Shadow Spell (5 page)

And another man came through the fog. Tall, his brown hair damp from the mists, his eyes deep and green and full of power and fury.

“Run,” he told Eamon.

“I will not run from such as he. I cannot.”

The wolf pawed the ground, showed its teeth in a terrible smile.

“Take my hand.”

The man grabbed Eamon's hand. Light exploded like suns, power flew like a thousand beating wings. Blind and deaf, Eamon cried out. There was only power, covering him, filling him, bursting from him. Then with one shattering roar, the fog was gone, the wolf gone, and only the man gripping his hand remained.

The man dropped to his knees, breath harsh, face white, eyes full of magicks. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am Eamon son of Daithi, son of Sorcha. I am of the three. I am the Dark Witch of Mayo.”

“As am I. Eamon.” On a shaky laugh, the man touched Eamon's hair, his face. “I am from you. You're out of your time, lad, and in mine. I'm Connor, of the clan O'Dwyer. I am out of Sorcha, out of you. One of three.”

“How do I know this to be true?”

“I am your blood, you are mine. You know.” Connor pulled the amulet from under his shirt, touched the one, the same one, Eamon wore.

And the man lifted an arm. Roibeard landed on the leather glove he wore.

Not Roibeard, Eamon realized, and yet . . .

“My hawk. Not yours, but named for him. Ask him what you will. He is yours as much as mine.”

“This is . . . not my place.”

“It is, yes, not your time but your place. It ever will be.”

Tears stung Eamon's eyes, and his belly quivered with longing worse than hunger. “Did we come home?”

“You did.”

“Will we defeat him, avenge our parents?”

“We will. We will never stop until it's done. My word to you.”

“I wish to . . . I'm going back. I feel it. Brannaugh, she's calling me back. You saved me from Cabhan.”

“Saving you saved me, I'm thinking.”

“Connor of the O'Dwyers. I will not forget.”

And he flew, over the hills again, until it was soft, soft morning and he sat by Brannaugh's fire with both his sisters shaking him.

“Leave off, now! My head is circling over the rest of me.”

“He's so pale,” Teagan said. “Here, here, I'll fix you tea.”

“Tea would be welcome. I went on a journey. I don't know how, but I went home, but 'twasn't home. I need to sort through it. But I know something I didn't. Something we didn't.”

He guzzled some water Brannaugh pushed on him, then shoved the skin away again. “He can't leave there. Cabhan. He can't leave, or not far. The farther from home, from where he traded for his new powers, the less they are. He risks death to leave there. He can't follow us.”

“How do you know this?” Brannaugh demanded.

“I . . . saw it in his mind. I don't know how. I saw it there, that weakness. I met a man, he's ours. I . . .” Eamon drew a long breath, closed his eyes a moment.

“Let me have some tea, will you then? A little tea, then I have a tale to tell you. We'll bide here awhile yet, and I'll tell you all. Then, aye, aye, south for us, to learn, to grow, to plan. For he can't touch us. He won't ever touch you.”

Whatever boy he'd been, he was a man now. And power still simmered inside him.

3

Autumn 2013

W
HEN CONNOR WOKE EARLIER THAN HE LIKED, HE
hadn't expected to meet an ancestor, or the greatest enemy of his blood. He certainly hadn't anticipated starting his day with an explosion of magicks that had all but knocked him off his feet.

But, in the main, he liked the unexpected.

With the dawn barely broken, there'd been no hope his sister might be busy in the kitchen. And his skin meant too much to him to risk waking her and suggesting she might like to cook up breakfast.

More, there hadn't been a hunger, and he always woke ready to break the night's fast. Instead there'd been an odd energy, and a deep need to get out, get about.

So he'd whistled up his hawk and, with Roibeard for his companion, had taken himself into the mists and trees.

And quiet.

He wasn't a man who required a great deal of quiet. He preferred, most of the time, the noise and conversations and heat of company. But this soft morning, the call of his hawk, the scrabble of rabbit in the brush, and the sigh of the morning breeze had been enough for him.

He thought he might walk over to Ashford Castle, let Roibeard soar in the open, over the greens there—and that would give any early-rising guests at the hotel a thrill.

Thrills often drummed up business, and he had one to run with the falconry school.

He'd aimed for that exactly, until he'd felt it—the stir of power, within and without. His own rising without his asking it, the dark stain of what was Cabhan, smudging the sweetness of the dewy pines.

And something more, something more.

He should have called his circle—his sister, his cousin, his friends, but something pushed him on, down the path, through the trees, near the wall of vines and uprooted tree where beyond lay the ruins of the cabin that had been Sorcha's. Beyond where he and his circle had battled Cabhan on the night of the summer solstice.

There the fog spread, the power thrummed, dark against white. He saw the boy, thought first and only to protect. He would not, could not, allow harm to an innocent.

