Blood Magick (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #3)(17)

He gave the little stable dog Bugs a treat, then on impulse picked him up, took him along to the house. Fin imagined they’d both enjoy the company.

He liked his quiet and alone as much as Branna did hers—or nearly. But the nights were so bleeding long in December, and the chill and dark so unrelenting. He couldn’t pop up to Boyle’s above the garage as he’d often done in the past, and he expected Boyle and his Iona would end up at Branna’s even though she tried to discourage it.

They would guard her, as he could not.

That alone stirred rage and frustration he had to shove back down.

He set the dog down inside the house, flicked a hand to the fire to have the flames snapping, another toward the tree he’d put in the big front window.

The dog pranced around, his joy at being inside so palpable, Fin smiled and settled a little. Yes, they’d both do well with the company.

He wandered back toward the kitchen, its light bright on all the gleaming surfaces, got himself a beer.

She’d only been in his home once, and only as Connor was there, and hurt. But he could see her there. He’d always seen her there. It ground his pride to admit he’d built the place with her in mind, with the dreams they’d once woven together in mind.

He carried a few of her candles into the dining room, put the tapers in silver holders, set out some of the mirrored ones. Yes, they caught the light well, he decided. Though she’d be unlikely to see her work in his space.

He thought of making some food, but put it off as he purely hated to cook. He’d slap something together later, he decided, as a trip to the pub for a meal didn’t appeal with the rain thrashing.

He could go downstairs, wile away some of the evening with sports on the big TV, or kill time with a game or two. He could stretch out with another beer in front of the fire with a book that wasn’t all magicks and spells.

“I can do whatever I bloody well please,” he told Bugs. “And it’s my own fault, isn’t it, that nothing pleases me. Maybe it’s just the rain and the dark. What would please me is a hot beach, some blasting sun, and a willing woman. And that’s not altogether true, is it?”

He crouched, sent Bugs into paralytic joy by giving him a belly rub. “Would we were all so easily happy as a little stable dog. Well, enough of this. I’m tired of myself. We’ll go up and work, for the sooner this is done, the sooner I’ll find if that hot beach is the answer after all.”

The dog followed him, slavishly devout, as he walked back, then up the wide stairs to the second floor. He thought of a hot shower, maybe a steam as well, but turned directly into his workroom. There he lit the fire as well, flames shimmering in a frame of deep green tourmaline while the dog explored.

He’d designed every inch of the room—with some help from Connor—the black granite work counters, the deep mahogany cabinetry, the wide plank cypress floors that ran throughout the house. Tall, arched windows, with the center one of stained glass that created the image of a woman in white robes bound by a jeweled belt. She held a wand in one hand, a ball of flame in the other while her black hair swirled in an unseen wind.

It was Branna, of course, with the moon full behind her and the deep forest surrounding her. The Dark Witch watched him with eyes, even in glass, full of power and light.

He had a heavy antique desk—topped by a state-of-the-art computer. Witches didn’t fear technology. A cabinet with thick and carved doors held weapons he’d collected the world over. Swords, a broadaxe, maces, foils, throwing stars. Others held cauldrons, bowls, candles, wands, books, bells, athames, and still others various potions and ingredients.

She would have liked the room, he thought, for when it came to work as well as living, he was nearly as ruthlessly tidy as she.

Bugs looked up at him, tail wagging hopefully. Reading him, Fin smiled.

“Go ahead then. Make yourself at home.”

The dog wagged more fiercely, then ran over and leaped onto a curved divan, circled about, and settled down with a sigh of utter contentment.

Fin worked into the night, dealing with practical matters such as charms—protection needed refreshing with regularity—on tonics and potions. Something specifically for Maggie. He cleansed some crystals—what he thought of as housework—as that needed doing as well.

He’d have forgotten supper altogether, but he felt the dog’s hunger. He went down, Bugs on his heels, put together a sandwich, some crisps, sliced up an apple. As he’d neglected to bring in any food for the dog, he simply shared the meal, amusing them both by tossing bits of sandwich for Bugs to snatch out of the air as handily as he did the bugs from which he’d earned his name.

Considering the practical again, he let the dog out, kept his mind linked with Bugs so he’d know if the little hound headed back to the stables after the practical was seen to.

But Bugs pranced right back to the kitchen door, sat, and waited until Fin opened it for him.

“All right then, it seems you’re spending the night. And that being the case, it’s God’s truth you could use a shower even more than I. You carry the stables with you, little friend. Let’s take care of that.”

In the bath, the shower nearly had Bugs scrambling off, but Fin was quick. And laughing, carted the dog in with him. “It’s just water. Though we’re going to add soap all around.”

Bugs trembled, lapped at the spray coming out of the many jets, wiggled against Fin’s bare chest when Fin rubbed in some of the liquid soap.