Blood Magick (17 page)

With a glance at the clock she calculated she could be back in two hours, at the outside. Then she’d try her hand at creating a demon poison. Wrapped in her coat, a bold red and blue scarf, and the cashmere fingerless gloves she’d splurged on as a Yule gift to herself, she loaded up her car.

As Kathel was nowhere in sight, she sent her mind to his, found him spending some quality time with Bugs and the horses. She gave him leave to stay till it suited him, then drove herself to Cong.

She spent half her allotted time in the village, loitering with Eileen in the shop. More time in the market, buying supplies and exchanging gossip with Minnie O’Hara, who knew all there was to know—including the fact that on New Year’s Eve Young Tim McGee (as opposed to his father Big Tim, and his grandfather Old Tim) had gotten himself drunk as a pirate. And so being had serenaded Lana Kerry—she who had broken off their three-year engagement for lack of movement—below her flat window with songs of deep despair, sadly off key.

It was well known Young Tim couldn’t sing a note without causing the village dogs to howl in protest. He had begun this at near to half-three in the morning, and until the French girl in the flat below—one Violet Bosette who worked now in the cafe—opened her own window and heaved out an old boot. For a French girl, Minnie considered, her aim was dead-on, and she clunked Young Tim right upside the head, knocking him flat on his arse where he continued to serenade.

At which time Lana came out and hauled him inside. When they’d emerged near to dinnertime the next day, the ring was on Lana’s finger once more, and a wedding date set for May Day.

It was a fine story, Branna thought as she drove out of the village again, especially as she knew all the participants but the French girl with good aim.

And it had been worth the extra time spent.

She took the long way around just for the pleasure of it, and was nearly within sight of the stables when she saw the old man on the side of the road, down on his knees and leaning heavily on a walking stick.

She pulled up sharply, got out.

“Sir, are you hurt?” She started toward him, began to search for injuries or illness with her mind.

Then stopped, angled her head. “Have you fallen, sir?”

“My heart, I think. I can bare get my breath. Will you help me, young miss?”

“Sure and I’ll help you.” She reached out a hand for his, and punched power into it. The old man flew back in a tumble.

“Do you think to trick me with such a ploy?” She tossed back her hair as the old man lifted his head, to look at her. “That I couldn’t see through the shell to what’s inside?”

“You stopped, outside your protection.” As the old man rose, he became Cabhan, smiling now as the red stone pulsed light.

“Do you think I’m without protection? Come then.” She gestured with an insulting wiggle of her fingers. “Have a go at me.”

The fog spread, nipping like icy needles at her ankles; the sky darkened in a quick, covering dusk. Cabhan dropped to the ground, became the wolf, and the wolf gathered itself, leaped.

With a wave of hands, palms out, Branna threw up a block that sent the wolf crashing against the air, falling back.

Poor choice, she thought, watching it as it stalked her. For in this form she could read Cabhan like the pages of a book.

She probed inside, searched for a name, but sensed only rage and hunger.

So when he charged as wolf from the right, she was prepared for the man rushing in from the left. And she met fire with fire, power with power.

It surprised her the earth itself didn’t crack from the force that flew out of her, the force that flashed out at her. But the air snapped and sizzled with it. She held, held, while the muscles of her body, the muscles of her power ached with the effort. While she held, the brutal cold of the fog rose higher.

Though her focus, her eyes, her magicks locked with his, she felt his fingers—its fingers—crawl up her leg.

Sheer insult had force. She swung what she had out at him so it struck like a fist. Though it bloodied his mouth, he laughed. She knew she’d misjudged, let temper haze sense, when he lunged forward and closed his hands over her breasts.

Only an instant, but even that was far too much. Now she merged temper, intellect, and skill and called the rain—a warm flashing flood that washed away the fog and burned his skin where the drops fell.

She braced for the next attack, saw it coming in his eyes, then she heard, as he did, the thunder of hoofbeats, the high, challenging cry of the hawk, the ferocious howl of the hound.

“Soft and ripe and fertile. And in you I’ll plant my seed and my son.”

“I’ll burn your cock off at the root and feed it smoldering to the ravens should you try. Oh, but stay, Cabhan.” She spread her arms, stopped the rain, held a wand of blinding light and a ball of fire. “My circle comes to greet you.”