But the boy, while innocent enough, had more. The something more.

Now, the fog gone and Cabhan with it, the boy gone back to his own time, his own place, Connor stayed as he was—on his knees on the damp ground, fighting to get his breath fully back into his lungs.

His ears still rang from what had sounded like worlds exploding. His eyes still burned from a light brighter than a dozen suns.

And the power merged with joined hands sang through him.

He got slowly to his feet, a tall, lean man with a thick mop of curling brown hair, his face pale yet, and his eyes deep and green as the moss with what still stirred inside him.

Best to get home, he thought. To get back. For what had come through the solstice, and hidden away till the equinox lurked still.

A bit wobbly in the legs yet, he realized, unsure if he should be amused or embarrassed. His hawk swooped by, landed with a flutter of wings on a branch. Sat, watched, waited.

“We'll go,” he said. “I think we've done what we were meant to do this morning. And now, Jesus, I'm starving.”

The power, he thought as he began to walk. The sheer force of it had hulled him out. Turning toward home, he sensed his sister's hound seconds before Kathel ran toward him.

“You felt it as well, did you now?” He gave Kathel's great black head a stroke, continued on. “I'd be surprised if all of Mayo didn't feel a jolt from it. My skin's still buzzing like my bones are covered with bees.”

Steadier yet with hound and hawk, he walked out of the shadows of the woods into the pearly morning. Roibeard circled overhead as he walked the road with Kathel to the cottage. A second hawk cried, and Connor spotted his friend Fin's Merlin.

Then the thunder of hoofbeats broke through the quiet, so he paused, waited—felt a fresh stirring as he saw his cousin Iona, his friend Boyle astride the big gray Alastar. And Fin as well, racing with them on his gleaming black Baru.

“We'll need more eggs,” he called out, smiling now. “And another rasher or two of bacon.”

“What happened?” Iona, her short cap of hair tousled from sleep, leaned down to touch his cheek. “I knew you were safe, or we'd have come even faster.”

“You all but flew as it is—and not a saddle between the three of you. I'll tell you inside. I could eat three pigs and top it off with a cow.”

“Cabhan.” Fin, his hair dark as his mount's, his eyes the dark green of Connor's when the power had taken him, turned to stare into the trees.

“Him and more. But Iona has the right of it. I'm fine and well, just starving half to death while we stand here on the road. You felt it,” he added when he began to walk again.

“Felt it?” Boyle stared down at Connor. “It woke me from a sound sleep, and I don't have what the three of you do. I've no magick in me, and still whatever it was shot through me like an arrow.” He nodded toward the cottage. “And it seems the same for Meara.”

Connor looked over, saw Meara Quinn, lifelong friend, his sister's best mate, striding along toward them—tall and lush as a goddess in her flannel sleep pants and old jacket, he thought, and her long brown hair a tangle.

She made a picture, he mused, but then she ever did.

“She stayed the night,” he told the others. “Took Iona's room as you stayed over at Boyle's, cousin. Good morning to you, Meara.”

“Good morning be damned. What the bloody hell happened?”

“I'm after telling you all.” He slipped an arm around her waist. “But I need food.”

“Branna said you would, and she's already seeing to it. She's shaken, and pretending not to be. It was like a bleeding earthquake—but inside me. That's the devil of a way to wake.”

“I'll see to the horses.” Boyle slid off Alastar. “Go on in, stuff something in your belly.”

“Thanks for that.” Smiling again, Connor lifted his arms so Iona could drop into them from Alastar's back. Then she wrapped around him.

“Scared me,” she murmured.

“You're not alone in that.” He kissed the top of her head, his pretty cousin from America, the last of the three, and keeping her hand in his, went into the cottage.

The scent of bacon, of coffee, of warm bread hit his belly like a fist. In that moment he wanted to eat more than he wanted to live—and needed to eat if he wanted to live.

Kathel led the way back to the kitchen, and there Branna worked at the stove. She'd tied her dark hair back, still wore the flowered flannel pants and baggy shirt she'd slept in. That alone showed her love, he mused, as she'd have taken the time to change, to fuss with herself a little knowing there'd be company—and Finbar Burke most especially.

Saying nothing, she turned from the stove, handed him a plate holding a fried egg on toast.

“Bless you, darling.”

“It'll fill the worst of the hole. There's more coming. You're cold,” she said quietly.

“I hadn't noticed, but I am, yes. A bit cold.”

Before she could flick a hand toward the kitchen hearth, Fin did so, and the little fire flashed.

“You're quivering some. Sit, for God's sake, and eat like a human.” Voice brisk, Meara all but shoved him into a chair at the table.

“I'm not a one to brush away some fussing, and truth be told, I'd kill for coffee.”

“I'll get it.” Iona hurried over to the pot.

“Ah, what man can complain with three beautiful women pampering him. Thanks,
mo chroi
,” he added when Iona gave him the coffee.

