Blood Magick Page 4

“I know what we need. I’ll—”

  “Sit,” her brother insisted. “I’ll get what we need, and the both of you will take your ease for a moment. Gealbhan, I swear by the gods, sit on the pair of them if they don’t rest for a bit.”

  Gealbhan had only to touch his wife’s cheek, to take Brannaugh’s hand to have them heed. “What must be done?” he asked Teagan.

  “An offering. An asking. A gathering. He cannot come here. Cabhan cannot come here, or see here. Here he has no power. And here, we can gather ours together.”

  “What do you need?”

  “You are the best of us.” She kissed his cheek. “If you would help Eamon, I promise you Brannaugh and I will bide here, will rest.”

  When he’d gone, she turned quickly to Brannaugh. “You have pain.”

  “It’s not the birthing pains. You’ll learn the babe often gives you a bit of a taste of what’s coming. This will pass. But the rest is welcome. What we will do here will take strength.”

  They took an hour, to rest, to prepare.

  “We must cast the circle,” she told Eoghan, “and make the offering. Do not fear for me.”

  “Would you ask me not to breathe?”

  “It is your love, your faith, and Gealbhan’s with yours we need.”

  “Then you have it.”

  They cast the circle, and the cauldron floated over the fire they made. Water flowed from Teagan’s hands into the cauldron. Brannaugh added herbs, Eamon crushed stones.

  “These come from the home we made.”

  “And these.” Teagan opened a pouch, poured in the precious. “From the home we seek. Small things, a dried flower, a pebble, a bit of bark.”

  “More than gold or silver treasured. We offer to you. Here, a lock of hair from my firstborn.”

  “A feather from my guide.” Eamon added it to the now bubbling cauldron.

  “This charm my mother made me.”

  “Ah, Teagan,” Brannaugh murmured.

  “She would wish it.” Teagan added it to the offering.

  “To you we give what we hold dear, and add to them this witch’s tear. And seal with blood this brew to show our hearts are true.”

  And each with a sacred knife offered their blood, and with it the bubbling cauldron boiled and smoked.

  “Father, mother, blood of our blood and bone of our bone, we orphans have faith forever shown. Grant us here in this holy place, in this holy hour the might and right of your power. With your gift we cannot fail and over Cabhan will prevail. Imbue us now, we witches three. As we will, so mote it be.”

  The wind had stirred inside the walls. The candlelight gone brilliant. But at the final words the three spoke together, the wind whirled, the light flashed.

  The voices that had murmured, rang out.

  With her siblings Brannaugh clasped hands, with them she dropped to her knees.

  It ripped through her, the light, the voices, the wind. And the power.

  Then came silence.

  She rose again, and with Teagan and Eamon turned.

  “You were alight,” Eoghan said in wonder. “Like candles yourselves.”

  “We are the three.” Teagan’s voice rose and echoed in the humming silence. “But there are many. Many before us, many who come after.”

  “Their light is ours; ours is theirs.” Eamon lifted his arms, his sisters’ high. “We are the three, and we are one.”

  Filled with light, fatigue vanished, suffused, Brannaugh smiled. “We are the three. We cast our light over the dark, we seek it out of its shadows. And we will prevail.”

  “By our blood,” they said together, “we will prevail.”

  • • •

  IN THE MORNING, IN THE SOFT LIGHT OF DAY, THEY SET OUT again. They traveled the road with green hills rising, with water shining blue under a welcoming sun. Toward the grand gray stones of Ashford they rode, where the gates were open for them, the bridge drawn down, and the sun shined bright over the water, over the land of their birth.

  And so Sorcha’s children came home.

  3

  Winter 2013

  BRANNA O’DWYER WOKE TO A GRAY, SOGGY, RELENTLESS rain. And wished for nothing more than to burrow in and sleep again. Mornings, she had always felt, came forever too soon. But like it or not, sleep was done, and with its leaving came a slow and steady craving for coffee.

  Annoyed, as she was often annoyed by morning, she rose, pulled thick socks over her feet, drew a sweater over the thin T-shirt she’d slept in.

