Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(109)

He took a crystal, round as a ball, clear as water, from his own pocket, cupped it in the palm of his hand.

As he spoke in Irish, the ball began to glow, to lift an inch above his hand. And to revolve, slower, then faster, faster until it blurred with speed.

“He seeks, blood to blood, mark to mark,” Branna told Iona quietly. “He uses what he is, what they share, to see, to stir. He . . .”

Fin’s eyes began to gleam, to glow, as unearthly a light as the crystal.

“Not so deep! He can’t—”

Connor caught Branna’s arm before she lurched forward. “He knows what he’s about.”

But for a moment, something dark lived behind the light in Fin’s eyes. Then it was gone.

“I have him.” His face a mask, Fin closed his fingers over the crystal. “He’ll come.”

“Where is he?” Boyle demanded.

“Not far. I gave him your scent,” he told Iona. “He’ll follow it, and you.”

“Then I’ll take him where we want him.”

“We’re behind you.” Meara grasped Iona’s arms. “Every one of us.”

“I know.” She breathed slow, kept her calm. “I believe.”

She touched her fingers to the hilt of the sword at her side, looked from one to the other, and thought what a wonder it was to have them all, to have what was inside her, to have such a purpose.

“I won’t let you down,” she said and started for the door.

“Bloody hell.” In two strides Boyle caught her, whirled her around, crushed his mouth to hers with everything that lived inside him.

“Take that with you,” he demanded, and set her aside.

“I will.” And she smiled before she walked out into the soft light of the longest day.

Alastar waited, pawed the ground at her approach.

Yeah, she thought, we’re ready, you and I.

She gripped his mane, hurled herself into the saddle. She closed a hand briefly around her amulet, felt heat pulse from it.

Ready, she thought again, and let Alastar have his head.

Faster was better. The others would come as quickly as they could, but the faster she reached her ground, the less time Cabhan could plot, plan, question.

Wind rushed by her ears. The ground thundered. And they flew.

When she reached the downed tree, the wall of vines, she drew her sword.

“I am Iona. I am the Dark Witch. I am the blood. I am one of three, and this is my right.”

She slashed out. The vines fell with a sound like glass shattering, and she rode through.

Like the dream she’d had that night at Ashford, she thought. Riding alone through the deep forest, through air so much stiller than it had a right to be, where the light went dim though the sun showered down.

She saw the ruins ahead, vine– and brush-covered as if it grew out of the trees. She walked the horse toward it, and toward the stone that bore Sorcha’s name.

Now her skin vibrated. Not nerves, she realized, but power. Energy. Alastar quivered under her, let out a bugle that sounded of triumph.

“Yes, we’ve been here before. The place of our blood. The place where our power was born.” She dismounted, looped the reins, knowing Alastar would stay with her, stay close.

She took the vial from her pocket, crushed it under her boot.

So it would begin.

From the bag she’d secured to the saddle, she took the flowers first. Simple wood violets, then a small flask holding bloodred wine.

“For the mother of my mother and hers, and all who lived and died, who bore the gift with its joys and sorrow, back to Teagan who is mine, and the Dark Witch who bore her.”

She laid the flowers by the stone, poured wine over the ground in tribute.

Speaking the words of the spell only in her mind, pulling power up from her belly, she took the four white candles from the bag, set them on the ground at the compass points. Next, the crystals, between each point.

As she laid them, Alastar let out a warning chuff. She saw fingers of fog crawling over the ground.

We’re with you. Connor’s voice sounded in her ear. Finish the circle.

She drew her athame, pointed north. Flame sparked on the first candle.

“You think that can stop me?” Cabhan spoke with amusement. “You come here, where I rule, and play your pitiful white magick.”

“You don’t rule here.”

The second candle flamed.

“See.” He threw his arms high. The stone around his neck flamed with light both dark and blinding. “Know.”

Something changed. The ground tipped under her feet as she struggled to finish the ritual. The air turned, turned until her head spun with it. The third candle flamed, but she fell to her knees, fighting the terrible sensation of dropping from a cliff.

The vines drew back from the ruin. The walls began to climb, stone by stone.

Night fell like a curtain dropped.

“My world. My time.” The shadows seemed to lift from him. The stone pulsed, a dark heart over his. “And here, you are mine.”

“I’m not.” She got painfully to her feet, laid a hand on Alastar’s flank as he reared. “I’m Sorcha’s.”

“She sought my end, gained her own. It’s she who sleeps in the dark. It’s I who live in it. Give me what you have, what weighs on you, what it demands from you, what it takes from you. Give me the power that fits you so ill. Or I take it, and your soul with it.”