Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(110)

She lit the last candle. If they could come, they would come, she thought. But she couldn’t hear them through the rush in her ears, or sense them through the stench of the fog.

No retreat, she told herself. And never surrender.

She drew her sword. “You want it? Come and get it.”

He laughed, and the sheer delight on his face added a terrible beauty.

“A sword won’t stop me.”

“You bleed, so let’s find out.” She punched power into the sword until it flamed. “And I bet you’ll burn.”

He swept an arm out, and from feet away, threw her back, knocked her to the ground. Winded, she tried to push to her feet. Alastar reared again, screaming in rage as his hooves lashed out.

She saw Cabhan’s face register pain, and shock with it. Then he hunched, dropped to all fours, and became the wolf.

It leapt at Alastar, scoring the horse’s side.

“No!” Like lightning, Iona surged to her feet, charged.

Her sword whistled through the air, but the wolf streaked to the side, then barreled into her with a force that propelled her, had her skidding on her back, and her sword flying away.

The wolf straddled her, jaws snapping. And became a man again.

“I’ll burn him to cinders,” Cabhan warned. “Hold him back or I set him on fire.”

“Stop! Alastar, stop!”

She felt his rage even as he obeyed. And felt the amulet she wore vibrate between her and Cabhan.

His gaze lowered to it; his lips peeled back in a snarl.

Then he smiled again, terrifyingly, into her eyes.

“Sorcha betrayed me with a kiss. I’ll draw what’s in you into me the same way.”

“I won’t give it to you.”

“But you will.”

Pain exploded, unspeakably. She screamed, unable to stop. Red everywhere, as if the world caught fire. She heard Alastar’s screams join hers. Ordered him to run, run, run. If she couldn’t save herself, she prayed she could save him.

Above all, she would never give up. She would never give her light to the dark.

“A kiss. You’ve only to give me one kiss, and the pain will vanish, the burden will drop.”

Somewhere in her frantic mind she realized he couldn’t take it. He could kill her, but he couldn’t take what she was. She had to surrender it.

Instead she groped, found her athame with a shuddering hand.

She wept, couldn’t stop that either, but through the screams and sobs she managed one word. “Bleed.”

And plunged the knife into his side.

He roared, more fury than pain, and, leaping up, dragged her with him, holding her a foot above the ground by a hand clamped around her throat.

“You’re nothing! Pale and weak and human. I’ll crush the life out of you, and your power with it.”

She kicked, tried to call for fire, wind, a flood, but her vision grayed, her lungs burned.

She heard another roar, and flew, hitting the ground hard enough to shock her bones and clear her vision.

She saw Boyle, his face a mask of vengeance, pummeling his fists into Cabhan’s face.

With each hit, flames leapt.

“Stop.” She couldn’t get the word out, no more than a croak, even as Boyle’s hands burned.

She managed to gain her knees, swayed as she fought to find her center.

The man dropped away. The wolf slipped out of Boyle’s hold and bunched for attack.

The hound streaked into the clearing, snarling, snapping. Hawks dove, talons slicing at the wolf’s back.

An arm circled her waist, lifted her to her feet. Hands linked with hers.

“Can you do it?” Branna shouted.

“Yes.” Even the single word cut her throat like shards of glass.

The fog thickened, or her vision grayed. But all she could see through it were vague shapes, the flash of fire.

“We are the three, dark witches we, and stand this ground in unity. Before the longest day departs, we forge all light against the dark. On this ground, in this hour, we join our hands, we join our power. Blood to blood, we call on all who came before, flame to flame, their fires restore. Match with us, your forces free. As we will, so mote it be.”

Light, blinding, heat churning, and the wind that whirled it all into a maelstrom.

“Again!” Branna called out.

Three times three. And as she cast the spell, her hands caught tight with her cousins’, Iona felt she was the fire. Made of heat and flame, and a cold, cold rage that burned in its core.

Even as she pushed to finish, the fog vanished. She saw blood, smoke, both Fin and Meara at the edge of—not in—the circle, swords in hand. And Boyle, kneeling on the ground, pale as death, his hands raw and blistered.

Alastar, blood seeping from his wounds, nudged his head against Boyle’s side, while the hound guarded him. Two hawks perched in branches beside the stone cabin.

“Boyle.” Iona stumbled forward, fell to her knees beside him. “Your hands. Your hands.”

“They’ll be all right. You’re bleeding. And your throat.”

“Your hands,” she said again. “Connor, help me.”

“I’ll see to it. Here now, this isn’t for you. You’re hurt, and I’ll do better without you.”

“Here, little sister, let me help you.” Fin crouched down as if to lift Iona into his arms.