Blood Magick Page 30

  “Aine?”

  “Another day or two. She’ll be ready for Alastar if it’s what you want.”

  “It is.”

  “She isn’t afraid; none of the horses are afraid, but they know they’ll fly tonight, and why.”

  “As does the hound. They’re ready.” Branna looked to Connor.

  “And the hawks as well.”

  “Mind your thoughts and words now,” Fin told them, “for I have to let him in, let him see enough to make him believe we go to honor Sorcha and try to raise her.”

  With a nod Branna crouched to press her head to Kathel’s, then she mounted. And with the others, she flew through the dark heart of the night.

  “Can we be sure we’re cloaked?” she called to Fin.

  “I’ve never done so wide a mist, but it’s covered all, hasn’t it? And what would Cabhan be doing watching us at this time of the night?”

  Though Fin opened, blood calling to blood. As they flew through the trees, with the whisk of the wind rending small gaps in that cloak, he felt the stirring.

  And told Branna with no more than a glance.

  “It has to hold, give us time to block him out of the clearing, give us the time to pay our respects to Sorcha and work the spell to bring her spirit to us.”

  “I’d rather fight than try to converse with ghosts,” Boyle muttered.

  “She nearly defeated him,” Iona pointed out. “She must know something that will help. We’ve tried everything. We have to try this. If it works . . .”

  “It has to work,” Meara put in. “It’s driving me next to mad having him stalking us day by day.”

  “She’s ours,” Connor told her. “We’ll reach her, and tonight, on the anniversary of her death, her sacrifice, her curse is our best hope for it.”

  “We can’t wait another year.” Branna brought Aine down as they flew through the vines, into the clearing. “We won’t.”

  As agreed, Fin and the three went to the edges of the clearing, each taking a point of the compass. She would begin, with hopes that rather than holding Cabhan out, the ritual would give him time to slip through—and be closed in.

  She lifted her arms, called to the north, poured the salt. Iona took the west. It was Connor, at the east, who whispered softly in Branna’s head.

  He’s coming. Nearly here.

  As her brother called on the east Branna’s heart tripped.

  The first step, luring him, had worked.

  Fin called on the south, then all four walked the wide circle, salting the ground while Boyle and Meara set out the tools for the next part of the plan.

  She felt the change, the lightest of chills as Cabhan’s fog mixed with Fin’s.

  As they closed the barrier that would keep all out, keep all in, she prayed he wouldn’t use the swirls and shadows to attack before they were ready.

  Struggling not to rush, she lifted the roses, offered the bouquet to each so they could take a bloom. Fin hesitated.

  “I can’t see she’d want tribute from me, or accept it.”

  “You’ll show her respect, and give her the tribute. She must understand you’ve fought and bled with us, and we can’t defeat Cabhan without you. We have to try, Fin. Can you offer forgiveness to her for the mark you carry, with the tribute?”

  “I have to try,” was all he said.

  Together, all six approached Sorcha’s grave.

  “We place upon your grave these pure white blooms to mark the anniversary of your doom. Bring wine and honey and bread, a tribute of life given to the dead.”

  It grew colder. Branna swore she could all but feel the rise of Cabhan’s excitement, his greed. But she found no name in the undulating fog.

  “These herbs we scatter on the ground to release your spirit from its bounds. With respect we kneel and make to you this appeal. Sealed with our blood, three and three, fire burn in through the night and meet our need most dire, grant us what we ask of thee.”

  One by one they scored their palms, let the blood drip onto the ground by the stone.

  “In this place, at this hour, through your love and by our power, send to us your children three so all may meet their destiny.”

  A howl came through the fog, a sound of wild fury. Fin dropped the cloak as he drew his sword, leaped to his feet beside Branna and the others.

  “Send them here and send them now,” Branna shouted, and Fin and Connor moved to block her from any attack. Iona, Boyle, and Meara worked quickly to cast a circle while she finished the ritual.

  “Those with your powers you did endow. Three by three by three we fight.” She shot out fire of her own to block Cabhan from pivoting into an attack as her friends hurried to cast the circle, and open a portal for the first three.

  “Three by three by three we take the night. Mother, grant this boon, let them fly across the moon and set your spirit free. As we will, so mote it be.”

