Blood Magick (16 page)

He considered the poison they’d created for the last battle. Strong and potent, and they’d come close. The injuries to Cabhan—or what inhabited him—had been great. But not mortal. Because what empowered Cabhan wasn’t mortal.

A demon, Fin thought, paging through his own books. One freed by blood sacrifice to merge with a willing host. A host with power as well.

Blood from the sire.

He sat to make notes of his own.

Blood from the dam.

Shed by the son.

He wrote it all down, the steps, the words, what he’d seen, and what he’d felt.

The red stone created by blood magicks of the darkest sort, of the most evil of acts. The source of power, healing, immortality.

“And a portal,” Fin murmured. “A portal for the demon to pass through, and into the host.”

They could burn Cabhan to ash as Sorcha had, but wouldn’t end him without destroying the stone, and the demon.

A second potion, he considered, and rose to pace. One conjured to close this portal. Trap the demon inside, then destroy it. Cabhan couldn’t exist without the demon, the demon couldn’t exist without Cabhan.

He pulled down another book, one of the journals he kept when he traveled. With his hands braced on the work counter, he leaned over, reading, refreshing himself. Considering what might be done.

“Fin.”

Engrossed, his mind on magicks dark and bright, he glanced over. She wore one of his oldest shirts, a faded chambray he sometimes tossed on to work in the stables. Bare feet, bare legs, tumbled hair, and a look in her eyes of astonished sorrow.

His heart skipped—just the sight of her—even before he followed her gaze to the window, to the stained-glass image of her.

He straightened, hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “It seemed right somehow, to have the Dark Witch looking over my shoulder when I worked here. Reminding me why I did.”

“It’s a constant grief to love like this.”

“It is.”

“How do we go on, as that may never change?”

“We take what we have, and do whatever we can to change it. Haven’t we lived without each other long enough?”

“We are what we are, Fin, and some of that is through no choice of our own. There can’t be promises between us, not for tomorrows.”

“Then we take today.”

“Only today. I’ll see to breakfast.” She turned to go, glanced back. “You’ve a fine workshop here. Like the rest of the house, it suits you.”

She went down. Coffee first, she told herself. Of a morning, coffee always made things clearer.

She’d begun the New Year with him, something she’d sworn would never happen. But she’d made that oath in a storm of emotion, in turmoil. And had kept it, she admitted, as much for self-preservation as duty.

And now, for love, she’d broken it.

The world hadn’t ended, she told herself as she worked Fin’s very canny machine. Fire hadn’t rained from the sky. They’d had sex, a great deal of lovely sex, and the fates appeared to accept it.

She’d woken light and bright and loose and . . . happy, she admitted. And she’d slept deeper and easier than she had since Samhain.

Sex was energy, she considered, gratefully taking those first sips of coffee. It was positive—when done willingly—a bright blessing and a meeting of basic needs. So sex was permitted, and she could thank the goddesses for that, and would.

But futures were a different matter. She wouldn’t make plans again, let herself become starry-eyed and dreaming. Today only, she reminded herself.

It would be more than they’d had before, and would have to be enough.

She hunted in his massive fridge—oh, she’d love having one so big as this—and found three eggs, a stingy bit of bacon, and a single hothouse tomato.

Like today only and sex, it would have to be enough.

She heard him come in as she finished cobbling together what she thought of as a poor man’s omelette.

“Your larder is a pitiful thing, Fin Burke. A sad disgrace, so you’ll make do with what I could manage here, and be grateful.”

“I’m very grateful indeed.”

She glanced around. He’d put on a black long-sleeved tee, but his feet remained as bare as hers. And he had a smile on his face.

“You seem very happy for a miserly bit of bacon and tomato scrambled up with a trio of eggs.”

“You’re wearing only my old shirt and cooking at my stove. I’d be a fool not to smile.”

