Blood Magick (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #3)(100)

Together, all six approached Sorcha’s grave.

“We place upon your grave these pure white blooms to mark the anniversary of your doom. Bring wine and honey and bread, a tribute of life given to the dead.”

It grew colder. Branna swore she could all but feel the rise of Cabhan’s excitement, his greed. But she found no name in the undulating fog.

“These herbs we scatter on the ground to release your spirit from its bounds. With respect we kneel and make to you this appeal. Sealed with our blood, three and three, fire burn in through the night and meet our need most dire, grant us what we ask of thee.”

One by one they scored their palms, let the blood drip onto the ground by the stone.

“In this place, at this hour, through your love and by our power, send to us your children three so all may meet their destiny.”

A howl came through the fog, a sound of wild fury. Fin dropped the cloak as he drew his sword, leaped to his feet beside Branna and the others.

“Send them here and send them now,” Branna shouted, and Fin and Connor moved to block her from any attack. Iona, Boyle, and Meara worked quickly to cast a circle while she finished the ritual.

“Those with your powers you did endow. Three by three by three we fight.” She shot out fire of her own to block Cabhan from pivoting into an attack as her friends hurried to cast the circle, and open a portal for the first three.

“Three by three by three we take the night. Mother, grant this boon, let them fly across the moon and set your spirit free. As we will, so mote it be.”

The ground shook. She nearly lost her footing as she spun around to race toward the circle, glanced back quickly to see Cabhan hurl what looked like a wall of black fire toward Fin and Connor. Even as she reached for Iona’s hand, to join what they had, the wind picked her up like a cold hand, threw her across the clearing.

Though she landed hard enough to rattle bones, she saw Fin battling back with flaming sword and heaving ground, Connor lashing the air like a whip. Light and dark clashed, and the sound was huge, like worlds toppling.

Meara charged forward, sword slashing, and Boyle released a volley of small fireballs that slashed and burned the snaking fog. With no choice but to attack, defend, it left Iona alone to complete the circle.

He’s stronger, Branna realized, somehow stronger than he’d been on Samhain. Whatever was inside him had drawn on more, drawn out more. The last battle, she thought; they knew it, and so did Cabhan.

He called the rats so they vomited out of the ground. He called the bats, so they spilled like vengeance from the sky. And Iona, cut off, fought to hold them back as hawk, hound, horse trampled and tore.

Duty, loyalty. Love. Branna sprang to her feet, rushed through the boiling rats to leap onto Aine’s back. And with a ball of fire in one hand, a shining wand in the other, flew toward her cousin and the incomplete circle.

She lashed out with fire, with light, carving a path. She called on her gift, brought down a hot rain to drown Cabhan’s feral weapons. When she reached Iona, she released a torrent that drove all away from Sorcha’s cabin.

“Finish it!” she shouted. “You can finish it.”

Then came the snakes, boiling along the ground. She heard—felt—Kathel’s pain as fangs tore at him. The fury that burst through her turned them to ash.

Branna wheeled her horse to guard Iona, but her cousin shouted, “I’ve got this! I’ve got it. Go help the others.”

Fearing the worst, Branna charged through the wall of black fire.

It choked her, the stench of sulfur. She pulled rain, warm and pure, out of the air to wash it away. The fire snapped and sizzled as she fought her way through it.

They bled, her family, as they battled.

Once more she wheeled the horse, pulled her power up, up, up.

Now the rain, and the wind, now the quake and the fire. Now all at once in a maelstrom that crashed against Cabhan’s wrath. Smoke swirled, a sting to the eyes, a burn in the throat, but she saw fear, just one wild flicker of it, in the sorcerer’s eyes before he hunched and became the wolf.

“It’s done!” Iona called out. “It’s done. The light. It’s growing.”

“I see them,” Meara, her face wet with sweat and blood, shouted. “I can see them, the shadows of them. Go,” she said to Connor. “Go.”

“We’ll hold him.” Boyle punched out, fire and fist.

“By God we will. Go.” Fin met Branna’s eyes. “Or it’s for nothing.”

No choice, she thought, holding out a hand for Connor so he could grip it, swing onto Aine with her.

“She’s hurt. Meara’s hurt.”

“We have to pull them through, Connor. It’s the three who bring the three. Without them, we may not be able to heal her.”

Kathel, she thought, bleeding from the muzzle, from the flank, Alastar slashing hooves in the air, hawks screaming as they dived with flashing talons.

And for nothing if they couldn’t bring Sorcha’s three fully into the now.

She rode straight into the circle, slid off the horse with her brother. She took Iona’s hand, Connor’s, and felt the power rise, felt the light burn.

“Three by three by three,” she shouted. “This is magick’s prophecy. Join with us no matter the cost, come through now or all is lost. Stand with us on this night and by our blood we finish this fight.”