Blood Magick

by Roberts, Nora

  If this was his madness, she’d take it willingly, and flood him with her own. Love, beyond reason, simply swamped her. And here, in this window of alone he’d given them, she could ride on it. Here, where there was only the truest of magicks, she could offer it back to him.

  Her body quaked, her heart trembled. So much to feel, so much to want. When a cry of pleasure broke from her, it carried across the blue into forever.

  To have her, completely, where no one could touch them. To give her the fantasy she so rarely took for herself, and to know she reached for, took, accepted all he felt for her, would ever feel for her. That alone filled him with more than all the powers, all the magicks, all the mysteries.

  No words needed. All she felt lived in her eyes, all he felt mirrored back to him from hers.

  When he filled her, it was a torrent of pleasure and love and lust. When she closed tight, so tight around him, it was unity.

  They drove each other hard and fast, in a world only theirs with the deep blue sea rocking beneath them. She lay with him, lulled by the quiet lap of water against the bed, the warmth of the sun, the scent of the sea. And the feel of him against her, hot, slick skin to skin.

  “Why this place,” she asked him, “of all the places?”

  “It seemed beyond all we have and know together. We have the green and the wet in us, and wouldn’t cast it out. But this? The warm and the blue? A bit of the fanciful for someone who rarely gifts herself with it. And all gods know, Branna, the winter’s been cold and hard.”

  “It has. But at the end of it, we’ll have more than spring. We’ll have duty done, and the light and breath that comes from it. When it’s done . . .”

  He lifted his head, looked into her eyes. “Ask.”

  “Bring me back here again, for both of us, when what’s done is done. And before you go wherever you must. Bring me back.”

  “I will. You’ll want to go home now.”

  “No. No, let’s stay awhile.” She shifted, sat up, and reached for the glasses. “We’ll finish our wine and enjoy the sun and the water. Let’s take the fancy of this a little longer. For there’ll be little time or chance for it once we return.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder, sipped the starry wine, and watched the sea that spread to the far horizon.

  18

  WHEN THE SIX OF THEM MANAGED TO COME TOGETHER, Branna opted for a quietly celebrational meal of rack of lamb, roasted butternut squash, and peas with butter and mint.

  “Sure I didn’t expect such a fuss,” Connor said as he took charge of carving the chops from the rack. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “It’s the first time we’ve sat down, the six of us, in near to a week,” Branna pointed out. “We’ve all talked here and there, and we all know what’s been done and where we are. The brew’s curing well. I checked it only this afternoon.” She took a dollop of the squash for her plate, passed the bowl. “Connor and I made a second bottle of the poison needed for Cabhan, so like the demon’s brew, we’ll have that in case something goes amiss.”

  “I’m not going to think of misses.” Meara handed off the peas to Boyle. “Near to a year now that evil bastard’s been dogging us—longer I know for the three, but in this year he’s taunted and attacked with barely a respite. Third time’s the charm, isn’t it? I’m believing in that—and thinking that every time I see him when I’m out on a guided.”

  “Today?” Branna asked.

  “Today, and every day now, lurking in the woods, even keeping pace for a time. A little closer to the track, it seems. Close enough that twice now, Roibeard’s flown in and taken a dive at him. It. Whatever the bloody hell.”

  “He does it to rattle us,” Boyle pointed out. “It’s best not to rattle.”

  “True enough.” With the chops severed, Connor took two for himself. “He’s getting stronger or bolder, or both. I’ve seen him skulking about when out on a hawk walk. But today, our Brian mentioned he’d seen a wolf cross the path.”

  “As Mrs. Baker saw him,” Branna added.

  “Indeed. Now with Brian, who tends to think an errant wind may be a sign of the apocalypse, it was easy enough to convince him he’d only caught sight of a stray dog. But it’s a concern he’s showing himself to others.”

  “Would he hurt them?” Iona demanded. “We can’t let him hurt an innocent.”

  “He would.” Fin kept his calm. “It’s more likely he’ll keep whatever he has for us, but he would and could hurt others. Someone else with power might tempt him, for that would be a kind of feeding.”

  “Or a woman.” Boyle waited a beat, then nodded when no one spoke. “We all know he has needs in that area. So would he take a woman, and if we think he may, how can we stop it?”

  “We can spread the protection farther than we have,” Branna began. “If he decided to slake that thirst it would be with the young and attractive. The vulnerable. We can do what we can.”