“And a fool you’ve never been.” She stuck a second mug on his coffee machine, pressed the proper buttons. “This one here is far better than mine. I should have one. And your jam was old as Medusa, and just as ugly. You’ll make do with butter for your toast. I’ve started you a list for the market. You’ll need to—”

He whirled her around, lifted her to the tips of her toes, and ravished her mouth. When she could think, she thought it fortunate she’d taken the eggs off the heat, or they’d have been scorched and ruined.

But since she had, she gave as good as she got in the kiss.

“Come back to bed.”

“That I won’t as I’ve taken the time and trouble to make a breakfast out of your pitiful stores.” She pulled back. “Take your coffee. I’m plating this up before it goes cold. How do you manage breakfast on your own?”

“Now that Boyle’s rarely available for me to talk into frying one up, I get whatever’s handy. There’s the oatmeal packs you make up in the microwave.”

“A sad state of affairs.” She put a plate in front of him, sat with her own. “And with such a lovely spot here to have your breakfast. I think, once Boyle and Iona are in their house, you’d be able to see their lights through the trees from here. It meant something to them, you selling them the land.”

“He’s a brother to me, and he’s lucky for all that, as otherwise I might have snatched Iona up for my own. Though she can’t cook for trying.”

“She’s better than she was. But then she had nowhere to go but up in that department. She’s stronger every day. Her power’s still young and fresh, but it has a fierceness to it. It may be why fire’s hers.”

This was good, she thought, and this was sweet. Sitting and talking easy over coffee and eggs.

“Will her grandmother take your cottage to rent?” she asked him.

“I think she will.”

Branna toyed with her eggs. “There’s connections everywhere between you and me, and us. I put it all out of my mind for a very long time, but I’ve had to ask myself in these last months, why so many of them? Beyond you and me, Fin. There’s always been you and Boyle and Connor, and Meara as well.”

“Our circle,” he agreed, “less one till Iona came.”

“That she would come as fated as the rest. And didn’t you have that cottage when Meara’s mother needed it, and now for Iona’s Nan? You and Boyle and the stables, you and Connor with the falconry school. Land you owned where Boyle and Iona will live their life. You’ve spent more time away than here these past years, and still you’re so tightly linked. Some may say it’s just the way of things, but I don’t believe that. Not anymore.”

“What do you believe?”

“I can’t know for certain.” Poking at the eggs on her plate, she stared off out the window. “I know there are connections again, the three now, the three then. And each of us more closely linked to one of them. And didn’t Eamon mistake our Meara for a gypsy he knew—name of Aine as you named the white filly you brought back to breed with Alastar? I feel Boyle has some connection there as well, some piece of it, and if we needed we’d find that connection to Teagan of the first three.”

“It’s no mystery.” He rubbed his shoulder. “It’s Cabhan for me.”

“I think it’s more, somewhere. You’re from him, of his blood, but not connected in the way I am with Sorcha’s Brannaugh, or Connor with Eamon and so on. If you were, I can’t see how you’d have known to bring Alastar back for Iona, and Aine back for Alastar.”

“I didn’t bring Aine back for Alastar, not altogether, or not only. I brought her back for you.”

The mug she’d lifted stilled in midair. “I . . . I don’t understand you.”

“When I saw her, I saw you. You used to love to ride, to fly astride a horse. I saw you on her, flying through the night with the moon bursting full in the sky. And you, lit like a candle with . . .”

“What?”

“As you are in the window upstairs, just as I saw you years before when I had it done. A wand in one hand, fire in the other. It came and went like a fingersnap, but was clear as day. So I brought her back for you, when you’re ready for her.”

She said nothing, could say nothing for a moment. Then she rose, went to the door, and let in the little dog she’d sensed waiting.

Bugs wagged around her feet, then dashed to Fin.

“Don’t feed him from the table,” she said absently as she sat again. “It’s poor manners for both of you.”

Fin, who’d been about to do just that, looked down at the hopeful dog.

You know where the food is, little man. Let’s not ruffle the lady’s feathers.

Happy enough, Bugs raced off to the laundry, and his bowls.

“I’ll ride her when we next face Cabhan, and be the stronger for it. You brought us weapons, for both Alastar and Aine are weapons against him. You’ve bled with us, conjured with us, plotted with us, to end him. If your connection was with him, strongest with him, how could you do these things?”

