Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(16)

“Look, I’ll muck out stalls, groom. Whatever he needs or wants.”

“I’ll have a word with him.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Iona said, reaching for Branna’s hand. As they touched, gripped, heat and light flashed.

Though Iona’s hand trembled, she didn’t pull away, didn’t look away.

“What does it mean?”

“It means it may be time at last. Did cousin Mary Kate give you a gift?”

“Yes. When I went to see her, when she told me.” With her free hand, Iona reached for the chain under her sweater, took out the copper amulet with the sign of the horse.

“It was made by Sorcha for her youngest child, her daughter—”

“Teagan,” Iona supplied. “To shield her from Cabhan. For Brannaugh it was the hound—I should have realized that when I saw the dog. And for Eamon, the hawk. She told me the stories as long as I can remember, but I thought they were stories. My mother insisted they were. And she didn’t like Nan telling them to me. So I stopped telling her—my mother—about them. My mother prefers to just sort of glide along.”

“That’s why it is the amulet wasn’t passed to her, but to you. She wasn’t the one. You are. Cousin Mary Kate would come, but we knew she wasn’t the one, but like a guardian for the amulet, for the legacy. It was passed to her by others who guarded and waited. Now it comes to you.”

And you, Branna thought, have come to me.

“Did she tell you what you are?” Branna asked.

“She said . . .” Iona let out a long breath. “She said I’m the Dark Witch. But you—”

“There are three. Three is good magick. So now we’re three. You and I, and Connor. But each must accept the whole, and themselves, and the legacy. Do you?”

Hoping for calm, Iona took a gulp of whiskey-laced tea. “I’m working on it.”

“What can you do? She wouldn’t have passed this to you unless she was sure. Show me what you can do.”

“What?” Iona wiped suddenly damp palms on her jeans. “Like an audition?”

“I’ve practiced all my life; you haven’t. But you are the blood.” Branna tilted her head, her beautiful face skeptical. “Have you no skills as yet?”

“I’ve got some skills. It’s just I’ve never . . . except with Nan.” Annoyed, uneasy, Iona drew the candle on the table closer. “Now I’m nervous,” she muttered. “I feel like I’m trying out for the school play. I bombed that one.”

“Clear your mind. Let it come.”

She breathed again, slow and steady, put her focus, her energy on the candlewick. Felt the warmth rise in her, and light seep through. And she blew gently.

The flame flickered, swayed, then burned true.

“It’s so cool,” Iona whispered. “I’ll never get used to it. I’m just . . . magick.”

“It’s power. It must be trained, disciplined, and respected. And honored.”

“You sound like Nan. She showed me when I was little, and I believed. Then I thought they were just magick tricks, because my parents said they were. And I think—I know—my mother told her to stop or she wouldn’t let her see me.”

“Your mother’s mind is closed. She’s like a lot of others. You shouldn’t be angry with her.”

“She kept me from this. From what I am.”

“Now you know. Can you do more?”

“A few things. I can levitate things—not big things, and it’s fifty-fifty. Horses. I understand what they’re feeling. I always have. I tried a glamour, but that was a terrible bust. My eyes went purple—even the whites, and my teeth glowed like neon. I had to call in sick for two days before it wore off.”

Amused, Branna added more tea and whiskey to the cups.

“What can you do?” Iona demanded. “I showed mine. You show yours.”

“Fair enough then.” Branna flicked out a hand, and held a ball of white fire in her palm.

“Holy shit. That’s . . .” Warily Iona reached out, brought her fingertips close enough to feel the heat. “I want to do that.”

“Then you’ll practice, and you’ll learn.”

“You’ll teach me?”

“I’ll guide you. It’s already in you, but needs the route, the signs, the . . . finesse. I’ll give you some books to read and study. Take your week at the castle, and think about what you want, Iona Sheehan. Think carefully, for once it begins, you can’t go back.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

“I don’t mean to America, or your life there. I mean from the path we’ll walk.” She flicked her hand again and, with it empty, picked up her tea. “Cabhan, what is left of him, may be worse than what was. And what is left wants what you have, what we have. And he wants our blood. Your power and your life, you’ll risk both, so think carefully, for it’s not a game we’d be playing.”

“Nan said it had to be a choice, my choice. She told me he—Cabhan—would want what I have, what I am, and do whatever he could to get it. She cried when I said I was going to come, but she was proud, too. As soon as I got here, I knew it was the right choice. I don’t want to ignore what I am. I just want to understand it.”