  “It’s not how I’d go about it.” Fin sliced lamb from the bone very precisely. “He can shift his times, he can go when and where he likes. Why draw more attention to where he is, and what he plans here? In his place I’d go back, a hundred years or more, take what I wanted, do what I wished, and set no alarm around here.”

  “So, we can’t do anything about it, can’t help whoever he’d hurt,” Iona said.

  “We’ll destroy him,” Branna reminded her. “And that’s doing all there is to do.”

  “But it’s a month before the anniversary of Sorcha’s death.”

  “He’s had eight hundred years to do his worst.” Boyle laid a hand over Iona’s. “We can only deal with now.”

  “I know it. I know, and still we can only do so much. There’s so much power here, but we’re helpless to stop him from doing harm.”

  “I look through the crystal every morning,” Branna told her. “And every night. Often more than that. I’ve seen him working, and seen some of the spells he conjures. There’s blood, always, but I’ve yet to see him bring a mortal or witch into his cave. I’ve yet to see or hear anything that would help us.”

  “It’s all we can do now.” Connor looked around the table. “Until we do more. It’s a month, and that feels long, but in fact, we’ve more things to gather before that time’s up. We need the brew and spell for the cauldron to destroy the stone. With light, as Branna prophesied.”

  “I’ve a fine one for that,” Branna assured him. “And only need you and Iona to finish it with me. It’s for the three to do,” she explained to all.

  “And so we will,” Connor responded. “But we don’t yet have the name, and without it, we can’t finish it off, no matter the poison, no matter the light.”

  “Lure out the wolf,” Branna considered. “Long enough for me, or Fin come to that, to search its mind and find it.”

  “We can’t know, in that form, if he’d have the name in his mind,” Fin pointed out. “Cabhan sleeps, at some point he must sleep.”

  “You think to go into his dreams?” Connor shook his head. “There’s too deep a risk, Fin. And more for you than any of us.”

  “If Branna watches the crystal, and we know when he sleeps, I might join with him with the rest of you ready to pull me out.”

  “I won’t be a part of it. I won’t,” Branna said when Fin turned to her. “We can’t, and I won’t, risk you, and risk all, and for this last piece we’ve weeks yet to find on our own, another way. You barely pulled yourself away the last time.”

  “It’s not the same as that.”

  “I’m with Branna on this,” Boyle put in. “He’d twist you more than any of the rest of us. If it comes down to it, and we have only that way, it must be someone else. Any one of us here.”

  “Because you don’t trust me.”

  “Don’t play the donkey’s arse,” Boyle said coolly. “There’s not a one at this table who doesn’t trust you with their lives, and the lives of those they love.”

  “You’re valued.” Scowling, Meara leaned toward Fin. �
�And that’s the why of it. And it’s too late not to play the donkey’s arse, as you just did.”

  “Apologies, but it’s fact what you see as risk is also advantage, as I could get into his dreams, and out again, quicker than any of us.”

  “It’s off the table.” Connor deliberately continued to eat. “And shoving it on again only spoils a fine meal. In any case, I’ve a thought on all this, if anyone wants to hear it.”

  “He has thoughts.” Smiling now, Meara gave him an elbow nudge. “I’ve been a witness to the occasion.”

  “And my thought is, we might try Kathel. We might have Kathel go along with me, or with Meara or Iona during the walks or guideds. It may be Kathel can find what’s going on in the mind of the wolf, and then Branna could find it from Kathel.”

  “That’s not as foolish as it sounds,” Branna considered.

  “Thanks for that.” Connor helped himself to another chop.

  “I can give him leave to go, then we can see. I’ve been wondering about the vision I had, the words I spoke that weren’t my own when we finished the brew. Three and three and three.”

  “Well, the three here, the three in their own time,” Connor said, “and Fin with Boyle and Meara. It seems clear.”

  “It felt more. It’s hard to say, but it felt more. And even if it’s so simple, we’ve got to bring Sorcha’s three together with us, at the time, in that place. It’s our time, that was clear. Not theirs, but ours, so we have to keep Cabhan closed in to that.”

  “Bell, book, candle.” Iona pushed peas around her plate. “Basic tools. And the need for our guides to be there.”

  “Blood and death follow.” Meara picked up the wine, topped off her glass, then Iona’s. “We’ve known that all along. Witch, demon, or mortal blood and death doesn’t change it.”

  “You’re valued.” Branna looked from Meara to Boyle. “Sister and brother, for the choice you’ve made for love and loyalty, for right, and for light. We’ve always known your worth, but it’s clear now so the fates do as well.”