“Hate for him, and all he is.”

Branna shook her head. Hate didn’t make courage or loyalty. And what Fin had done took both.

“I was wrong to try to block you out in the beginning of this, and it was selfishly done. I wanted to believe that connection, you to Cabhan, but it’s not there. Not in the way he’d want, not in the way he needs. Your connection is with us. I don’t understand the why of it, but it’s truth.”

“I love you.”

Oh, her heart warmed and ached at the words. She could only touch his hand. “Love is powerful, but it doesn’t explain, in a logical way, why your feelings for me link you so tight with the others.”

She leaned forward now, her breakfast forgotten. “Between the first three and us, I’ve found no others who’ve been so tightly woven together. No others who’ve gone back dreaming to them, or had them come. Others have tried and failed, but none have come so close as we to ending him. I’ve read no tales in the books of one of the three riding on Alastar into battle, with Kathel and Roibeard with them. And none that speak of a fourth, of one who bears the mark, joining them. It’s our destiny, Fin, but you’re the change in it. I believe that now. It’s you who make our best chance to finish it, you who bear his mark and come from his blood. And still, I can’t see the why of it.”

“There are choices, you know well, to be made with power, and with blood.”

“I feel there’s more, but that alone may be enough.”

“It won’t be enough to destroy Cabhan. Or I mean to say we won’t succeed in destroying him, no more than Sorcha could, without destroying what he took into him.”

She nodded, having come to the same conclusion. “The demon he bargained with.”

“The demon who used him to gain freedom. Blood from his sire, from his mother, shed by him, drunk by him, used by him with the demon’s demands and promises, to create the stone.”

“And the power source.”

“Not just a power source, I think. A portal, Branna, the entry into Cabhan.”

“A portal.” She sat back. “There’s a thought. Through the stone conjured with the blackest of blood magicks, into the sorcerer who made the bargain. There sits the power, and the way into the world. If a portal can be opened . . .”

“It can be closed,” Fin finished.

“Yes, there’s a thought indeed. So it becomes steps and stages. Weaken and trap Cabhan so he can’t slip away and heal again. And as he—the host—is weak and trapped, close the portal, trapping the demon, who
is
the source. Destroy it, destroy Cabhan for good and all.”

She picked up her fork again, and though the eggs had gone cold, ate. “Well then, all that’s left is figuring out how it’s to be done, and when it can be done, and doing it.”

“I’ve a few thoughts, and may have more when I finish reading up. I spent some time with a Shaolin priest some years ago.”

“A . . . You worked with a Shaolin priest? In China?”

“I wanted to see the wall,” he said with a shrug. “He had some thoughts on demons, as a kind of energy. And I’ve spent some time here and there with shamans, other witches, a wise man, an Aborigine. I kept journals, so I’ll be reading through.”

“It seems you’ve had quite the education in your travels.”

“There are places in the world of such strong energy, such old power. They call to people like us. Only today,” he said, reaching over for her hands. “But if there are ever tomorrows, I’d show you.”

Since she couldn’t answer, she only squeezed his hands, then rose to clear the plates. “It’s today that needs us. I’ve never given a thought to destroying demons, and in truth never believed they existed in our world. Which is, I see now, as shortsighted as those who can’t believe in magicks.”

“I’ll see to the clearing up here. It’s the rule in your own house, and a fair one.”

“All right then. I should get home, and start reading up on demons myself.”

“It’s the first day of the New Year,” he said as he walked to her. “And a kind of holiday.”

“Not for the likes of us, with what’s coming. And I’ve work besides to earn my living. You may have staff and all that to see to most, but I’d think you’ve a living to earn as well.”

“We’ve no lessons today, and the guided rides and hawk walks are a handful only between them both. And I’ve a couple hours yet before I’m to meet with Boyle, then Connor.”

She angled her face up to his. “It’s a fortunate man you are to have such leisure time.”

