Shadow Spell (23 page)

At least she didn't have to drag out the hose as the sodding rain added all the water required to the mucky mix.

Mucky mix, she thought, putting her back into it. That's just what Connor had tossed them into.

Why did he have to bring love into it? Love and promises and notions of futures and family and forever? Hadn't it all been going well? Hadn't they been doing fine and well with sex and fun and friendship?

Now he'd said all those words—and said many of them in Irish. A deliberate ploy, she thought as she shoveled and turned and spread. A ploy to twist up her heart. A ploy to make her sigh and surrender.

He'd made her weak—he had, he had—and she didn't know what to do with weakness. Weakness was an enemy, and he'd set that enemy on her. And more, he'd made her afraid.

And she'd started it all, hadn't she? Oh, she only had herself to blame for the situation, for the trouble it was bound to cause all around.

She'd kissed him first, she couldn't deny it. She'd taken him into her bed, changing what they were to each other.

Connor was a romantic—she'd known that as well. But the way the man flitted from woman to woman, she couldn't be blamed entirely for never expecting proclamations of love.

They had enough to deal with, didn't they? The time to All Hallow's Eve grew shorter every day, and if they had a true and solid plan for that, she'd yet to hear it.

Connor's optimism, Branna's determination, Fin's inner rage, Iona's faith. They had all that, and Boyle's loyalty as well as her own.

But those didn't amount to strategy and tactics against dark magicks.

And instead of keeping his brain focused on finding those strategies and tactics, Connor O'Dwyer was busy telling her things like she was the beat of his heart, the love of all his lifetimes.

In Irish. In Irish while he did impossible things to her body.

And hadn't he looked her straight in the eye in the morning, after they woke from that strange dreamworld, and said straight out he loved her?

Grinned
at her, she thought now, steaming up. As if turning her world upside down was a fine and funny joke.

She should've knocked him out of bed onto his arse. That's what she should've done.

She'd set things right with him, by God she would. Because she wouldn't be weak, not for him or anyone. She wouldn't be weak and afraid. Wouldn't have her heart twisted up so she made promises she'd only break.

She wouldn't let herself become soft and foolish like her mother. Helpless to care for herself. Shamed and mourning the betrayal dealt like an axe blow by a man.

More—worse—she wouldn't let herself become careless and selfish like her father. A man who would make promises, even keep them as long as his life stayed smooth. Who would heartlessly break them, and the hearts of those who loved him, when the road roughened.

No, she'd be no man's wife, no man's burden, no man's heartbeat. Especially not Connor O'Dwyer's.

Because, God help her, she loved him far too much.

She felt a sob rising up, brutally choked it back.

A temporary thing, she promised herself as she spread the bags over the compost piles again. This kind of burning in the heart couldn't last.

No one could survive it.

She'd be herself again soon, and so would Connor. And all this would be like one of those strange dreams that weren't dreams.

She told herself she was steadier now, that the physical labor had done her good. She'd go back, smooth things over with Mick, especially, and the others as well.

“You've done your penance,” she said out loud, stepped back, turned.

And her father smiled at her.

“So here you are, my princess.”

“What?”

A bird sang in the mulberry tree, and the roses bloomed like a fairyland. She loved the gardens here, the colors, the scents, the sounds of the birds, the song of the fountain as the water poured into the circling pool from a jug held by a graceful woman.

And loved all the odd corners and shaded bowers where she could hide away from her siblings if she wanted to be alone.

“Lost in dreams again, and didn't hear me calling.” He laughed, the big roll of it making her lips curve even as tears stung her eyes.

“You can't be here.”

“A man's entitled to take a pretty day off to be with his princess.” Smiling still, he tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. “It won't be long before all the lads in the county will start coming around, then you won't have time for your old da.”

“I always would.”

“That's my darling girl.” He took her hand, drew her arm through the crook of his. “My pretty gypsy princess.”

“Your hand's so cold.”

“You'll warm it up.” He began to walk with her, around the stone paths, through the roses and the creamy cups of calla lilies, the aching blue of lobelia with the sun showering down like the inside of a broken pearl.

“I came just to see you,” he began, using that confidential voice, adding the sly wink as he did when he had secrets to tell her. “Everyone's in the house.”

She glanced toward it, the three fine stories of brick, painted white as her mother had wished. More gardens surrounded the large terrace, then led to a smooth green lawn where her mother liked to have tea parties in good summer weather.

All tiny sandwiches and frosted cakes.

