Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(19)

Teagan’s power?

Lifting her gaze, Iona studied herself in the mirror, called back the images from the dream. But it had been her face . . . hadn’t it? Her build, her coloring.

But not, she thought now, her voice. Not even her language, though she’d understood every word. Old Gaelic, she assumed.

She needed to know more, to learn more. To find a way to understand how events that had happened hundreds of years before could draw her in so absolutely that she actually felt genuine pain.

Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water on her face, caught the time on her watch. Still shy of four A.M., but she was done with sleep. Her body clock would adjust eventually, and for now she might as well just go with it. Maybe she’d read until sunrise.

She walked back into the bedroom, started to lift the tea tray she’d ended up sleeping with. And she saw on the lovely white sheets three drops of red. Of blood. Hers, she realized.

The dream—vision—experience—hadn’t just given her pain. She’d bled in it.

What kind of power could drag her into her own dreams and cause her to bleed from an ancestor’s wound?

Leaving the tray where it was, she sat on the side of the bed, brushed her fingers over her throat.

What if those claws had struck there, slashed her jugular? Would she have died? Could dreams kill?

No, she didn’t want books, she decided. She wanted answers, and she knew who had them.

By six, fueled with coffee, she headed out once again past the fountains and flowers and green lawns to the thick woods. This time the light held soft and luminous to drip palely through branches as the wide path narrowed. And this time she saw the signposts for the falconry school, the stables.

Later that morning, she promised herself, she’d visit both, then top it off with a hike to Cong. But she wouldn’t be put off with a stack of books and a bit of tabletop magick.

The dream stayed with her so closely she caught herself checking her hand for claw marks.

A long, high note had her head snapping up, her gaze shooting skyward. The hawk soared across the pale blue, a gorgeous golden brown sweep that circled, then swooped. She swore she heard the wind of its wings as it danced through the trees, and landed on a branch overhead.

“Oh my God, look at you! You’re just gorgeous.”

He stared down at her, golden eyes steady, unblinking, his wings regally folded. She wondered fancifully if he’d left his crown at home.

Slowly, she dug into her back pocket for her phone, holding her breath as she hit camera mode. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s not every day a woman meets a hawk. Or a falcon. I’m not sure which you are. Just let me . . .” She framed him in, took the shot, then a second.

“Are you hunting, or just out for your version of a morning stroll? I guess you’re from the school, but—”

She stopped when the hawk turned its head. She thought she caught it, too, a faint whistle. In response, the hawk lifted off the branch, swooped and dodged its way through the trees and was gone.

“I’m definitely booking a falcon walk,” she decided, and checked her photos before she stuffed the phone away to hike on.

She reached the upended tree, the wall of vines. Though the pull returned, she pushed it back. Not now, not today when the emotion of the dreams swam so close to the surface.

Answers first.

The dog waited at the edge of the woods as if he’d been expecting her. He swished his tail by way of greeting, accepted the stroke on his head.

“Good morning. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one out and about early. I hope Branna’s not pissed when I come knocking, but I really need to talk to her.”

Kathel led the way to the pretty blue cottage, straight to the bright red door. “Here goes.” She used the knocker shaped like a trinity knot, considered how best to approach her cousin.

But the one she hadn’t yet met answered the door.

He looked like some rumpled, sleepy warrior prince with his mass of waving hair, a burnished brown that spilled around a face as elegantly boned as his sister’s. Eyes green as the hills blinked at her.

He stood tall and lean in gray flannel pants and a white pullover unraveling at the hem.

“I’m sorry,” she began, and thought those words appeared to be her default when she came to this house.

“Good morning to you. You must be cousin Iona from the States.”

“Yes, I—”

“Welcome home.”

She found herself enfolded in a big, hard hug that lifted her up to the toes of her boots. The cheerful gesture made her eyes sting, and her nerves vanish.

“I’d be Connor, if you’re wondering. Did Kathel find you and bring you ’round?”

“No, that is, yes. I was already coming here, but he found me.”

“Well then, come in out of the cold. Winter’s still got its teeth in us.”

“Thanks. I know it’s early.”

“That it is. The day will insist on starting that way.” In a gesture she found both casual and miraculous, he flicked a hand at the living room hearth. Flames leaped up to curl around the stacked peat. “We’ll have some breakfast,” he continued, “and you can tell me everything there is to know about Iona Sheehan.”

“That won’t take long.”

“Oh, I’ll wager there’s plenty to tell.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the house.