“Today it is. I’m thinking you may have an hour yet to spare.”

“Well, your thinking isn’t—” She broke off, narrowed her eyes as the shirt she’d worn winked away, leaving her naked. “That was rude and inhospitable.”

“I’ll show you great hospitality,
aghra
.” Closing his arms around her, he flew them both back into bed.

S
HE
DIDN
’
T
LEAVE
UNTIL
MIDDAY
,
AND
FOUND
K
ATHEL
outside playing run and tumble with Bugs. She ignored the fact that those who worked in the stables would have seen her car still parked when they’d arrived that morning.

The juice would begin to flow from the grapevine, but it couldn’t be helped. She gave Bugs a quick rub, told him he was welcome to come with Fin anytime at all and play with Kathel.

Then she whistled her own dog into the car, and drove home.

She went straight upstairs to change out of her party dress and into warm leggings, a cozy sweater, and soft half boots. After bundling her hair up, she considered herself ready to work.

In her workshop, she put the kettle on, lit the fire. And feeling a shift in the air, whirled around.

Sorcha’s Brannaugh stood, a quiver on her back, her own Kathel at her heel.

“Something changed,” she said. “A storm came and blew through the night. Thunder raged, lightning flamed even through a fall of snow. Cabhan rode the storm until the stones of the castle shook.”

“Are you harmed? Any of you?”

“He could not get past us, and will not. But another maid is missing, and a kinswoman, and I fear the worst for her. Something changed.”

Yes, Brannaugh thought, something changed. But first there were questions. “What do you know of demons?”

Sorcha’s Brannaugh glanced down as Branna’s Kathel went to hers, and the hounds sniffed each other.

“They walk, they feed, they thirst for the blood of mortals. They can take many forms, but all but one is a lie.”

“And they search out, do they not,” Branna added, “those willing to feed them, to quench that thirst? The red stone, we’ve seen its creation, and we’ve seen the demon Cabhan bargained with pass through it and into him. They are one. Sorcha couldn’t end Cabhan because the demon lived, and healed him. They healed, I think, each other.”

“How did you see?”

“We went in a dream spell, myself and Finbar Burke.”

“The one of Cabhan’s blood. You went with him, to Cabhan’s time, to his lair. How can there be such trust?”

“How can there not? Here is trust,” she said, gesturing to the dogs who’d gone to wrestling on the floor. “I know Fin’s heart, and would not know all we do now without him.”

“You’ve been with him.”

“I have.” And though she felt her cousin’s concern, even disapproval, she wouldn’t regret it. “The storm came to you. I heard it when I joined with Fin, and I thought fate clashed at the choice we made. But you say it was Cabhan who rode the storm, and you felt it was his power, or rage, that shook the stones. It may be the joining angered him—this speaks true to me. What angers him only pleases me.”

“I know what it is to love. Have a care, cousin, on how that love binds you to one who carries the mark.”

“I’ve had a care since the mark came on him. I won’t shirk my duty. My oath on it. I believe Fin may be the true change, the weapon always needed. With him, as no three has before, we will end this. Cabhan, and what made him what he is now. It must be both, we believe that, or it will never end. So, what do you know of demons?”

Brannaugh shook her head. “Little, but I will learn more. You will call him by his name. This I have heard. You must use his name in the spell.”

“Then we’ll find his name. How long since last we talked in your time?”

“Today is La nag Cearpairi.”

Day of the Buttered Bread, Branna realized. New Year’s Day. “As it is here. We are on the same day, another change. This will be our year, cousin, the year of the three. The year of the Dark Witch.”

“I will pray for it. I must go, the baby’s waking.”

“Wait.” Branna closed her eyes again, brought the image into her mind from the box in her attic. Then held out a small stuffed dog. “For the baby. A gift from his cousins.”

“A little dog.” As she petted it, Sorcha’s Brannaugh smiled. “So soft it is, and clever.”

“It was mine, and well loved. Bright blessings to you and yours this day.”

“And to you and yours. I will see you again. We will be with you when it’s needed, in that I will have faith, and trust.” She laid her hand on her dog’s head, and they faded away.