And her room there, Meara thought, looking up. Yes, her room right there, with its French doors and little balcony. A Juliet balcony, he called it.

So she was his princess.

“Why is everyone in the house? It's such a bright day. We should have a picnic! Mrs. Hannigan could make up some bridies, and we can have cheese and bread, and jam tarts.”

She started to turn, wanted to run to the house, call everyone out, but he steered her away. “It's not the day for a picnic.”

For a moment she thought she heard rain drumming on the ground, and when she looked up, it seemed a shadow passed over the sun.

“What is that? What is it, Da?”

“It's nothing at all. Here you are.” He broke a rose from the bush, handed it to her. She sniffed at it, smiled as the soft white petals brushed her cheek.

“If not a picnic, can't we have some tea and cake, like a party, since you're home?”

He shook his head slowly, sadly. “I'm afraid there can be no party.”

“Why?”

“None of the others want to see you, Meara. They all know it's your fault.”

“My fault? What is? What have I done?”

“You consort and conspire with witches.”

He turned, gripping her shoulders hard. Now the shadow moved over his face, had her heart leaping in fear.

“Conspire? Consort?”

“You plot and plan, having truck with devil's spawn. You've lain with one, like a whore.”

“But . . .” Her head felt light, dizzy and confused. “No, no, you don't understand.”

“More than you. They are damned, Meara, and you with them.”

“No.” Pleading, she laid her hands on his chest. Cold, cold like his hands. “You can't say that. You can't mean that.”

“I can say it. I do mean it. Why do you think I left? It was you, Meara. I left you. A selfish, evil trollop who lusts for power she can never have.”

“I'm not!” Shock, like a blow to the belly, staggered her back a step. “I don't!”

“You shamed me so I couldn't look upon your face.”

The sobs came now, then a gasp as the white rose in her hand began to bleed.

“That's your own evil,” he said when she threw it to the ground. “Destroying all who love you. All who love you will bleed and wither. Or escape, as I did. I left you, shamed and sickened.

“Do you hear your mother weep?” he demanded. “She weeps and weeps to be saddled with a daughter who would choose the devil's children over her own blood. You're to blame.”

Tears ran down her cheeks—of shame, of guilt and grief. When she lowered her head, she saw the rose, sinking in a puddle of its own blood.

And rain, she realized, falling fast and hard.

Rain.

She swayed a little, heard the bird singing in the mulberry, and the fountain cheerfully splashing.

“Da . . .”

And the cry of a hawk tore through the air.

Connor, she thought. Connor.

“No. I'm not to blame.”

Drenched by the rain, freed by the cry of the hawk, she swung out with the shovel. Though she took him by surprise, he leaped back so it whooshed by his face.

A face no longer her father's.

“Go to hell.” She swung again but the ground seemed to heave under her feet. As it did she swore something pierced her heart.

On her sharp cry of pain, Cabhan bared his teeth in a vicious smile. And he spilled into fog.

She managed a shaky step forward, then another. The ground continued to heave, the sky turned and turned over her head.

From a distance, through the rain and the fog, she heard someone calling her name.

One step, she told herself, then another.

She heard the hawk, saw the horse, a gray blur speeding through the mists, and the hound streaking behind him.

She saw Boyle running toward her as if devil dogs snapped at his heels.

And as the world spun and spun, she saw with some amazement Connor leap off Alastar's bare back.

He shouted something, but the roaring in her head muffled the sound.

Shadows, she thought. A world of shadows.

They closed in and swallowed her.

She swam through them, choked on them, drowned in them. She heard her father laugh, but cruelly, so cruelly.

You're to blame, selfish, heartless girl. You have nothing. You are nothing. You feel nothing.

I'll give you power,
Cabhan promised, his voice a caress
. It's what you truly want, what you covet and crave. Bring me his blood, and I'll give you power. Take his life, and I'll give you immortality.

She struggled, tried to claw her way through the shadows, back to the light, but couldn't move. She felt bound, weighed down while the shadows grew thicker, thicker so she drew them in with every breath.

Every breath was colder. Every breath was darker.

Do what he asks,
her father urged her.
The witch is nothing to you; you're nothing to him. Just bodies groping in the dark. Kill the witch. Save yourself. I'll come back to you, princess
.

Then Connor reached for her hand. He glowed through the shadows, his eyes green as emeralds.

Come with me now. Come back with me. I need you,
aghra
. Come back to me. Take my hand. You've only to take my hand.

But she couldn't—didn't he see—she couldn't. Something snarled and snapped behind her, but Connor only smiled at her.