  The ground shook. She nearly lost her footing as she spun around to race toward the circle, glanced back quickly to see Cabhan hurl what looked like a wall of black fire toward Fin and Connor. Even as she reached for Iona’s hand, to join what they had, the wind picked her up like a cold hand, threw her across the clearing.

  Though she landed hard enough to rattle bones, she saw Fin battling back with flaming sword and heaving ground, Connor lashing the air like a whip. Light and dark clashed, and the sound was huge, like worlds toppling.

  Meara charged forward, sword slashing, and Boyle released a volley of small fireballs that slashed and burned the snaking fog. With no choice but to attack, defend, it left Iona alone to complete the circle.

  He’s stronger, Branna realized, somehow stronger than he’d been on Samhain. Whatever was inside him had drawn on more, drawn out more. The last battle, she thought; they knew it, and so did Cabhan.

  He called the rats so they vomited out of the ground. He called the bats, so they spilled like vengeance from the sky. And Iona, cut off, fought to hold them back as hawk, hound, horse trampled and tore.

  Duty, loyalty. Love. Branna sprang to her feet, rushed through the boiling rats to leap onto Aine’s back. And with a ball of fire in one hand, a shining wand in the other, flew toward her cousin and the incomplete circle.

  She lashed out with fire, with light, carving a path. She called on her gift, brought down a hot rain to drown Cabhan’s feral weapons. When she reached Iona, she released a torrent that drove all away from Sorcha’s cabin.

  “Finish it!” she shouted. “You can finish it.”

  Then came the snakes, boiling along the ground. She heard—felt—Kathel’s pain as fangs tore at him. The fury that burst through her turned them to ash.

  Branna wheeled her horse to guard Iona, but her cousin shouted, “I’ve got this! I’ve got it. Go help the others.”

  Fearing the worst, Branna charged through the wall of black fire.

  It choked her, the stench of sulfur. She pulled rain, warm and pure, out of the air to wash it away. The fire snapped and sizzled as she fought her way through it.

  They bled, her family, as they battled.

  Once more she wheeled the horse, pulled her power up, up, up.

  Now the rain, and the wind, now the quake and the fire. Now all at once in a maelstrom that crashed against Cabhan’s wrath. Smoke swirled, a sting to the eyes, a burn in the throat, but she saw fear, just one wild flicker of it, in the sorcerer’s eyes before he hunched and became the wolf.

  “It’s done!” Iona called out. “It’s done. The light. It’s growing.”

  “I see them,” Meara, her face wet with sweat and blood, shouted. “I can see them, the shadows of them. Go,” she said to Connor. “Go.”

  “We’ll hold him.” Boyle punched out, fire and fist.

  “By God we will. Go.” Fin met Branna’s eyes. “Or it’s for nothing.”

  No choice, she thought, holding out a hand for Connor so he could grip it, swing onto Aine with her.

  “She’s hurt. Meara’s hurt.”

  �
��We have to pull them through, Connor. It’s the three who bring the three. Without them, we may not be able to heal her.”

  Kathel, she thought, bleeding from the muzzle, from the flank, Alastar slashing hooves in the air, hawks screaming as they dived with flashing talons.

  And for nothing if they couldn’t bring Sorcha’s three fully into the now.

  She rode straight into the circle, slid off the horse with her brother. She took Iona’s hand, Connor’s, and felt the power rise, felt the light burn.

  “Three by three by three,” she shouted. “This is magick’s prophecy. Join with us no matter the cost, come through now or all is lost. Stand with us on this night and by our blood we finish this fight.”

  They came, Sorcha’s three. Brannaugh with bow, Eamon with sword, Teagan with wand and great with child. Without a word they joined hands, so three became six.

  Light exploded, all white, all brilliance. The heat of power poured into her, staggering, breathless, beyond any she’d known.

  “Draw him away from them!” Branna heard her voice echo over the shaking air. “We have what will take him down, but they’re too close.”

  “For me.” Sorcha’s Brannaugh held out the hand joined with her brother’s. Arrows flew from her quill, flame white, to strike the ground between the wolf and the remaining three.

  Crazed, the wolf turned, charged.

