Shadow Spell (6 page)

“And still, I can't find what we might add to it.” Branna tossed a glance toward Fin, just a beat. He only gave her the most subtle shake of head. “So we'll keep looking.”

“No, you sit.” Iona took more dishes before Connor could do so. “Considering your dawn adventure, you get a pass at kitchen duty. Maybe I wasn't strong or skilled enough last summer.”

“Do you need reminding of a whirlwind called?” Boyle asked her.

“That was more instinct than skill, but I'm learning.” She glanced back at Branna.

“You are, yes, and very well indeed. You're no weak link if that's what you're thinking, nor have you ever been. He knows more than us, and that's a problem. He's lived, in his way, hundreds of years.”

“That makes him older,” Meara put in, “not smarter.”

“We have books and legends and what was passed down generation to generation. But he lived it all, so—smarter or not—he knows more. And what he has is deep and dark. His power has no rules as ours does. He harms who he wants, no matter to it. That we can never do and be what we are.”

“His power source—the stone he wears around his neck, wolf or man. Destroy it, destroy him. I know it,” Fin stated, clenched a fist on the table. “I know it as truth, but don't know how it can be done. Yet.”

“We'll find the way. We must,” Connor said, “so we will.”

Fin rose when Connor reached over the table to lay his hand on Branna's, and joined the others across the room with the clatter of dishes, the whoosh of water in the sink.

“Worrying for me won't help, and isn't needed. I don't have to look,” he added, “to see.”

“And if he'd harmed you and the boy, where would we be?”

“Well, he didn't, did he? And between us we gave him a solid boot in the balls. I'm here, Branna, as ever. We're meant for this, so I'm here.”

“You're a thorn in my side half the time.” Her hand turned under his until their fingers curled together and gripped. “But I'm used to you. You'll have a care, Connor.”

“I will, of course. And the same for you.”

“The same for us all.”

* * *

IT AMUSED HIM, AND TOUCHED HIM WHEN MEARA FELL INTO
step beside him as he left the house for the falconry school.

“Are you leaving your lorry then?”

“I am. I want to walk off that breakfast.”

“You're guarding my body.” He slung an arm around her shoulders, pulled her in so their hips bumped.

She'd dressed for work at the stables, rough pants and jacket, sturdy boots, and with all that hair braided back to hang through the loop of her battered cap.

And still she made a picture, he thought, the dark-eyed Meara with the gypsy in her blood.

“Your body can guard itself.” She glanced up, watched the hawks circle in the heavy sky. “And you've got them keeping an eye out.”

“I'm glad for your company all the same. And this gives you time to tell me what's troubling you.”

“I think a mad sorcerer bent on our destruction's enough to go around.”

“Something else brought you to Branna last night and had you staying through it. Is it a man giving you grief? Do you want me to lay him low for you?”

He flexed one arm, made a fist, shook it fiercely to make her laugh.

Then she sniffed. “As if I couldn't lay any I wanted low—or otherwise—myself.”

He laughed in turn, sheer delight, and gave her hip another bump. “I've no doubt on that one. What is it then, darling? I can hear the buzzing in your head like a hive of angry wasps.”

“You could stop listening.” But she relented enough to lean against him a moment, so he caught the scent of his own soap on her skin. An oddly pleasant sort of thing.

“It's just my mother driving me half mad, which is a normal enough day in the life. Donal's got himself a girl.”

“So I've heard,” he said, thinking of her younger brother. “Sharon, isn't it, moved to Cong this past spring? A nice girl, from what I've seen. A pretty face, an easy smile. Don't you like her then?”

“I like her fine and well, and more to the point Donal's mad for her. It's lovely, really, to see him so taken, and happy with it, and her very much the same.”

“Well then?”

“He's after moving out of the house, and in with his Sharon.”

Connor considered that as they walked through the pretty morning toward work they both loved. “He's, what, twenty and four?”

“And five. And, yes, past time he moved out of his mother's house. But now my mother and my sister Maureen have their heads together and have come to the horrible conclusion I should move back in with Ma.”

“Well now, that won't do, not for a minute.”

“It won't.” Now her sigh held relief, as he understood the simple and bare truth. “But they're laying it on like courses of brick. The guilt, the pressure, the bloody
logic
as they see it. Oh, Maureen's after saying our mother can't be left on her own, and me being the only one unhampered, so to speak, it stands I should be the one to right the ship. And Ma's right behind her with she'll have the room for me, and it would save me the rent, and how lonely she'll be without a chick or child around.”