“You'll not be pampered long, I can promise. Sit down, the lot of you,” Branna ordered. “I've nearly got this fried up. When his belly's full enough to settle him, he'll damn well explain why he didn't call for me.”

“It was fast and done. I would've called for you, for all of you. It wasn't me in harm's way, I'm thinking. He didn't come for me this morning.”

“And who then, when the rest of us were asleep in our beds?” When Branna would have lifted an enormous platter of food to bring to the table, Fin simply took it from her.

“Sit then, and listen. Sit,” he repeated before she could snap at him. “You're as shaken as he is.”

The minute the tray hit the table, Connor began to scoop eggs, sausage, bacon, toasted bread, potatoes onto his plate and into a small mountain.

“I woke early, and with an edge on,” he began, and took them all through it between enthusiastic bites.

“Eamon?” Branna demanded. “The son of Sorcha? Here and now? You're sure of it?”

“As sure as I know my sister. I only thought him a boy at first, and in Cabhan's path, but when I took his hand . . . I've never felt the like, never. Not even with you, Branna, or you and Iona together. Even on the solstice when the power was a scream, it wasn't so big, so bright, so full. I couldn't hold it, couldn't control it. It just blew through me like a comet. Through the boy as well, but he held on to me, on to it. He's a rare one.”

“What about Cabhan?” Iona demanded.

“It ripped through him,” Fin said. “I felt it.” Absently, he lifted a hand to his shoulder, where the mark of his blood, of Cabhan's blood scarred his flesh. His heart. “It stunned him, left him, I promise you, as shaken as you were.”

“So he slithered away?” Boyle dug into eggs. “Like the snake he is.”

“That he did,” Connor confirmed. “He was gone, and with him the fog, and there was only myself and the boy. Then only myself. But . . . He was me, and I was he—parts of one. That I knew when we joined hands. More than blood. Not the same, but . . . more than blood. For a moment, I could see into him—like a mirror.”

“What did you see?” Meara asked.

“Love and grief and courage. The fear, but the heart to face it, for his sisters, for his parents. For us, come to that. Just a lad, no more than ten, I'd venture. But in that moment, shining with a power he hasn't yet learned to ride smooth.”

“Is it like me going to visit Nan?” Iona wondered, thinking of her grandmother in America. “A kind of astral projection? But it's not exactly, is it? It's like that, but with the time shift, much more than that. The time shift that can happen by Sorcha's cabin. You weren't by Sorcha's cabin, were you, Connor?”

“No, still outside the clearing. Near though.” Connor considered. “Maybe near enough. All this is new. But I know for certain it wasn't what Cabhan expected.”

“It may be he brought the boy, brought Eamon,” Meara suggested. “Pulled him from his own time into ours, trying to separate him from his sisters, to take on a boy rather than a man like the sodding coward he is. The way you said it happened, Connor, if you hadn't come along, he might have killed the boy, or certainly harmed him.”

“True enough. Eamon was game, by God, he was game—wouldn't run when I told him to run, but still confused, afraid, not yet able to draw up enough to fight on his own.”

“So you woke and went out,” Branna said, “you who never step a foot out of a morning without something in your belly, and called up your hawk. Barely dawn?” She shook her head. “Something called you there. The connection between you and Eamon, or Sorcha herself. A mother still protecting her child.”

“I dreamed of Teagan,” Iona reminded them. “Of her riding Alastar to the cabin, to her mother's grave, and facing Cabhan there—drawing his blood. She's mine, the way Eamon is Connor's.”

Branna nodded as Iona looked at her. “Brannaugh to Branna, yes. I dream of her often. But nothing like this. It's useful, it must be useful. We'll find a way to use what happened here, what we know. He hid away since the solstice.”

“We hurt him,” Boyle said, scanning the others with tawny eyes. “That night he bled and burned as we did. More, I'm thinking.”

“He took the rest of the summer to heal, to gather. And this morning tried for the boy, to take that power, and—”

“To end you,” Fin interrupted Branna. “Kill the boy, Connor never exists? Or it's very possible that's the case. Change what was, change what is.”

“Well now, he failed brilliantly.” Connor polished off his bacon, sighed. “And I feel not only human again, but fit and fine. It's a pity we can't take the bastard on again now.”

“You need more than a full fry in your belly to take him on.” Rising, Meara gathered dishes. “All of us do. We hurt him on the solstice, and that's a satisfying thing, but we didn't finish him. What did we miss? Isn't that the thing we need? What did we not do that we need to do?”

“Ah, the practical mind.”

“Someone needs to think practical,” Meara tossed back at him.

“She's right. I've poured over Sorcha's book.” Branna shook her head. “What we did, what we had, how we planned it, it should've worked.”

“He changed the ground,” Boyle reminded her. “Took the fighting ground back in time.”