  Branna broke the link; Connor closed it behind her.

  “Hurry,” he told her.

  “A bit closer yet, just a bit.” But she reached in the pouch, drew out the poison. The bottle throbbed in her hand, like a living thing. As the wolf leaped toward the circle, she sent the bottle flying.

  Its screams rent the air, slammed her so she staggered back. All he’d called from the bowels of the dark flamed, and their screams joined the wolf’s.

  “It’s not done.” Iona gripped Teagan’s hand. “Until we kill what lives in him, it can’t be done.”

  “The name.” Branna staggered, but Eamon caught her before she fell. “The demon’s name. Do you know it?”

  “No. We’ll burn what’s left of him, salt the ground.”

  “It’s not enough. We must have its name. Fin!”

  Even as she started forward, he waved her off, dropped to the ground with the bloody body of the wolf. “Start the ritual.”

  “You’re bleeding—and Meara, Boyle. You’ll be stronger if we take time to heal you.”

  “Start the ritual,” he said between his teeth as he closed his hands around the wolf’s throat. “That’s for you. This is for me.”

  “Start it.” Meara sprawled to the ground with Boyle. “And finish it.”

  So they rang the bell, opened the book, lit the candle.

  And began the words.

  Blood in the cauldron, of the light, of the dark. Shadows shifting like dancers.

  On the ground, Fin dug his fingers into the torn ruff of the wolf.

  “I know you,” he murmured, staring into the red eyes. “You’re mine, but I’m not yours.” He tore the stone away, held it high. “And will never be. I am of Daithi.” The brooch fell out of Fin’s shirt, and the wolf’s eyes wheeled in terror. “And I am your death. I know you. I have stood at your altar, and heard the damned call your name. I know you.”

  What was in the wolf pushed its dark until Fin’s hands burned, until his own blood ran.

  “In Sorcha’s name I rebuke you. In Daithi’s name, I rebuke you. In my name, I rebuke you, for I am Finbar Burke, and I know you.”

  When it came into him, it all but shattered his soul. The dark pulled, so strong, tore so deep. But he held on, held on, and looked toward Branna. Looked to her light.

  “Its name is Cernunnos.” He heaved the stone to Connor. “Cernunnos. Destroy it. Now. I can’t hold much longer, much more. Get her clear.” His breath heaved as he called to Boyle, “Get Meara clear.”

  “You have to let it go!” Tears streaming, Branna shouted, “Fin, let it go, come to us.”

  “I can’t. He’ll go into the earth, into the belly of it, and be lost to us again. I can hold him here, but not much longer. Do what must be done for all, for me. As you love me, Branna, free me. By all we are, free me.”

  To be sure of it, he threw out what he had so the stone ripped out of Connor’s hand and into the cauldron. And as the light, blinding white, towered up, he called out the name himself.

  “End it!”

  “He suffers,” Teagan murmured. “No more. Give him peace.”

  Sobbing, Branna called out the demon’s name, and heaved the poison.

  Blacker than black, thicker than tar. Through the whip of it rose wild, ululant cries; deep, throaty screams. And with it thousands of voices shrieking in tongues never heard.

  She felt it, an instant before the light bloomed again, before the cauldron itself burned a pure white. The clearing, the sky, she thought the entire world flamed white.

  She felt the stone crack, heard the destruction of it like great trees snapped by a giant’s hand so the ground rocked like a stormy sea.

  She felt the demon’s death, and swore she felt her own.

  It all drained out of her, breath, power, light, as she fell to her knees.

  Blood and death follow, she thought. Blood and death.

  Then she was up and running as she saw Fin, still, white, bloody, facedown on the blackened ash of what had been Cabhan, of what had birthed him.

  “Hecate, Brighid, Morrigan, all the goddesses, show mercy. Don’t take him.” She pulled Fin’s head into her lap. “Take what I am, take what I have, but don’t take his life. I beg you, don’t take his life.”

  She lifted her face to the sky still lit by white fire, threw her power to any who could hear. “Take what you will, what you must, but not his life.”

  Her tears ran warm, dropped onto his burned skin. “Sorcha,” she prayed. “Mother. Right your wrong. Spare his life.”

