Blood Magick (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #3)(61)

“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.”

“I saw him, glimpses when I took out a guided this morning,” Meara said.

“I saw him, too, on one of mine. I didn’t have a chance to tell anyone.” Iona puffed out a breath. “He’s feeling strong again, and getting bolder.”

“Easier to end him when he’s not hiding,” Boyle pointed out. “I have to get back to the stables. I can spare either Meara or Iona if you need, Branna.”

“I’m fine now, and I . . . Oh bloody hell!” She pushed to her feet. “I’d been marketing, and all I bought is still in the car.”

“I’ll see to it,” Connor told her.

“And put everything where I won’t find it? I bought a fine cut of beef, and had in mind to roast it.”

“With the little potatoes and carrots and onions all roasting with it?”

Meara cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Connor, only you would think of your stomach when your sister’s barely settled.”

“As he knows I’m fine, and if I wasn’t, cooking would settle me the rest of the way.”

“We’ll bring it in here.” Fin spoke in a tone that brooked no argument. “If you’ve a mind to cook, you can cook here. If you need something I don’t have, we’ll get it. I’ve some work in the stables, and more upstairs, but someone will be close.”

He walked out, she assumed to bring in her groceries.

“Give him a break.” Iona spoke quietly, got up herself, rubbed a hand on Branna’s arm. “Giving him a break doesn’t make you weak, won’t make him think you are. It’ll just give him a break.”

“He might have asked what I wanted to do.”

Connor kissed her temple. “You might have asked the same of him. We’ll be off then, and back in time for dinner. If you need anything, you’ve only to let me know.”

When they all left, Branna sat back down and had a good brood into the fire.





13




BRANNA DECIDED, GIVEN THE CIRCUMSTANCES, SHE’D just call what she needed to her. It seemed the best place to work on her research and studies would be the breakfast nook in his kitchen, and that way all would be close to hand when the roast was in the oven.

He kept his distance from her, and his silence—and both, she knew bloody well, were deliberate acts. Let him have his temper, she thought. She had one of her own, and the cold shoulder he offered only kept it stirred on a simmer.

On top of it all, it irritated her not to be able to stamp out the pleasure of cooking a real meal in his kitchen. It had such a nice flow to it, such fine finishes, such canny little bits of businesses such as the pot filler near the cooktop should she have a big pot to fill and not want to haul it from sink to stove.

And the cooktop she coveted. Then she might’ve had a six-burner commercial grade herself if she’d envisioned cooking for so many so often.

It didn’t seem right a man who didn’t cook himself should have a kitchen superior to hers—and she’d considered her own a dream of style and efficiency.

So she brooded about that while she let the meat marinate, and set up her temporary desk in his nook.

Another cup of tea, a couple of biscuits—store-bought, of course—and her dog along with Bugs snoring under the table. She passed the time working on the formula for the second poison—ingredients, words, timing—sent a long email to her father in case he knew, or knew anyone who knew, more of demons than she could uncover.

By the time Fin came in, grubby from the stables, she’d abandoned her books and sat at his counter peeling carrots.