Shadow Spell (22 page)

Stepping back, he watched with the others as the flower grew, and the blooms doubled.

“I rode away from her.” Eamon stared at the grave. “There was no choice, and it was her will and her wish. Now I come home a man. Whatever I can do, whatever power is given me, I will do, I will use. A promise kept.” He held out a hand to Connor. “I cannot trust this spawn of Cabhan's, but I trust you and yours.”

“He is mine.”

Eamon looked at the grave, at the flowers, at the cabin. “Then you are six.” He touched his amulet, the twin of Connor's, then the stone on the leather binding Connor had given him. “All we are is with you. I hope we'll see each other again, when this is done.”

“When it's done,” Connor agreed.

Eamon mounted his horse, then smiled at Meara. “You should believe my cousin, my lady, as what he speaks, he speaks from his heart. Farewell.”

He turned his horse, rode off as quietly as he'd come.

Meara started to speak—and woke with a jolt in Connor's bed.

He sat beside her, a half smile on his face as he studied his bloodied palm.

“Jesus Christ. You never know where you'll end up when you lie down beside the likes of you. Mind yourself! You'll get blood on the sheets.”

“I'll fix it.” He rubbed palm to palm, stanched the blood, closed the shallow wound.

“What was that about?” she demanded.

“A bit of a visit with family. Some questions, some answers.”

“What answers?”

“I'm after figuring that out. But the flower's planted, as Teagan asked of me, so that's enough for now. He looked fine and fit, didn't he, our Eamon?”

“You'd say so as you've a resemblance. Cabhan would know they'd come back.”

“They don't end him, but neither does he end them. Like the flowers, that's enough to know for now. It's for us to end, I know that as well.”

“And how do you know?”

“I feel it.” He touched a finger to his heart. “I trust what I feel. Unlike you for instance.”

After an impatient glance she shoved out of bed. “I have to go to work.”

“You've time for a bite to eat. You needn't worry as there's not enough time for me to poke at you properly about my feelings and yours. But there'll be time for that soon enough. I love you to distraction, Meara, and while it comes as a surprise to me, I'm happy being surprised.”

She grabbed up her clothes. “You're romanticizing the whole business, and cobbling it all together with magicks and risks and blood and sex. I expect you'll come to your senses before long, and for now, I'm using the loo, and getting myself ready for work.”

She marched off.

He grinned after her, amused he had such a fine view of her backside as she stalked through the door of the bath he shared with Iona.

He'd come to his senses, he thought—though it had taken most of his life to get there. He could wait for her to come to hers.

Meanwhile . . . He studied his healed palm. He had some thinking to do.

16

W
OMEN WERE A CONSTANT PUZZLE TO CONNOR'S
mind, but their mysteries and secret ways accounted for some of their unending appeal to him.

He considered the woman he loved. Courageous and straightforward as they came on all matters—except those of the heart. And there she turned as fearful as a trapped bird, and just as likely to fly off and away given the smallest opening.

And yet that heart held strong and loyal and true.

A puzzle.

He'd spooked her, no question of that, with his declaration of feelings. He loved her, and for him true love came once and lasted forever.

Still, as he'd rather see her fly free—for now—than batter herself against the cage, he roused Boyle.

Having Boyle go into the stables with Meara—earlier than either needed to be—accomplished two things. She'd have his friend with her, and the three would have some time to talk alone.

Rain blew across the trees and hills, shivered against the windows. He let the dog out, walked out himself, circling the cottage—as they'd done the night before—checking to be certain no remnants of Cabhan's spell remained.

His sister's flowers bloomed, bold, defiant colors against the gloom with the grass beyond them a thick green blanket. And all he felt in the air was the rain, was the wind, was the strong, clear magicks he'd helped light himself in a ring around what was theirs.

When he paused at Roibeard's lean-to, the hawk greeted him with a light rub of his head to Connor's cheek. That was love, simple and easy.

“You'll keep an eye out, won't you?” Connor skimmed the back of his knuckle down the hawk's breast. “Sure you will. Take some time for yourself now, and have a hunt with Merlin, for we're all safe for the moment.”

In answer, the hawk spread his wings, lifted. He circled once, then soared to the woods, and into them.

Connor walked around again, went in through the kitchen door—holding it open as Kathel came up behind him.

“Done your patrol, have you then? And so have I.” He gave the dog a long stroke, a rub along the ears. “I don't suppose you'd go up and give our Branna a nudge to get me out of making breakfast?”

Kathel simply gave him a look as dry as any hound could manage.

“I didn't think so, but I had to try it.”