Branna lowered her hand to her own dog’s head, stroked. “Once I thought to give the little dog to my own baby. But since that’s not to be, it seemed a fine gift for my cousin’s.” Kathel leaned his great body against her in comfort. “Ah, well, we’ve work to do, don’t we? But first I think you’ve earned a biscuit for being so welcoming to our cousin’s hound.”

She got one for him, smiled when he sat so politely. “How lucky am I to have so many loves in my life.” She leaned down, pressed a kiss to the top of his head, then offered the biscuit.

Content in the quiet, she made her tea, and she sat with her spell books, looking for whatever she might find on demons.

She had the whole of the afternoon to herself, a precious thing, so mixed work and reading with some baking to please herself. She put a chicken on the boil, thinking chicken soup with chunky vegetables and thick egg noodles would go well. If she didn’t have a houseful, she could freeze most of it for when she did.

With dusk she shifted her books to the kitchen so she could continue to work as she monitored her soup. She’d just rewarded herself with a glass of wine when Iona came in.

“Boy, I could use one of those. I took Nan back, got weepy—sad she had to go home, so happy she’s coming back. And I thought I was done for the day.” She poured the wine. “But Boyle texted me they’d had a group of twelve who’d celebrated New Year’s at Ashford, decided they’d finished feeling hungover and wanted guided rides. So it was back to work.”

She took her first sip. “And I’m babbling about all that—can babble about more if necessary—to keep from asking about you and Fin if you don’t want to be asked.”

“You may have gleaned we had sex.”

“I think we all gleaned that was a strong probability. Are you happy, Branna?”

Branna went to stir the soup. “I can say, without question, I’ve had a long-nagging itch thoroughly scratched, and I’m not sad about it. I’m happy,” she said when Iona just waited. “Today, I’m happy and that’s enough.”

“Then I’m happy.” She stepped closer, gave Branna a hug. “What can I do to help? In any area.”

“I’ve dinner under control. You could sit there, read over my notes, see what you think of it all.”

“Okay. Boyle and I were going to eat out, and stay at his place—and Connor and Meara the same. We thought you’d have plans with Fin and wanted to give you room. But you’ve got that vat of soup going, so . . .”

“Don’t change plans on my account. I’d already thought of freezing the bulk of it. I was in the mood to make soup, and give my head time to think that way.” She didn’t mention she’d made no plans with Fin—and wouldn’t mind a night alone.

“You’re planning to keep seeing him—being with him, I mean.”

“A day at a time, Iona. I won’t think on it further than that.”

“All right, but I may as well tell you Fin was by to talk through some business with Boyle and he looked . . . happy. Relaxed.”

“Sex will relax you in the aftermath. We’ve an understanding, Fin and I. We’re both content with it.”

“If you are, I am.” Iona sat, started to read.

Branna tested the soup, considered, then added more rosemary.

At the table, Iona said, “A portal! It makes so much sense. It’s an evil stone, created from human sacrifice—through patricide, matricide—what better way for a demon to transport into Cabhan? It
all
makes sense. Sorcha burned him to ash. We had him on the ropes—we had him bleeding under the damn ropes, but we didn’t deal with the demon. How do we?”

“Read on,” Branna suggested. She considered having her soup in her pajamas. Maybe even on a tray in her room while she read a book that had nothing to do with magicks, evil, or demons.

“A second poison,” Iona muttered, “a kind of one-two punch. And a spell that closes the portal. How do we close a portal opened through human sacrifice? That’s going to be tricky. And . . . Call the demon by his name.” She looked up and over at Branna. “You know its name?”

“I don’t, not yet. But it was the advice given me by Brannaugh of the first three. She came to me today. And I’ve written all that down as well, but the most important part to my thinking is it was the same day for her as it is for us. For her today was the first day of the year. I think if we can somehow stay balanced that way, we’ll draw more from each other.”

“Do we know any demonologists?”

“Not offhand, but . . . I suspect we could find one should we need one. I think it might be more simple and basic than that.”