She shoved both hands in her pockets. “Bugger it.”

“Do you want my opinion or only my condolences?”

She slanted a look at him, bold brown eyes both suspicious and speculative. “I'll take the opinion, though I may hurl it back in your face.”

“Then here it is for you. Stay where you are, darling. You were never happy, not really, until you moved out to begin with.”

“That's what I want, and what I know I should do for myself and my sanity, but—”

“If your mother's fretting about being lonely, and Maureen's fretting about your mother—who's her mother as well I'll add—being on her own, why wouldn't it be a fine idea for your mother to move in with Maureen and her family? Wouldn't it be a great help to Maureen to have her mother with her, with the children and all that?”

“Why didn't I think of that?” Meara pulled away long enough to punch Connor's shoulder, do a little dance. “Why didn't I think of that my own self?”

“You hadn't got through the courses of guilt.” In an old habit, he gave her long, thick braid a tug. “Maureen's no right to push you to give up your flat, change your life just because your brother's changing his.”

“I know it, but I know as well, Ma's next to helpless. She has been since my father left us. She did her best with a terrible situation, but she'll dither her way through the days, worry herself through the nights living all on her own.”

“You've two brothers, two sisters,” he reminded her. “There's five of you to help tend your mother.”

“The smart ones got well away, didn't they? It's only me and Donal right here. But I can plant the seed in Ma's mind of moving in with Maureen. If nothing else, it should scare Maureen silent for a bit.”

“There you have it.” He turned, as she did, toward the stables.

Meara stopped. “Where are you going?”

“I'll walk you to work.”

“I don't need my body guarded, thanks. Go on.” She planted a finger in his chest, gave it a little push. “You've work of your own.”

There was no harm in the day—he felt none at all. And after the early-morning clash, Connor felt Cabhan would be curled up in some dark cave, gathering.

“We've five hawk walks already booked today, and may have others before it's done. Maybe I'll see you on the paths.”

“Maybe.”

“If you text me when you're done for the day, I'll meet you here, walk back with you to the cottage.”

“We'll see how it all goes. Mind yourself, Connor.”

“I will. I do.”

Because her eyebrows had drawn together, he kissed the space between them, then strolled off. Looking, to Meara's mind, like a man without a single care in the world rather than one with the weight of it on his shoulders.

An optimist to the bone, she thought, envying him a little.

But she pulled her phone out of her pocket as she took the path to the stables and her workday.

“Morning, Ma.” And smiling to herself, prepared to give her annoying sister a shot right up the arse.

4

C
ONNOR SLIPPED THROUGH THE EMPLOYEES' GATE FOR
the falconry school. As always, he felt a little flutter—a bit like beating wings—in his heart, along his skin. It had always been the hawk for him. That connection, like his power, came down through the blood.

He'd have preferred having some time to walk around the enclosures and aviary, greet the hawks, the big owl they called Brutus, just to see—and hear—how they all fared.

But the way he'd started his day meant he was a few minutes behind already. He saw one of his staff, Brian—skinny as a flagpole and barely eighteen—checking the feed and water.

So he only glanced around to be sure all was well as he crossed over to the offices, past the fenced-in area where his assistant, Kyra, kept her pretty spaniel most days.

“And how's it going for you today, Romeo?”

In answer, the dog wagged his whole body, clamped a gnawed blue ball in his mouth, and brought it hopefully to the fence.

“It'll have to be later for that.”

He stepped into the office, found Kyra, her hair a short wedge of sapphire blue, busy at the keyboard.

“You're late.”

Though she just hit five foot two, Kyra had a voice like a foghorn.

“Happy I'm the boss then, isn't it?”

“Fin's the boss.”

“Happy I had breakfast with him so he knows what's what.” He knocked his fist lightly on the top of her head as he moved by to a desk covered with forms, clipboards, papers, brochures, a spare glove, a tether, a bowl of tumbled stones, and other debris.

“We've had another booking come in already this morning. A double. Father and son—and the boy's just sixteen. I've put you on that, as you do better with the teenagers than Brian or Pauline. They're for ten this morning. Yanks.”

She paused, sent Connor a disapproving look from her round, wildly freckled face. “Sixteen, and why isn't he in school, I want to know.”

“You're such a taskmaster, Kyra. It's an education, isn't it, to travel to another country, to learn of hawks?”

“That won't teach you to add two and two. Sean's not coming in till noon, if you're forgetting. He's taking his wife in for her check with the doctor.”

He looked up at that because he had forgotten. “All's well there, right, with her and the baby?”