  Through habit and an ingrained tidiness, she stirred up the bedroom fire so the licks of flame would cheer the room, and with her hound, Kathel, having his morning stretch on the hearthrug, she made her bed, added the mounds of pretty pillows that pleased her.

  In her bath, she brushed out her long fall of black hair, then bundled it up. She had work, and plenty of it—after coffee. She frowned at herself in the mirror, considered doing a bit of a glamour, as the restless night surely showed. But didn’t see the point.

  Instead, she walked back into the bedroom, gave Kathel a good rub to get his tail wagging.

  “You were restless as well, weren’t you now? I heard you talking in your sleep. Did you hear the voices, my boy?”

  They walked down together, quiet, as her house was full as it was too often these days. Her brother and Meara shared his bed, and her cousin Iona shared hers with Boyle.

  Friends and family all. She loved them, and needed them. But God be sweet, she could’ve done with some alone.

  “They stay for me,” she told Kathel as they walked down the steps of the pretty cottage. “As if I can’t look after myself. Have I not put enough protection around what’s mine, and theirs, to hold off a dozen Cabhans?”

  It had to stop, really, she decided, heading straight toward her lovely, lovely coffee machine. A man of Boyle McGrath’s size could hardly be comfortable in her cousin Iona’s little bed. She needed to nudge them along. In any case, there had been no sign nor shadow of Cabhan since Samhain.

  “We almost had him. Bugger it, we nearly finished it.”

  The spell, the potion, both so strong, she thought as she started the coffee. Hadn’t they worked on both hard and long? And the power, by the gods, the power had risen like a flood that night by Sorcha’s old cabin.

  They’d hurt him, spilled his blood, sent him howling—wolf and man. And still . . .

  Not done. He’d slipped through, and would be healing, would be gathering himself.

  Not done, and at times she wondered if ever it would be.

  She opened the door, and Kathel rushed out. Rain or no, the dog wanted his morning run. She stood in the open doorway, in the cold, frosty December air, looking toward the woods.

  He waited, she knew, beyond them. In this time or in another, she couldn’t tell. But he would come again, and they must be ready.

  But he wouldn’t come this morning.

  She closed the door on the cold, stirred up the kitchen fire, added fuel so the scent of peat soothed. Pouring her coffee, she savored the first taste, and the short time of quiet and alone. And, a magick of its own, the coffee cleared her head, smoothed her mood.

  We will prevail.

  The voices, she remembered now. So many voices rising up, echoing out. Light and power and purpose. In sleep she’d felt it all. And that single voice, so clear, so sure.

  We will prevail.

  “We’ll pray you’re right about it.”

  She turned.

  The woman stood, a hand protectively over the mound of her belly, a thick shawl tied around a long dress of dark blue.

  Almost a mirror, Branna thought, almost like peering into a glass. The hair, the eyes, the shape of the face.

  “You’re Brannaugh of Sorcha. I know you from dreams.”

  “Aye, and you, Branna of the clan O’Dwyer. I know you from dreams. You’re my blood.”

  “I am. I am of the three.” Branna touched the amulet with its icon of the hound she was never without—just as her cou
nterpart did the same.

  “Your brother came to us, with his woman, one night in Clare.”

  “Connor, and Meara. She is a sister to me.” Now Branna touched her heart. “Here. You understand.”

  “She saved my own brother from harm, shed blood for him. She is a sister to me as well.” With some wonder on her face, Sorcha’s Brannaugh looked around the kitchen. “What is this place?”

  “My home. And yours for you are very welcome here. Will you sit? I would make you tea. This coffee I have would not be good for the baby.”

  “It has a lovely scent. But only sit with me, cousin. Just sit for a moment. This is a wondrous place.”

  Branna looked around her kitchen—tidy, lovely, as she’d designed it herself. And, she supposed, wondrous indeed to a woman from the thirteenth century.

  “Progress,” she said as she sat at the kitchen table with her cousin. “It eases hours of work. Are you well?”

  “I am, very well. My son comes soon. My third child. She reached out; Branna took her hand.

  Heat and light, a merging of power very strong, very true.

  “You will name him Ruarc, for he will be a champion.”