Sure you can. My hand, darling. Don't look back now. Just take my hand. Come back with me now
.

It hurt, it hurt, to lift that heavy arm, to strain against binding she couldn't see. But there was light in him, and warmth, and she needed both so desperately.

Weeping, she lifted her arm, reached out for his hand. It was like being pulled by her fingertips out of thick mud. Being dragged a centimeter at a time, and painfully, while some opposing force pulled her back.

I've got you,
Connor said, his eyes never leaving hers.
I won't let you go.

Then she felt as if she exploded, a cork out of a bottle, into the clear.

Her chest burned, burned as if her heart had turned into a hot coal. When she tried to draw in air, it seared up into her throat.

“Easy now, easy. Slow breaths. Slow. You're back now. You're safe. You're here. Shh now, shh.”

Someone sobbed, wrenching, heartrending. It took her minutes to realize the sounds came from her.

“I've got you. We've got you.”

She turned her face into Connor's shoulder—God, God, the scent of him was like cool water after a fire. He lifted her.

“I'm taking her home now.”

“My house is closer,” she heard Fin say.

“She'll be staying at the cottage until this is finished, but thanks. I'm taking her home now. But will you come? When you can, will you come?”

“You know I will. We all will.”

“I'm with you now, Meara.” She heard Branna's voice, felt Branna's hand stroke her hair, her cheek. “I'm right here with you.”

She wanted to speak, but nothing came out but those terrible, tearing sobs.

“Go with them,” Boyle said. “Go with them, Iona. It should be the three with her. I'll see to Alastar. Take the lorry and go with them.”

“Come soon.”

Meara turned her head enough to see Iona running for Boyle's lorry, climbing behind the wheel. Running through the rain, through the mists while the world rocked back and forth, back and forth like the deck of a ship in a storm.

And the pain in her chest, in her throat, in every part of her burned like the fires of hell.

She wondered if she'd died. If she'd died damned as the father who wasn't her father had said.

“Shh now,” Connor said again. “You're alive and you're safe, and you're with us. Rest now, darling. Just rest now.”

On his words, she slipped into warm sleep.

17

S
HE HEARD VOICES, MURMURING—SOFT, SOOTHING. SHE
felt hands, stroking—light, gentle. It seemed she floated on a warm pallet of air with the scents of lavender and candle wax all around. Bathed in light, she knew peace.

Murmuring became words, garbled and indistinct, as if spoken through water.

“It's rest she needs now. Rest and quiet. Let the healing do its work.” Branna's voice, so weary.

“She's some color back, doesn't she?” And Connor's, anxious, shaky.

“She does, and her pulse is steady again.”

“She's strong, Connor.” Now Iona, a bit hoarse as if from sleep or tears. “And so are we.”

Then she drifted again, floating, floating into comforting silence.

Waking was like a dream.

She saw Connor sitting beside her, eyes closed, his face illuminated by the glow of the candles all around the room. It was as if he'd been painted in pale, luminous gold.

Her first conscious thought was it was ridiculous for a man to be that handsome.

She started to say his name, but before she could speak it, his eyes opened, looked directly into hers. And she knew by the color, the intensity of the green, more than the candlelight illuminated him.

“There you are.” When he smiled the intensity faded, and it was only Connor and candlelight. “Lie still and quiet, just for a moment.”

He held his hands over her face, closed his eyes again, as he skimmed them down, over her heart, back again. “That's good. That's fine now.”

He removed something from her forehead, her collarbone, leaving the faintest tingle behind.

“What is that?” Was that her voice? That frog croak?

“Healing stones.”

“Was I sick?”

“You were, but you're doing well now.”

He lifted her a little, removed stones from under her back, under her hands, put them in a pouch and closed it tightly.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Oh, near to six hours now—not long in the grand scheme.”

“Six hours? But I was . . . I was . . .”

“Don't look for it yet.” His tone, brisk, cheerful, had her frowning. “You'll be a bit foggy yet, and feel weak and shaky. But it'll pass, I promise you. And here, you'll drink this now. Branna left it for you to drink—and all of it—as soon as you woke.”

“What is it?”

“What's good for you.”

He propped her up on pillows before taking the stopper from a slim bottle filled with red liquid.

“All of that?”

“All.” He put the bottle in her hands, cupped his own around them to guide it to her lips. “Slow now, but every drop of it.”

She prepared for medicine, and instead sipped the cool and lovely. “It's like liquid apples, blossoms and all.”