“What’s simple and basic about finding out a demon’s name?”

“Asking it.”

Iona flopped back in the chair, gave a half laugh. “That would be simple. We could all come here, or all meet in the pub if you want to go over this tonight.”

“I think you can pass it all on well enough.”

“Then I will. When’s Fin coming by? I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Oh . . .” Branna went back to the soup. “We didn’t set any specific time. It’s best if we keep it more casual-like.”

“Gotcha. I’m going to go up, grab a shower, and change. I’ll just ask Boyle to swing by and get me. The four of us can put our heads together on it, and talk it to death with you and Fin later.”

“That would suit me very well.”

Evasive, Branna thought when alone again. She preferred evasive to deceptive. She hadn’t absolutely said she expected Fin. And it would give her brain a rest not to have to talk it all through, to give it all a day or two to stir around in her head first.

Maybe she’d rest her brain with the telly instead of a book. Watch something fun and frivolous. She couldn’t think of the last time she’d done only that.

“I’m heading out!” Iona called back. “Text me if you need me.”

“Have a good time.”

Branna waited until she heard the door close, then, smiling to herself, got out a container to freeze all but a bowl of the soup.

A bowl of soup, a glass of wine, followed by a bit of the apple crumble she’d baked earlier. A quiet house, old pajamas, and something happy on the telly.

Even as she thought what a lovely idea it all was, the door opened.

Fin, with Bugs on his heel, came in with a ridiculously enormous bouquet of lilacs. The scent of them filled the air with spring and promise. She wondered where he’d traveled for them, and arched her eyebrows.

“And I’m supposing you’re thinking a forest of flowers buys your way into dinner and sex?”

“You always favored lilacs. And both Boyle and Connor did mention going off tonight to give us the cottage to ourselves. Who am I to disappoint my mates?”

She got out her largest vase, began to fill it while Bugs and Kathel had a cheerful bout of wrestling. “I’m after a bowl of soup in front of the telly.”

“I’d be more than happy with that.”

She took the lilacs, breathed them in—remembered doing the same on a long-ago spring when he’d brought her an equally huge bouquet of them.

“I baked an apple crumble to follow.”

“I’m fond of apple crumble.”

“So I recall.” And so, she thought, this explained why she’d had a yen to bake one. “I had myself a fine plan for the evening. An all but perfect one for me.” She laid the flowers aside a moment, turned to him. “All but perfect, and now it is. It’s perfect now you’re here.”

She walked into his arms, pressed her face into his shoulder. “You’re here,” she murmured.

•   •   •

BRANNA THOUGHT OF IT AS REFOCUSING. WEEKS AND WEEKS
of studying, charting, calculating had brought her no closer to a time and date for the third and, please the gods, last battle with Cabhan. She rarely slept well or long, and she had eyes to see the lack of sleep had begun to show.

Pure vanity if nothing else demanded a change of direction.

Now that she was bedding Fin and being bedded by him, very well, thank you very much, she couldn’t say she’d gotten more sleep, but she’d rested considerably better in those short hours.

Still, she’d gotten no further, not on the when or precisely the how. So, she’d refocus.

Routine always steadied her. Her work, her home, her family, and the cycle that spun them together. A new year meant new stock for her shop, meant seeds to be planted in her greenhouse flats. Negative energies should be swept out, and protection charms refreshed.

Added to it she had two weddings to help plan.

She spent the morning on her stock. Pleased with her new scents, she filled the containers she’d ordered for the Blue Ice line, labeled all, stacked them for transport to the village with the stack of candles she’d replenished from the stock Iona had decimated for Fin’s party.

After a check of her list, she made up more of the salve Boyle used at the stables. She could drop that by if the day went well, and thinking of it, added a second jar for the big stables.

A trip to the market as well, she decided. Despite it being Iona’s turn for it, Branna thought she’d enjoy a trip to the village, a drive in the air. The dinner with the rest of her circle after their night away hadn’t accomplished much more than emptying her container of soup, so the stop by the market was necessary.