“Another time, Sorcha, for I would have you alone.”

Even as Fin slid from his still-racing Baru, his sword flaming, Cabhan swirled into mists.

Fin and Kathel reached her on a run, and Fin gripped her shoulders.

“Did he hurt you?”

“I’m not hurt.” But as she said it she realized her breasts throbbed, a dark throb like a rotted tooth. “Or not enough to matter.”

She laid one hand on Fin’s heart, the other on Kathel’s head. “Be easy,” she said as the others came up on horseback or in lorries. The hawks—Roibeard and Merlin—landed together on the roof of Boyle’s lorry. Before she could speak through the rapid-fire questions, she saw Bugs running for all he was worth down the road to her.

“Brave heart,” she crooned, and crouched to gather him up when he reached her. “It’s too open here,” she told the others. “And I’m right enough.”

“Connor, will you see to Branna’s car? She’ll ride with me. My house is closest.”

“I can drive perfectly well,” Branna began, but he simply picked her up, set her in the saddle, then swung up behind her.

“You take too much for granted,” she said stiffly.

“And you’re too pale.”

She held Bugs safe as Baru lunged forward.

If she was pale, Branna thought, it was only because it had been an intense battle, however short. She’d get her color back, and her balance with it quickly enough.

No point in arguing, she decided, as the lot of them were worried for her—as she’d have been for any of them in the same case.

When they reached the stables, Fin swung down, plucked her off, and called out to an openmouthed Sean, “See to the horses.”

Since she deemed it more mortifying to struggle, Branna allowed him to carry her into his house.

“You’ve made a scene for no reason, and will have tongues wagging throughout the county.”

“Cabhan going at you in the middle of the road in the middle of the day is reason enough. You’ll have some whiskey.”

“I won’t, but I’d have some tea if it’s no trouble to you.”

He started to speak, then just turned on his heel, leaving her on his living room sofa as he strode off to the kitchen.

In the moment alone, she tugged at the neck of her sweater, looked down at herself. She could clearly see the imprint of Cabhan’s fingers on her skin over the top of her bra. She rose, deciding the matter would be best dealt with in private.

And the rest of her circle, along with her dog, crowded in.

“Don’t start. I want the powder room a moment first.” She sent a look at Meara, at Iona, the request clear in her eyes.

So they followed her into the pretty little half bath under the stairs.

“What is it?” Iona demanded. “What don’t you want them to see?”

“I’d as soon my brother and your fiancé don’t get a gander of my breasts.” So saying she stripped off the sweater. And on Meara’s hiss of breath, the bra.

“Oh, Branna,” Iona murmured, lifted her hands. “Let me.”

“If you’d lay your hands over mine.” Branna covered her own breasts. “I could do it myself, but it’ll be faster and easier with your help.”

Branna searched inside herself, brought up the warmth of healing, sighed into it when Iona joined her, and again when Meara just put an arm around her waist.

“It’s not deep. He only had me for a fraction of a second.”

“It hurts deep.”

Branna nodded at Iona. “It does, or did. It’s easing already, and my own fault for giving him even that small opening.”

“I think it’ll go faster, hurt less if you look into me. If you boost what I can do with what you have. Just for this, okay? Look at me, Branna. Look into me. The hurt lifts out, let it go. The bruising eases. Feel the warm.”

She let it go, opened herself, twined what she had with Iona.

“It’s clear. He’s left no mark on or in you. You’re . . .” Iona paused, still searching for injury. And her eyes widened.

“Oh, Branna.”

“Ah, well, I supposed that’s next.” She unhooked her pants, let them fall to reveal the streaks of bruising up her inner thighs.

“Bloody bastard,” Meara muttered and took Branna’s hand in a strong grip.

“It was the fog, a kind of sly attack. More a brush than a squeeze, so it’s not as dark or painful. Have at it, Iona, if you wouldn’t mind.”

She let herself go again, let herself drift on the warmth Iona gave her until even the echo of pain faded.

“He wanted to frighten me, to attack me on the level women fear most. But he didn’t frighten me.” Calmly Branna hooked her pants again, slipped into her bra, then her sweater. “He enraged me, which gave him the same chance to rush my defenses and find that one small chink. It won’t happen a second time.”