  “Shh.” Fin’s fingers curled in hers. “I’m not gone. I’m here.”

  “You survived.”

  And the world righted again, the ground settled, the flames softened in the sky.

  “How did you— I don’t care. You survived.” She pressed her lips to his face, to his hair. “Ah, God, you’re bleeding, everywhere. Rest easy, easy, my love. Help me.” She looked to Sorcha’s Brannaugh. “Please.”

  “I will, of course. You’re all she told me.” She knelt down, laid hands on Fin’s side where his shirt and flesh were rent and scorched. “He is my own Eoghan to the life.”

  “What?”

  She squeezed Branna’s hand. “His face is my own love’s face, his heart, my own love’s heart. He was never Cabhan’s, not where it mattered.” She looked down at Fin, and touched her lips to his brow. “You are mine as you are hers. Healing will hurt a bit.”

  “A bit,” Fin said through gritted teeth as pain seared him.

  “Look at me. Look into me,” Branna crooned.

  “I won’t. You won’t take this. It’s mine. The others?”

  “Being tended right now. Damn you to bloody hell, Finbar, for making me think I’d killed you. It’s too much blood, and your shirt’s still smoldering.” She whipped it away with a flash of her hand. “Ah, God, some of these are deep. Connor!”

  “I’m coming.” Limping a little, Connor swiped bloodied sweat from his face. “Meara and Boyle are healing well, though Christ, she took a blow or two. Still . . . Well, Jesus, Fin, look at the mess you’ve made of yourself.”

  To solve things, he gripped Fin’s head in his hands, and pushed his way into Fin’s mind, and the pain.

  “Ah fuck me,” Connor hissed.

  Minutes dragged on for centuries, even when the others joined them. Before it was done, both Connor and Fin were covered in sweat, breathless, quivering.

  “He’ll do.” Teagan brushed a hand down Branna’s arm. “You and my sister are very skilled healers. Some rest, some tonic, and he’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, thank you. Thank you.” B
ranna pressed her face into Connor’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “He’s mine as well.”

  “Ours,” Eamon corrected. “We came home, and we had a part in destroying Cabhan. But he played the larger role in it. So you’re ours, Finbar Burke, though you bear Cabhan’s mark.”

  “No longer,” Teagan murmured. “I put the mark on Cabhan, and our mother put it on his blood, all who followed. And I think now that she and the light have taken it. For this is not Cabhan’s mark.”

  “What do you mean? It’s—” Fin twisted to look, and on his shoulder, where he’d worn the mark of Cabhan since his eighteenth year, he now wore a Celtic trinity knot, the triquetra.

  A sign of three.

  It stunned him, more than the fire of the poison, more than the blinding flames of the white.

  “It’s gone.” He touched his fingers to it, felt no pain, no dark, no stealthy pull. “I’m free of it. Free.”

  “You would have given your life. Your blood,” Branna realized, as her eyes stung with pure joy. “Its death from your willing sacrifice. You broke the curse, Fin.”

  She laid her hand over his, over the sign of three. “You saved yourself and, I think, Sorcha’s spirit. You saved us all.”

  “Some of us did a bit as well,” Connor reminded her. But grinned at Fin. “It’s a fine mark. I’m thinking the rest of us should get tattoos for matching.”

  “I like it,” Meara declared, and swiped at tears.

  “We’ve more than tattoos to think of.” Boyle held down a hand. “On your feet now.” He gripped Fin’s arms hard, then embraced him. “Welcome back.”

  “It’s good to be here,” he said as Iona just wrapped around him and wept a little. “But Christ, I’d like to be home. We need to finish altogether.” He kissed the top of Iona’s head. “We need to be done, and live.”

  “So we will.” Eamon held out a hand, took Fin’s in a strong grip. “When I get a son, he will carry your name, cousin.”

  They set the ashes on fire, more white flame, turned the earth, scattered them, salted all.

  Then stood in the clearing, in peace.

  “It’s done. We’re done with it.” Sorcha’s Brannaugh walked to her mother’s grave. “And she’s free. I’m sure of it.”

  “We honored her sacrifice, fulfilled our destiny. And I feel home calling.” Eamon reached for Teagan’s hand. “But I think we’ll see you again, cousins.”