yet again, she unwrapped the box, opened it as Fin drew the cork with a muffled
pop
.

She knew the bottle was old—and beautiful. Its facets streamed with light, shimmering with it so it seemed to glow in her hand. It had held power once, she thought, long ago. Then traced a finger over the glass stopper. A dragon’s head.

“It’s stunning. It’s old and stunning and still hums with power.”

“I found it in a fussy antiques shop in New Orleans, though it didn’t come from there. It had passed from hand to hand long before it came to that fussy shop where they had no idea what it was. I knew it for yours as soon as I picked it up. I’ve had it a few years now as I wasn’t sure how to give it so you’d accept it.”

She stared down at the bottle. “You think I’m hard.”

“I think nothing of the sort. I think you’re strong, and that makes it hard for both of us. Still, I couldn’t leave it in that shop where they didn’t know what they had, and not when I knew it for yours.”

“And you know when I look at it, I’ll think of you.”

“Well, there is that advantage to it. All the same, it’s for you.”

“I’ll keep it in my room, and despite my better sense I’ll think of you when I look at it.” She couldn’t risk her lips on his, but brushed hers to his cheek, and for a moment rested her cheek to his as she’d once done so often, so easily. “Thank you. I— Oh, she had it made very particularly. I have a glimmer here,” she murmured, staring at the bottle. “The dragon was hers, I think. And she had this made, just so, to hold . . . to hold tears. A witch’s tears—so precious and powerful when shed for joy, when shed in sorrow.”

“Which did this hold?”

“I can’t see it, but I’ll think joy, as it’s Christmas, and a beautiful gift. It should hold joy.” She set it carefully on the counter. “We should have champagne, and we should have music. And I won’t check the windows any more tonight.”

•   •   •

THAT NIGHT, LATE, SHE PUT THE BOTTLE ON HER DRESSER,
and, sliding into bed, watched it catch all the golds of the fire.

And thought of him. And thinking of him, laid a charm under her pillow to block dreams. Her heart was too full to risk dreams.

•   •   •

THINGS NEEDED DOING, BRANNA THOUGHT AS SHE SPENT
the day—happily alone—in her workshop. She’d enjoyed every minute of Yule, of Christmas. Gathering with her circle, preparing the food, making music together. She’d loved the trip to Kerry on Christmas Day, didn’t feel the least guilty she’d magickly flown to see her parents, to spend time with them and other family. And had felt warmer yet, as Connor did the same, with Meara.

It had done her spirit good to see her parents so happy with this new phase of their lives. Boosted her confidence to recognize their complete faith in her, in Connor.

But now it was back to practical matters again. To the work that earned her living. To the work that was her destiny, that was life or death.

She replenished some of her most popular lotions and creams, worked on the pretty travel candles that all but flew off her shop’s shelves.

Then she gave herself the pleasure of experimenting with new scents, new colors, new textures. She could focus her mind on her senses, how did this look, what mood did this scent evoke, how did this feel on the skin?

She glanced up when the door opened, found herself happy to see Meara come in.

“Well now, this is perfectly timed. Take off your gloves, would you, and try this new cream.”

“It’s an ugly day out there, all cold, blowing rain.” She pulled off her cap, unwound her scarf—tossed her thick brown braid behind her back. “And in here it’s warm and smells like heaven. A fine change from the damp and the horse shite.”

She hung up her coat, walked over to Branna, held out bare hands. “Oh, that’s lovely.” She rubbed in the cream, sniffed at her hands. “Just lovely and cool, and it smells like . . . air. Just fresh air, like you’d find on the top of a mountain. I like the color of it in the bowl, too. Pale, pale blue. Like blue ice.”

“A perfect name for it. Blue Ice, it is. It’s made for working hands and feet. I thought to do it in a sturdy sort of jar. The sort men wouldn’t fuss about having for themselves. I’m thinking of doing a line of it. A scrub as well, a gel for the shower, cake and liquid soap. Again with packaging women will like, but men won’t feel insults their testicles.”