She turned to the mirror over the sink, gave herself a hard look—and a very light glamour.

“There, that’s done the job. Thank you, both of you. I’ll see if Fin’s made a decent cup of tea and tell you all what happened.”

She stepped out. Connor stopped pacing the foyer, strode straight to her, caught her up against him.

“I’m fine, I promise. I . . . No prying into my head, Connor, you’ll only annoy me.”

“I’ve a right to be certain my sister’s unharmed.”

“I’ve said I am.”

“He left the mark of his hands, black as pitch, on her breasts.”

At Meara’s words, Branna twisted around, astonished by the betrayal.

“There’s no holding things back.” Meara stiffened her spine. “It’s not fair or right, and not smart, either. You’d say so yourself if it was me or Iona.”

When Connor started to pull up her sweater, Branna slapped his hands away. “Mind yourself! Iona and I took care of it. Ask her yourself if you can’t take my word.”

“There’s not a trace of him in or on her,” Iona confirmed. “But he’d put his marks on her, up her thighs, on her breasts.”

“He put his hands on you.” Fin spoke with a quiet that roared like thunder.

Branna closed her eyes a moment. She hadn’t sensed him come up behind her. “I let him rile me, so it’s my own fault.”

“You said you weren’t hurt.”

“I didn’t know I was until I got back here and had a look. It was nothing near what Connor dealt with, or Boyle, or you. He bruised me, and where he did is a violation as he meant it to be.”

Fin turned away, walked to the fire, stared into it.

It was Boyle who moved to Branna, put an arm around her waist. “Come on now, darling. You’ll sit down and have your tea. You’d do better with some whiskey in it.”

“My sensibilities aren’t damaged. I’m not so delicate as that. But thank you. Thank all of you for coming so quickly.”

“Not quick enough.”

She gave Connor’s arm a squeeze when he sat beside her. “That’s likely my doing as well, and I’ll confess it, as Meara—and rightfully—has shamed me into bare truth. I wanted just a moment or two, and took it before I called for you. And before you all rain down on my head, it
was
but a moment or two, and I had good reason.”

“Good reason?” Fin turned back. “Not to call your circle?”

“For a moment,” she repeated. “I’m well protected.”

Rage, pure and vicious, burned in his eyes. “Not so well he couldn’t put his hands on you, and leave marks behind.”

“My own fault. I’d hoped he’d change into the wolf, and he did. The hound is mine, and a wolf is the same. I thought I might be able to pull out the name of the demon, now that we know we’re looking for one. But it wasn’t long enough, and all I found was the black, and the greed. I need longer. I believe, I promise you, I could dig out the name if I had longer.”

She picked up her tea, sipped, and found it strong enough to battle a few sorcerers on its own. And that was fine with her.

“He came as an old man, looking ill and sick on the side of the road. He thought to trick me, and did—but only for a handful of seconds, and only because I’m a healer and it’s my call and my duty to help those who need it.”

“Which he knew very well,” Connor said.

“Of course. But he persists in thinking of women, whatever their power, as less, as weak, and as foolish. So I turned the trick on him, pretended I thought him an old helpless man, then knocked him head over arse.

“It’s true I should have called for you right at that moment, and you have my word on it, I won’t take even that little time again before I do. He did what I hoped, as I said, came at me as the wolf.”

She took them through it, left out no detail, then set the tea aside.

Connor drew her tight against him. “Feed his cock to the ravens, will you?”

“It’s what came to me at the time.”

“And the stone?”

“Brilliantly bright at the start of it. And bright again when he took hold of me. But when my rain burned him, it went muddy.”

She took another breath. “And there came a kind of madness in his eyes. He called me Sorcha. He looked at me, and he saw her, as Fin said when he saw me in the cave. It’s still Sorcha for him.”

“Centuries.” Eyes narrowed, Boyle nodded. “Being what he is, wanting what he wants and never getting it. It would breed a madness, and she’s the center of it for him.”

“And now you are,” Fin finished. “You have the look of her. I’ve enough to see his thoughts to know he sees her in you.”

“She is in me, but there was a confusion in that madness. And confusion is a weakness. Any weakness is an advantage for us.”