Blood Magick (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #3)(23)

“Midor.” A name, at least, Branna thought, to work from. “Do you know of Cabhan’s origins? There is no word of it in the book, in Sorcha’s book.”

“She never spoke of it. We were children, cousin, and at the end, there was no time. Would it help to know?”

“I’m not sure, but knowing is always better than not. I was there, in a dream. With Fin. Finbar Burke.”

“Of the Burkes of Ashford? No, no,” she said quickly. “This is the one, the one of your circle who is Cabhan’s blood. His blood drew him to this place, and you with him?”

“I don’t know, nor does he. He is not Cabhan, he is not like Cabhan.”

Now Sorcha’s Brannaugh looked into her own fire. “Does your heart speak, cousin, or your head?”

“Both. He’s bled with us. You saw yourself, or will on Samhain night. And you will judge for yourself. Midor,” she repeated. “The light brought me here, and it may be for only this. I’ve never heard of Midor’s cave. I think this may be buried in time, but I know how to pick up a shovel and dig.”

They both looked toward the tall window as the howling rose up outside.

“He hunts and stalks.” Brannaugh held her son closer. “Already since we’ve come home a village girl’s gone missing. He pushed the dark against the windows, swirls his fog. Beware the shadows.”

“I do, and will.”

“Take this.” Shifting the baby, she held out her hand, and in it a spear of crystal clear as water. “A gift for you, and a light.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep it with me. Be well, cousin, and bright blessings to you and your son.”

“And to you. Samhain,” she murmured as Branna felt herself pulled away. “I will tip my arrows with poison, and do all in my power to end him.”

But you won’t, Branna thought as she sat in front of her own fire again, studying the crystal in her hand. Not on Samhain.

Another time, gods willing, but not on Samhain.

She rose, tucking the gift into her pocket. Choosing her laptop over the books, she began to search for Midor’s cave.

? ? ?

“I COULDN’T FIND A BLOODY THING THAT APPLIED TO THIS.” Branna sat, poking at the salad she’d made to go with a pretty penne and a round of olive bread.

“I’m not sure you can Google the cave of a sorcerer from the twelfth or thirteenth century.” Meara slathered butter on the bread.

“You can Google near to every bleeding thing.”

“Is it an Irish name? Midor?” Iona wondered.

“Not one I’ve heard. But he might’ve come from anywhere, from the bowels of hell for all we know, and ended up dying in front of that cave.”

“What about the mother?” Iona gestured with her wine. “Midor had to sire Cabhan—if we’ve got that right—with someone. Where’s the mother? Who’s the mother?”

“There’s nothing, just nothing about any of this in Sorcha’s book, in my great-grandmother’s. Maybe it’s not important after all.” Branna fisted her chin on her hand. “And bollocks to that. Some of it must be or Fin and I wouldn’t have gone to that shagging cave.”

“We’ll figure it out. Ah, this pasta’s brilliant,” Meara added. “We will figure it out, Branna. Maybe it’s Connor’s absolute faith rubbing off, but I believe it. Things are starting up again, you see? You having visits with Sorcha’s Brannaugh, you and Fin going on dreamwalks after a bit of a dream shag.”

Iona hunched her shoulders, then relaxed them again when she saw from Branna’s face Meara handled it just right.

“Wasn’t much of a shag,” Branna admitted. “It took premature ejaculation to a new level entirely. Fate’s a buggering bitch, I say. It’s all, Here you are, Branna, remember this? Then it’s, Well, remembering’s all you’ll get. And it’s back to the blood and the dark and the evildoings for you.”

“You’re tired of it.” Iona reached over, rubbed her arm.

“Tonight I am, that’s for certain. No one’s ever touched me like Fin, and I’m tired enough of it tonight to say so out loud. No one, not my body or my heart or my spirit besides. And no one will. Knowing that, well, it can make you tired.”

Iona started to speak, but Meara shook her head, silenced her.

“I didn’t need to be reminded of it. It was cruel, but magick can be. Here’s a gift, and oh, look what you are, what you have. But you can never be sure what you’ll pay for it.”

“He’s paid as well,” Meara said gently.

“Sure I know it. More than any other. It was easier when I could be angry or feel betrayed. But what needs doing can’t be done with anger and hard feelings. Letting them go brings back so much. Too much. So I have to ask how do I do what needs doing when I feel all this? It needs to be let go as well.”

“Love’s power,” Iona said after a moment. “I think even when it hurts, it’s power.”

“That may be. No, that is,” Branna corrected. “But how to use it and not be swallowed by it, that’s a fine, thin line, isn’t it? And right now I feel weighed and unbalanced and . . .”

She trailed off, laid a hand lightly on Iona’s, the other on Meara’s. “Beware the shadows,” she murmured, looking out the window where they dug deep pockets in the wall of fog.