“Well and fine, she just wants him there as they may find if it's a girl or boy today. That puts Brian on the nine with the lady from Donegal, you at the ten, and Pauline's at half-ten with a pair of honeymooners from Dublin.”

She clicked and clacked at the keyboard as she laid out the morning's schedule. Though she tended toward the bossy and brisk, Kyra was a wizard at doing a dozen things at once.

And—the fly in Connor's ointment—expected everyone else to do the same.

“I've set you on at two for another,” she added. “Yanks again, a couple over from Boston. They've just come in from a stay at Dromoland in Clare, and they're having three days at Ashford before moving on. Three weeks holiday for their twenty-fifth anniversary.”

“Ten and two then.”

“They've been married long as I've been alive. That's something to think on.”

Listening with half an ear, he sat to poke through the paperwork he couldn't palm off on her. “Your parents have been married longer yet, considering you're the youngest.”

“Parents are different,” she said—decisively—though he couldn't see how.

“Oh, and Brian's claiming there was an earthquake this morning, near to shook him out of bed.”

Connor glanced up, face calm. “An earthquake, is it?”

She smirked, still clattering on the keyboard with nails painted with pink glitter. “Swears the whole house shook around him.” She rolled her eyes, hit Print, swiveled around for a clipboard. “And he's decided it's some conspiracy, as there's not a word of it on the telly. A few mentions, so he claims, on the Internet. He's gone from earthquake to nuclear testing by some foreign power in a fingersnap. He'll be all over you about it, as he's been me.”

“And your bed didn't shake?”

She flashed a grin. “Not from an earthquake.”

He laughed, went back to the paperwork. “And how is Liam?”

“Very well indeed. I'm thinking I might marry him.”

“Is that the way of it?”

“It might be, as you have to start on racking up those anniversaries sometime. I'll let him know when I've made up my mind.”

When the phone jangled, he left her to answer, went back to clearing off a section of his desk.

So some felt it, some didn't, he thought. Some were more open than others. And some closed tight as any drum.

He'd known Kyra most of his life, he mused, and she knew what he was—had to know. But she never spoke of it. She was, despite her blue hair and the little hoop in her left eyebrow, a drum.

He worked steady enough until Brian came in and, as predicted, was full of earthquakes that were likely nuclear testing by some secret government agency, or perhaps a sign of the apocalypse.

He left Brian and Kyra batting it all around, went out to choose the hawk for the first walk.

As no one was watching, he did it the quick and simple way. He simply opened the aviary, looked into the eyes of his choice, held up his gloved arm.

The hawk swooped through, landed, coming in as obedient as a well-trained hound.

“There you are, Thor. Ready to work, are you? You do well for Brian this morning, and I'll take you out later, if I can, for a real hunt. How's that for you?”

After tethering the hawk, he walked back to the offices, transferred him to the waiting perch, tethered him there.

Patient, Thor closed his wings, sat watchful.

“We may get some wet,” he told Brian, “but not a drench, I'm thinking.”

“Global warming's causing strange weather around the world. It may have been an earthquake.”

“An earthquake 'tisn't weather,” Kyra stated.

“It's all connected,” Brian said darkly.

“I think you won't see more than a shower this morning. If there's an earthquake or volcanic eruption, be sure you get Thor back home again.” Connor gave Brian a slap on the shoulder. “There's your clients now, at the gate. Go on, let them in, give them the show around. I'll take Roibeard and William for the ten,” he told Kyra when Brian hurried to answer the gate. “That leaves Moose for Pauline's.”

“I'll set it up.”

“We'll have Rex for Sean. He respects Sean, and doesn't yet have the same respect for Brian. Best not send him out with Bri yet, on their own. I'll take Merlin for the two, as he hasn't been on a walk in a few days.”

“Fin's hawk isn't here.”

“He's around,” Connor said simply. “And Pauline can take Thor out again this afternoon. Brian or Sean, whoever you have for the last so far, can take Rex.”

“What of Nester?”

“He's not feeling it today. He's got the day off.”

She only lifted her beringed eyebrow at Connor's assessment of the hawk. “If you say.”

“And I do.”

Her round face lost its smirk in concern. “Does he need to be looked at?”

“No, he's not sick, just out of sorts. I'll take him out later, let him fly off the mood.”

He was right about the shower, but it came and went as they often did. A short patter of rain, a thin beam of sun through a pocket of clouds.

By the time his double arrived, the shower had moved on, leaving the air damp and just misty enough. Truth be told, he thought as he took the father and son around, it added to the atmosphere for the Yanks.