Accepting his fate, Connor fed the dog, freshened the water in the bowl. He lit the fires, in the kitchen, in the living room, even in the workshop, then had to calculate he could stall no more, and got down to it.

He set bacon sizzling, sliced up some bread, beat up eggs.

He was just pouring the eggs into the pan when Iona and Branna came in together—Iona dressed for work, Branna still in her sleep clothes with that before-my-coffee scowl in her eyes.

“Everyone's up so early.” Knowing the rules, Iona let Branna get to the coffee first. “And Boyle and Meara already gone.”

“She wanted to change, and promised Boyle she'd fix him some breakfast for taking her around.”

“Mind those eggs, Connor, you'll scorch them,” Branna said, as she did whenever he made breakfast.

“I won't.”

“Why is it you have to turn up the flame to hellfire to cook every bloody thing?”

“It's faster is why.”

And damn it, he nearly did scorch them because she'd distracted him.

He dumped them on a plate with the bacon, tossed on some toast, then plopped it all in the middle of the table. “If you'd stirred yourself sooner, you could've made them to your liking. Now you'll eat them from mine, and you're welcome.”

“It looks great,” Iona said brightly, and finger combing her cap of bright hair, sat.

“Ah, don't pander to him just because he's made a meal, and for the first time in weeks.” Branna sat with her, gave Kathel's ears a scratch.

“It's not pandering if you're hungry.” Iona filled her plate. “We're going to get cancellations today.” She nodded toward the steady, soaking rain. “Not only rain, but a cold one, too. Normally I'd be sorry about that, but today I think we could all use the extra time.”

She sampled some eggs. They were very . . . firm, she decided.

“If it's as slow as I think it may be,” she continued, “I can probably get off early. I can come work with you, Branna, if you want.”

“I've some stock to finish up as I didn't work on it yesterday. I'll need to get it done and run it into the shop. But I'll be here by noon, I'd think. Fin and I've finished the changes to the potion we used on the solstice. It's stronger than it was, but the spell needs work, as does the timing, and the whole bloody plan.”

“We've got time.”

“The days click by. And he's growing bolder and bolder. What he tried last night—”

“Didn't work, did it now?” Connor countered. “What are his devil bats now but ash blown by the wind, washed by the rain? And it gave me a notion or two, the whole business of it.”

“You've a notion, have you?” Branna lifted her coffee.

“I have, and a story to tell as well. I looked for Eamon in dreams, and he for me. So we found each other.”

“You saw him again.”

He nodded at Iona. “I did, and pulled Meara into it with me. He was a man, about eighteen, as he said it had been five years since he'd last seen me. His Brannaugh has two children with a third to come, and Teagan is carrying her first.”

“She was pregnant—Teagan,” Iona added, “when I saw her, in my own dream.”

“I remember, so this would have been for me the same time in their world as it was for you. It was, for me as for you, at Sorcha's cabin.”

“You know better than to go there,” Branna snapped, “in dreams or no.”

“I can't tell you in truth if it was my doing or his, for I promise you I don't know even now. But I knew we were safe there, for that time, or I would have pulled it back. I wouldn't have risked Meara again.”

“All right. All right then.”

“They'd come home,” he continued, and lathered toast with jam, “and that was bittersweet. They know they'll fight Cabhan, and they know they won't win, won't end him, as he's here in our time, our place. I told him we were six, and that one of our six had Cabhan's blood.”

“And did that float well?” Branna wondered.

“He knows me.” Connor tapped a hand on his heart. “And he trusts me. So in turn, he trusts mine, and Fin is mine. He had the pendant I gave him as well as the amulet we share. I had the little stone he gave me, and when I took it out, it glowed in my palm. You had the right of that, Branna. It has power.”

“Well, I wouldn't put it in a sling and play David to Cabhan's Goliath, but it's good to keep it with you.”

“So I do. And more, I had the bluebell.”

“Teagan's flower,” Iona added.

“I planted it, fed it with my blood, with water I drew from the air. And the flowers bloomed there on Sorcha's grave.”

“You kept your word.” Iona brushed a hand over his arm. “And you gave them something that mattered.”

“I told him we'd end it, as I believe we will. And I think I know something that we missed on the solstice. Music,” he said, “and the joy of it.”

“Music,” Iona repeated even as Branna sat back, speculation in her eyes.

“What drew him here last night, so enraged, so bold? Our light, yes, and we'll have that. Ourselves, of course. But we made music, and that's a light of its own.”

“A joyful noise,” Iona said.

“It is that. It blinds him—with that rage against the joy. Why couldn't it bind him as well?”