  It brought a smile to her cousin’s face. “So I will.”

  “On Samhain, we—the three and three more who are with us—battled Cabhan. Though we caused him harm, burned and bled him, we didn’t finish him. I saw you there. Your brother with a sword, your sister with a wand, you with a bow. You were not with child.”

  “Samhain is yet a fortnight to come in my time. We came to you?”

  “You did, at Sorcha’s cabin where we lured him, and in your time, as we shifted into it to try to trap him. We were close, but it wasn’t enough. My book—Sorcha’s book—I could show you the spell, the poison we conjured. You may—”

  Brannaugh held up a hand, pressed the other to her side. “My son comes. And he pulls me back. But listen, there is a place, a holy place. An abbey. It sits in a field, a day’s travel south.”

  “Ballintubber. Iona weds her Boyle there come spring. It is a holy place, a strong place.”

  “He cannot go there, see there. It is sacred, and those who made us watch over it. They gave us, Sorcha’s three, their light, their hope and strength. When next you face down Cabhan, we will be with you. We will find a way. We will prevail. If it is not to be you, there will come another three. Believe, Branna of the O’Dwyers. Find the way.”

  “I can do nothing else.”

  “Love.” She gripped Branna’s hand hard. “Love, I have learned, is another guide. Trust your guides. Oh, he’s impatient. My child comes today. Be joyful, for he is another bright candle against the dark. Believe,” she said again, and vanished.

  Branna rose, and with a thought lit a candle for the new light, the new life.

  And with a sigh, accepted her alone was at an end.

  So she started breakfast. She had a story to tell, and no one would want to hear it on an empty stomach. Believe, she thought—Well, she believed it was part of her lot in life to cook for an army on nearly a daily basis.

  She swore an oath that when they’d sent Cabhan to hell she’d take a holiday, somewhere warm, sunny—where she wouldn’t touch a pot, pan, or skillet for days on end.

  She began to mix the batter for pancakes—a recipe new to her she’d wanted to try—and Meara came in.

  Her friend was dressed for the day, a working day at the stables, in thick trousers, a warm sweater, sturdy boots. She’d braided back her bark brown hair, sent Branna a cautious look with her dark gypsy eyes.

  “I promised I’d see to breakfast this morning.”

  “I woke early, after a restless night. And have already had company this morning.”

  “Someone’s here?”

  “Was here. Drag the others down, would you, so I’ll tell my tale all at once.” She hesitated only a moment. “Best if Connor or Boyle rings up Fin, and asks if he’d come over as well.”

  “It’s Cabhan. Is he back?”

  “He’s coming, right enough, but no.”

  “I’ll get the others. Everyone’s up, so it won’t take long.”

  With a nod, Branna set bacon sizzling in a pan.

  Connor came first, and her brother sniffed the air like Kathel might do.

  “Be useful,” she told him. “Set the table.”

  “Straightaway. Meara said something happened, but it wasn’t Cabhan.”

  “Do you think I’d be trying my hand with these pancake things if I’d gone a round with Cabhan?”

  “I don’t.” He fetched plates from the cupboard. “He stays in the shadows. He’s stronger than he was, but not full healed. I barely feel him yet, but Fin said he’s not full healed.”

  And Finbar Burke would know, Branna thought, as he was Cabhan’s blood, as he bore the mark of Sorcha’s curse.

  “He’s on his way,” Connor added.

  When she only nodded, he went to the door, opened it for Kathel. “And look at you, wet as a seal.”

  “Dry him off,” Branna began, then sighed when Connor simply saw to the task by gliding his hands over the wet fur. “We’ve towels in the laundry for that.”

  Connor only grinned, a quick flash from a handsome face, a quick twinkle in moss green eyes. “Now he’s dry all the faster, and you don’t have a wet towel to wash.”

  Iona and Boyle came in, hand in hand. A pair of lovebirds, Branna thought. If anyone had suggested to her a year before that the taciturn, often brusque, former brawler could resemble a lovebird, she’d have laughed till her ribs cracked. But there he was, big, broad-shouldered, his hair tousled, his tawny eyes just a little dreamy beside her bright sprite of an American cousin.

