Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(10)

“No, no. But nearly. He grows stronger, and I weaker. I fear I can’t hold him.”

“There is none stronger than you. He will never touch the Dark Witch.”

Her heart broke at his faith in her, for she could no longer earn it. “I’m not well.”

“What is this?”

“I didn’t wish to burden you, and . . . no, my pride. I valued it too much, but now I cast it away. I fear what comes, Daithi. I fear him. I cannot hold him without you. For our children, for our lives, come home.”

“I will ride tonight. I will bring men with me, and ride for home.”

“At first light. Wait for the light, for the dark is his. And be swift.”

“Two days. I will be home with you in two days. And Cabhan will know the bite of my sword. I swear it.”

“I will watch for you, and wait for you. I am yours in this life and all that come.”

“Heal, my witch.” He brought her hands to his lips. “It’s all I will ever ask of you.”

“Come home, and I will heal.”

“Two days.”

“Two days.” She kissed him, holding tight and close. And carried the kiss with her as she flew back over the mirror of the moon and the green hills.

She came back into her body, tired, so tired, but stronger as well. The magick between them flowed rich, flowed true.

Two days, she thought, and closed her eyes. While he rode to her she would rest, she would let the magick build again. Keep the children close, draw in the light.

She slept again; she dreamed again.

And saw in her dream he didn’t wait for the light. He mounted in the moonlight, under the cold stars. His face was fierce as his horse danced over the hard ground.

His horse lunged forward, far outpacing the mounts of the three men who rode with him.

Using the moonlight and the stars, Daithi rode for home, for his family, for his woman. For the Dark Witch he loved more than his life.

When the wolf leaped out of the dark, he barely had time to clear his sword from its sheath. Daithi struck out, but cut through only air as the horse reared. Fog rose like gray walls, trapping him, blocking his men.

He fought, but the wolf sprang over the blade, time after time, snapping out with its jaws, swiping viciously with claws only to vanish into the fog. Only to charge out from it again.

She flew to reach him, soaring over those hills again, across the water.

She knew when those jaws tore, knew when the blood spilled from his heart—from hers. Her tears fell like rain, washing away the fog. Crying his name, she dropped to the ground beside him.

She tried her strongest spell, her most powerful charm, but his heart would not beat again.

As she clasped Daithi’s hand in hers, cried to the goddess for mercy, she heard the wolf laugh in the dark.


*


BRANNAUGH SHIVERED IN SLEEP. DREAMS STALKED HER, FULL of blood and snarls and death. She struggled to outpace them, to break free. She wanted her mother, wanted her father, wanted the sun and warmth of spring.

But clouds and cold covered her. The wolf stepped out of the fog and into her path. And its fangs dripped red and wet.

On a muffled cry she shoved up on her pallet and clutched her amulet. Curling her knees up, she hugged them hard, swiped her teary face against her thighs to dry them. She wasn’t a babe to weep over bad dreams.

It was past time to wake Eamon, and then hope to sleep more calmly in her own cot.

She turned her head first to check on her mother, and saw the chair empty. Knuckling her eyes, she called softly for her mother as she started to rise.

And she saw Sorcha lying on the floor between the fire and the loft ladder, still as death.

“Ma! Ma!” Terror seized her as she sprang over to drop at her mother’s side. Hands shaking, she turned Sorcha over to cradle her mother’s head in her lap. Saying her name over and over like a chant.

Too white, too still, too cold. Rocking, Brannaugh acted without thought or plan. When the heat surged through her, she poured it into her mother. Those shaking hands pressed hard, hard on Sorcha’s heart as her own head fell back, as her eyes glazed and fixed. The black smoke of them pulled for the light and shot arrows of it into her mother.

The heat poured out, the cold poured in, until shuddering, she slumped forward. Sky and sea revolved; light and dark swirled. Pain such as she’d never known sliced through her belly, stabbed into her heart.

Then was gone, leaving only exhaustion.

From somewhere far away, she heard her hound baying.

“No more, no more.” Sorcha’s voice croaked out, harsh and weak. “Stop. Brannaugh, you must stop.”

“You need more. I will find more.”

“No. Do as I say. Quiet breaths, quiet mind, quiet heart. Breath, mind, heart.”

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Eamon came flying down the ladder. “Ma!”

“I found her. Help me, help me get her to bed.”

“No, not bed. No time for it,” Sorcha said. “Eamon, let Kathel in, and wake Teagan.”

“She’s waked, she’s here.”

“Ah, there’s my baby. Not to fret.”

“There’s blood. Your hands have blood.”

“Aye.” Burying her grief, Sorcha stared at her hands. “’Tisn’t mine.”

“Fetch a cloth, Teagan, and we’ll wash her.”