“Music. We made music that night last spring, do you remember, Iona? Just you and I and Meara here. I brought out my fiddle, and we played and sang, and he lurked outside, all shadows and fog. Drawn to it,” Branna said, “drawn to the music even as he hated it—hated that we had it in us to make it.”

“I remember.”

“Oh, I can work with this.” Branna's eyes narrowed, her lips curved. “Aye, this will be something to stir into the pot. It's a good thought, Connor.”

“It's brilliant,” Iona said.

“I tend to agree with that.” Grinning, Connor shoveled in the last of his eggs.

“I'm sure Meara said the same.”

“She may, when I tell her. I only came around to it this morning,” he added, “and she was in a fired hurry to get on her way.”

“Why was that? I've still got nearly a half an hour before I have to get to work.” And because she did, Iona rose for a second cup of coffee. “If she'd waited, Boyle and I could've . . . Oh.” Her eyes rounded. “Did you have a fight?”

“A fight, no. She went into a fast retreat, as I expected she would, when I told her I loved her. Being Meara, it'll take her a bit of time to settle into it all.”

“You figured it out.” Dancing back, Iona wrapped her arms around him from behind his chair. “That's wonderful.”

“It wasn't a matter of figuring . . . Maybe it was that,” he reconsidered. “And she's some slower on coming to the conclusion. She'll be happier when she does, and so will I. But for now, there's a certain enjoyment in watching her try to squirm around it.”

“Have a care, Connor,” Branna said quietly. “It's not a stubborn nature or a hard head that holds her back. It's scars.”

“She can't live her life denying her own heart because her shite of a father had none.”

“Have a care,” Branna repeated. “Whatever she says, whatever she thinks she believes, she loved him. She loves him still, and that's why the hurt's never gone all the way quiet.”

Irritation walked up his spine. “I'm not her father, and she should know me better.”

“Oh no, darling, it's that she's afraid she is—she's like her father.”

“Bollocks to that.”

“Of course.” Branna rose, began to clear. “But that's the weight she carries. As much as I love her, and she loves me, I've never been able to lift it away, not altogether. That's for you to do.”

“And you will.” Iona pushed away from the table again to help. “Because love, if you just don't let go, beats anything.”

“I won't be letting go.”

Iona paused to kiss the top of his head. “I know it. The eggs were good.”

“I wouldn't go as far as that,” Branna said, “but we'll do the washing up since you cooked . . . after a fashion.”

“That's fine then, as I need to call Roibeard in and get on to work.”

He got his jacket from the peg, and a cap while dishes clattered. “I do love her,” he said as the words felt so fine, “I love her absolutely.”

“Ah, Connor, you great git, so you always have.”

He went out into the rain thinking his sister was right. So he always had.

* * *

A FOUL MOOD, AN EDGY MANNER, AND A TENDENCY TO
snipe equaled an assignment to the manure compost pile.

A filthy day for a filthy job, Meara thought as she changed into her oldest muck boots, switched her jacket for one of the thicker barn coats. But then again she was feeling fairly filthy. And since she couldn't deny she'd picked a fight with Boyle—after snapping at Mick, snarling at Iona, and brooding her way through the rest of the morning—she couldn't blame Boyle for banishing her to shit duty.

But she did in any case.

He'd given her guided to Iona—hardy souls from the midlands who weren't put off by the sodding rain. Mick had a ring lesson, so the sodding rain didn't matter for that, not a bit. Nor did it matter to Patty, who was cleaning tack, or to Boyle, who'd closed himself off in his office.

So it was left to her to tromp around in the sodding rain, and to the majestic turning of the shit pile.

She wrapped a scarf around her neck, pulled a cap low on her head, and clomped her way out—carting a shovel and a long metal stick—well behind the stables to what was not-so-lovingly referred to as Shite Mountain.

A stable of horses produced plenty for the mountain, and this by-product—if she wanted to use a fancy term—had to be dealt with. And wiser, eco-minded souls did more than deal. They used.

It was a process she approved of, on normal days. On days she wasn't pissed off at the world in general. On days when it wasn't raining fecking buckets.

Manure, properly treated, became compost. And compost enriched soil. So Fin and Boyle had built an area—far enough the odors didn't carry back—to do just that.

When she reached Shite Mountain, she cursed, realizing she left her iPod and earbuds back at the stable. She wouldn't even have music to distract her.

All she could do was mutter as she pulled the old, empty feed bags off the big pile, and began to use the shovel to turn the manure.

Proper compost required heat to kill the seeds, the parasites, to turn manure into a rich additive. It was a job she'd done countless times, so she continued automatically, adding fertilizer to help break down the manure, turning the outer layers into the heart and the heat, making a second pile, adding ventilation by shoving the stick down deep.