“That's some of it. All now, darling. You need every drop.”

Yes, more color in her cheeks now, Connor thought. And her eyes were heavy, but clear. Not blind and staring as they'd been when she'd succumbed to Cabhan's spell, when she'd lain lifeless on the wet grass.

The image flashed back into his mind, made his hands shake. So he pushed it aside, looked at her now.

“You'll have some food next.” It took every ounce of will to keep his voice steady and carve a little cheer into it. “Branna's made up some broth, and we'll see how you do with that and some tea first.”

“I think I'm starving, but I can't really tell. I feel I'm only half here. But better. The drink was good.”

She handed him back the bottle; he set it aside as carefully as a man placing a bomb.

“Food next.” He managed a smile before he laid his lips on her forehead. Then simply couldn't move.

She felt him tremble, reached for his hand. He gripped hers so hard she had to bite back a gasp. “It was bad?”

“It's fine now. All's well now. Oh God.”

He pulled her to him, so tight. He'd have pulled her inside him if he could. “It's all right now, it's all fine now,” he said over and over, to comfort himself as much as her.

“I don't know how he got past the protection. It wasn't strong enough. I didn't make it strong enough. He took the necklace from you, and I never believed he could. He took it away, and stole your breath. I should've done more. I will do more.”

“Cabhan.” She couldn't quite remember. “I was . . . turning the manure. The compost. And then . . . I wasn't. I can't see it clear.”

“Don't fret.” He brushed at her hair, at her cheeks. “It'll come back when you're stronger. I'll make you another necklace, a stronger one. I'll have the others help me, as what I did with the other wasn't enough.”

“The necklace.” She reached up where it should have hung around her neck. Remembered. “It's in my jacket. I took it off, didn't I?”

As she struggled to remember, Connor slowly eased away.

“You took it off?”

“I was that mad. I took it off, stuffed it in my jacket pocket. I snapped at poor Mick—and everyone else as well, so Boyle . . . Yes, Boyle sent me out to the compost pile. I put on one of the barn coats, left my own jacket behind.”

“You weren't wearing it at all? And the pocket charms I made you?”

“In my pocket—in the jacket I left in the stables. I didn't give it a thought because . . . Connor.”

He stood abruptly, and in his face she saw only cold rage.

“You took it off, left it behind because I gave it to you.”

“No. Yes.” It was all such a muddle. “I wasn't thinking properly, don't you see? I was so angry.”

“Because I love you, you were angry enough to go out, without protection.”

“I wasn't thinking of it that way. I wasn't thinking at all. I was stupid. I was beyond stupid. Connor—”

“Well then, it's done, and you're safe enough now. I'll send Branna up with the broth.”

“Connor, don't go. Please, let me—”

“You need the quiet now to finish the healing. I'm not able to be quiet now, so I can't be with you.”

He went out, closed the door between them.

She tried to get up, but her legs simply wouldn't hold her. Now she, a woman who'd prided herself on her strength, her health, had to crawl back into bed like an invalid.

She lay back, breath unsteady, skin clammy, and her heart and mind spinning with the consequences of one careless act done in temper.

When Branna came in with a tray she could have wept with frustration.

“Where's he gone?”

“Connor? He needed some air. He's been sitting with you for hours.”

Branna arranged the tray—an invalid's tray with feet so it would sit over the lap of the sick and the weak. Meara stared at it with absolute loathing.

“You'll feel stronger after the tea and broth. It's natural to be shaky and weak just now.”

“I feel I've been sick half my life.” Then she looked up, cleared her own frustrations enough to see the fatigue and worry in Branna's eyes. “I'm poor at it, aren't I? Never been sick more than a few hours. You've seen to that. You always have. I'm so sorry, Branna. I'm so sorry for this.”

“Don't be foolish.” Eyes weary, hair bundled up messily, Branna sat on the side of the bed. “Here now, have some of the broth. It's the next step.”

“In what?”

“Getting back to yourself.”

Since she wanted that—she couldn't mend things with Connor when she could barely lift a spoon—she began to eat. The first taste was like ambrosia.

“I thought I was starved, but I couldn't really feel much of anything. It's wonderful to feel hungry, and this is brilliant. I can't piece it all together. I remember it, most of it, clear enough until I started back to the stables, then it goes dim.”

“Once you feel yourself again, you'll remember. It's a kind of protection.”

“Oh God.” Meara squeezed her eyes shut.