  “Meara will be right down,” Iona announced. “She had a call from her sister.”

  “All’s well?” Connor asked. “Her ma?”

  “No problems—just some Christmas details.” Without being asked she got out flatware to finish what Connor started, and Boyle put the kettle on for tea.

  So Branna’s kitchen filled with voices, with movement—and she could admit now that she’d had coffee—with the warmth of family. And then excitement as Meara dashed in, grabbed Connor and pulled him into a dance.

  “I’m to pack up the rest of my mother’s things.” She did a quick stomp, click, stomp, then grabbed Connor again for a hard kiss. “She’s staying with my sister Maureen for the duration. Praise be, and thanks to the little Baby Jesus in his manger!”

  Even as Connor laughed, she stopped, pressed her hands to her face. “Oh God, I’m a terrible daughter, a horrible person altogether. Dancing about because my own mother’s gone to live with my sister in Galway and I’ll not have to deal with her on a daily basis myself.”

  “You’re neither,” Connor corrected. “Are you happy your mother’s happy?”

  “Of course, I am, but—”

  “And why shouldn’t you be? She’s found a place where she’s content, where she has grandchildren to spoil. And why shouldn’t you kick up your heels a bit, as she won’t be ringing you up twice a day when she can’t work out how to switch out a lightbulb?”

  “Or burns another joint of lamb,” Boyle added.

  “That’s the bloody truth, isn’t it?” So Meara did another quick dance. “I’m happy for her, I am. And I’m wild with joy for my own self.”

  When Fin came in Meara launched herself at him—and gave Branna a moment to adjust herself, as she had to do whenever he walked in her door.

  “You’ve lost a tenant, Finbar. My ma’s settled once and done with my sister.” She kissed him hard as well, made him laugh. “That’s thanks to you—and don’t say you don’t need it—for the years of low rent, and for holding the little cottage in case she wanted to come back to Cong.”

  “She was a fine tenant. Kept the place tidy as a church.”

  “The place looks fine now, it does, with the updates we’ve done.” As Iona took over the table setting, Connor grabbed his first coffee. “I expect Fin will ha
ve someone in there, quick as you please.”

  “I’ll be looking into it.” But it was Branna he looked at, and into. Then saying nothing, took Connor’s coffee for himself.

  She kept her hands busy, and wished to bloody hell she’d done that little glamour. No restless night showed on his face, on that beautiful carving of it, in the bold green eyes.

  He looked perfect—man and witch—with his raven black hair damp from the rain, his body tall and lean as he shed his black leather jacket, hung it on a peg.

  She’d loved him all her life, understood, accepted, she always would. But the first and only time they’d given themselves to each other—so young, still so innocent—the mark had come on him.

  Cabhan’s mark.

  A Dark Witch of Mayo could never be with Cabhan’s blood.

  She could, would, and had worked with him, for he’d proven time and again he wanted Cabhan’s end as much as she. But there could never be more.

  Did knowing it pained him as it did her help her through it? Maybe a bit, she admitted. Just a bit.

  She took the platter heaped with pancakes she’d already flipped from the skillet out of the warmer, added the last of them.

  “We’ll sit then, and eat. It’s your Nan’s recipe, Iona. We’ll see if I did her proud.”

  Even as she lifted the platter, Fin took it from her. And as he took it, his eyes met and held hers. “You’ve a story to go with them, I’m told.”

  “I do, yes.” She took a plate full of bacon and sausage, carried it to the table. And sat. “Not an hour ago I sat here and had a conversation with Sorcha’s Brannaugh.”

  “She came here?” Connor paused in the act of sliding a stack of pancakes onto his plate. “Our kitchen?”

  “She did. I’d had a restless night, full of dreams and voices. Hers among them. I couldn’t be sure of the place as it was vague and scattered as dreams can be.” She took a single pancake for herself. “I was here, getting my first cup of coffee, and I turned around. There she was.

  “She looks like me—or I like her. That was a jolt of surprise, just how close we are there—though she was heavily pregnant. Her son comes today—or not today, as in her time it was still a fortnight to Samhain.”