“How do you know which one is which?” The boy—name of Taylor—gangling with big ears and knobby knuckles, put on an air of mild boredom.

“They look alike, the Harris's hawk, but they each have their own personality, their own way. You see, there's Moose, he's a big one, so he has the name. And Rex, beside him? Has a kind of regal air.”

“Why don't they just fly away when you take them out?”

“Why would they be doing that? They've a good life here, a posh life come to that. And good, respectable work as well. Some were born here, and this is home for them.”

“You train them here?” the father asked.

“We do, yes, from the time they're hatchlings. They're born to fly and hunt, aren't they? With proper training—reward, kindness, affection, they can be trained to do what they're born to do and return to the glove.”

“Why the Harris's hawk for the walks?”

“They're social, they are. And more, their maneuverability makes them a fine choice for a walk in these parts. The Peregrines—you see here?” He walked them over to a large gray bird with black and yellow markings. “They're magnificent to be sure, and there's no faster animal on the planet when they're in the stoop. That would be flying up to a great height, then diving for its prey.”

“I thought a cheetah was the fastest,” Taylor said.

“Apollo here?” At the name, at Connor's subtle link, the falcon spread its great wings—had the boy impressed enough to gasp a little before he shrugged. “He can beat the cat, reaching speeds to three hundred twenty kilometers an hour. That's two hundred miles an hour in American,” Connor added with a grin.

“But for all its speed and beauty, the Peregrine needs open space, and the Harris's can dance through the trees. You see these here?”

He walked them along. “I watched these hatch myself only last spring, and we've trained them here at the school until they were ready for free flights. One of their brothers is William, and he'll be with you today, Mr. Leary.”

“So young? That's what, only five or six months old.”

“Born to fly,” Connor repeated. He sensed he'd lose the boy unless he moved things along. “If you'll come inside now, we've your hawks waiting.”

“It's an experience, Taylor.” The father, an easy six-four, laid a hand on his son's shoulder.

“Whatever. It'll probably rain again.”

“Oh, I think it'll hold off till near to sunset. So, Mr. Leary, have you family around Mayo then?”

“Tom. Ancestors, I'm told, but no family I know of.”

“Just you and your boy then?”

“No, my wife and daughter went into Cong to shop.” He gave a grinning roll of his eyes. “Could be trouble.”

“My sister has a shop in Cong. The Dark Witch. Maybe they'll stop in.”

“If it's there and it sells something, they'll stop in. We were thinking of trying a horseback ride tomorrow.”

“Oh, you couldn't do better. It's a fine ride around. You just tell them Connor said to give you a good time with it.”

Stepping inside, he turned to the holding perches. “And here we have Roibeard and William. Roibeard's my own, and he's for you today, Taylor. I've had him since he was a hatchling. Tom, would you sign the forms that Kyra has ready for you, and I'll make Taylor acquainted with Roibeard.”

“What kind of name is that?” Taylor demanded.

Thinks he doesn't want to be here, Connor mused. Thinks he'd rather be at home with his mates and his video games.

“Why it's his name, and an old one. He comes from hawks that hunted these very wood for hundreds of years. Here's your glove. Without it, as smart and skilled as he is, his talons would pierce your skin. You're to hold your arm up like this, see?” Connor demonstrated, holding his left arm up at a right angle. “And keep it still as we walk. You've only to lift it to signal him to fly. I'll tether him at first, until we get out and about.”

He felt the boy quiver—nerves, excitement he tried to hide—as Connor signaled Roibeard to step onto the gloved arm. “The Harris's is agile and quick, as I said, and a fierce hunter, though since we'll be taking these chicken parts along”—he patted his baiting pouch—“they'll both leave off any thought of going for birds or rabbit.

“And here for you, Tom, is young William. He's a handsome one, and well behaved. He loves little more than a chance to wing through the woods, and have some chicken as a reward for the work.”

“He's beautiful. They're beautiful.” Tom laughed a little. “I'm nervous.”

“Let's have ourselves an adventure. How's your stay at the castle?” Connor began as he led them out.

“Amazing. Annie and I thought this was our once in a lifetime, but we're already talking about coming back.”

“Sure you can't come once to Ireland.”

He walked them easy, making some small talk, but keeping his mind, his heart with the hawks. Content enough, ready enough.

He took them away from the school, down a path, to the hard paved road where there was an opening, with tall trees fringing it.

There he released the jesses.

“If you lift your arms. Just gentle now, sliding them up, they'll fly.”