“Is there pain? Darling—”

“No, no—not that kind. Branna, I did something so stupid. I was upset, in a black temper so I just couldn't think sensible. Connor—well, he said he loved me. The kind of love that leads to marriage and babies and cottages on the hill, and it just threw me into upheaval altogether. I'm not fit for that sort of thing—everyone knows it.”

“No one knows anything of the sort, but I won't argue you think it. You should stay calm, Meara.” Branna stroked a hand along Meara's leg. “Rest easy now to help yourself be well again.”

“I can't be calm and rest easy when Connor's gone off as mad at me as he's ever been. And worse, even worse.”

“Why would he be mad at you?”

“I took it off, Branna.” Her fingers rubbed at her throat, where the necklace should be. “I wasn't thinking, I swear. I was just caught up in the temper. So I took off the necklace he gave me and pushed it into my pocket.”

The hand stroking to soothe stilled. “The blue chalcedony with the jade and jasper beads?” Branna said carefully.

“Yes, yes. I just shoved it into my pocket, along with the charms. And I was picking fights with everyone within arm's reach until Boyle had enough of me. He sent me out to the compost, and as it's filthy work, and it was raining buckets, I switched my jacket for a barn coat. I didn't think—didn't even remember I'd taken the necklace off, you see. I wouldn't have gone out without it. I swear, even in a mad, I wouldn't have done that purposely.”

“You took off what he gave you out of love, what he gave you to protect you, what he loves, from harm. You cut through his heart, Meara.”

“Oh, Branna, please.” She sobbed in air as Branna rose, walked to the window to stare out at the dark. “Please don't turn me away.”

Branna spun back, her own temper bright in her eyes. “That's a cold and cruel thing to say.”

All the color dropped out of Meara's cheeks again. “No. No. I—”

“Cold and cruel and selfish. You've been my friend, my sister in all but blood since my first memory. But you could think I'd turn you away?”

“No. I don't know. I'm so confused, so twisted up inside.”

“The tears are good for you.” Voice brisk now, Branna nodded. “You don't shed them often, and they're good for you now. A kind of purging. There are five people in this house—no, that's not true as Iona and Boyle have gone off now that you're awake to pack up your things for you.”

“Pack up my—”

“Quiet. I've not finished. Those five people love you, and not one of us deserves you're thinking we would stop because you've done something hurtful.”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

“I know you are. But I'm here, Meara, standing between you and Connor, loving you both. He blamed himself, you see, for not giving you stronger protection.”

“I know.” Her voice hitched and shook on every word. “He said. I remembered. I told him. He left me.”

“He left the
room
, Meara, you idjit. He's Connor O'Dwyer, as good and loyal and true a man as there ever was. He's not your bleeding father or a man anything like him.”

“I don't mean . . .” It flooded back, the force and clarity of it leaving her gasping for air.

“Calm. Be calm.” Branna rushed to her, gripped her hands, pushed her will against the panic. “You will be calm, and breathe easy. In my eyes, look in my eyes. There's calm, and there's air.”

“I remember.”

“Calm first. No harm comes here, and no dark. We scried the candles, laid the herbs and stones. Here is sanctuary. Here is calm.”

“I remember,” she said again, and calmly. “He was there.”

“You'll let yourself settle a bit, and as much as I want to know it all, we'll wait until we're all together. You'll only have to tell it once.”

And Connor, Branna thought, deserved to hear it all.

“What did he do to me? Can you tell me that? How bad was it?”

“Drink the broth first.”

Impatient, and stronger already, Meara just lifted the bowl, drank it down straight. And made Branna laugh a little.

“Now you've done it.”

“Tell me— Oh!”

It was like a jolt of electricity, or a good, quick orgasm, or a direct hit by a lightning bolt. Energy shot straight into her, rocking her back.

“What
is
that?”

“Something you're meant to drink slowly, but leave it to you.”

“I feel I could sprint all the way to Dublin. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. We'll just leave this for later.” Cautious now, Branna moved the tea out of reach.

“I could eat a cow and still have room for pudding.” But she reached for Branna's hand. “I'm sorry. Truly.”

“I know it. Truly.”

“Tell me, will you, what he did to me? Was it poison, like Connor?”

“It wasn't, no. You were open and defenseless, and he would know it. He used his shadows, and I think it blocked it all for a time. But they cleared enough, for he can't keep that box, as Connor called it, shut tight for long. The lot of us were coming. He'd have known that as well, so he acted quickly and with cruelty. The spell he cast, you could call it a kind of Sleeping Beauty, but it's not so pretty as a fairy tale. It's a kind of death.”