  A thought wound through her head. Branna drew it back as Connor leaned over to kiss Meara and make her laugh. She kept it there, twirling it like a ribbon as her circle finished the meal.

  • • •

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS SHE STUDIED AND TWIRLED THAT ribbon over and over. She saw how it could be done, but had to be certain it should be done. And in the end, whatever her own decision, it had to be a choice for all.

  She slipped out of bed, on impulse taking her violin with her. Leaving Fin sleeping, she went down to her workshop where she kept her ball of crystal on a stand. After carrying it to the table, she lit the fire, and three candles. Then she sat, quietly playing while she watched Cabhan sleep in a sumptuous bed of gold in a dark chamber of his cave.

  His own fire burned low and red, and she wondered what images he saw in the flames. Blood and death, as had been foretold? Or did he see only his own desires?

  She could have sent her music to him, disturbed his sleep as thoughts of him too often disturbed hers. But she wanted to leave no trace for him to follow back to what she loved.

  So she played for her own comfort and pleasure as she kept vigil.

  She sensed him before he spoke, looked over as Fin came to sit beside her.

  “You don’t sleep enough, or rest well enough when you do.”

  “I’ll be doing both when this is finished. See how well he sleeps. Is that a saying? The guilty lose little sleep? Something of the kind, I think.”

  “But he dreams, I know it.”

  “Put it away, Finbar. There are five who stand against you there, so the one must bend to the five. I know the wish of it. I thought, well, I could give him a troubled night, by only sending my music into his dreams. But why? What we do, what we send, it can be turned back on us. And we know what we will do, when March winds down.”

  “What will we do? There’s something in here.” He tapped her temple. “Something you’re not saying to the rest of us. One not bending to five, Branna?”

  “Not that at all. I haven’t worked it all through yet. I promise you I’ll tell you, and all—however I find I stand on it at the end. I only want to be sure where that is first.”

  “Then come back to bed. He’ll give you no name tonight, and cause no harm. He sleeps, and so should you.”

  “All right.” She laid her violin carefully in its case, took Fin’s hand. “Kathel goes out again tomorrow. He’s been out with Connor, with Meara, Iona, Boyle, and with you as well. You’ve all seen the wolf. I see it through Kathel. But all he—or I find—in the mind is a rage and a . . . caginess,” she added as they moved through the kitchen, toward the stairs. “That’s a different thing than active thought, that caginess, that rage. But it knows its name, as creatures do.”

  “I’ll join Connor tomorrow, with the hawks, and with Kathel. It may be having me with your hound, and Connor to add more power, we’ll find what we need.”

  “It should be you and I,” she realized. “He confuses me with Sorcha from time to time, and covets her still—covets you. The two of us, with Kathel. And the two of us who can join with the hound. I should’ve thought of it.”

  “You think enough. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.” He drew her into bed, wrapped around her. “You’ll sleep now.”

  Before she could understand and block, he kissed her forehead, and sent her into slumber.

  For a time he lay beside her in a stream of pale moonlight, then he, too, began to drift into sleep.

  And from sleep into dreams.

  Baru’s hooves rang against the hard dirt of the road not yet thawed. He didn’t know this land, Fin thought, yet he did. Ireland. He could smell Ireland, but not his home. Not his own place in it.

  The dark night, with a few pricks of stars and the wavering light of a moon that flowed in and out of clouds all closed around him.

  And the moon showed a haze of red like blood. Like death.

  He could smell smoke on the wind, and in the distance thought he saw the flicker of a fire. Campfire.

  He wore a cloak. He could hear it snapping in the wind as they galloped—a dead run—along the ringing ground. The urgency consumed him; though he didn’t know where he rode, he knew he must ride.

  Blood and death follow. The words echoed in his head so he urged more speed out of the horse, took Baru up, into flight under the red-hazed moon.

  The wind rushed through his hair, whipped at his cape so the song of it filled his ears. And still, beneath it, came the bright ring of hoofbeats.

  He looked down, saw the rider—bright hair streaming—covering the ground swiftly, and well ahead of those who raced behind him.

  And he saw the fog swirl and rise and blanket that rider, closing him off from the rest.

  Without hesitation, Fin dived down, taking his horse straight into the dirty blanket of fog. It all but choked him, so thick it spread, closing off the wind, the air. The light from the scatter of stars and swimming bloody moon extinguished like candlewicks under the squeeze of fingers.

  He heard the shout, the scream of a horse—sensed the horse’s fear and panic and pain. Throwing up his hand, Fin caught the sword he brought to him, and set it to flame.

  He charged forward, striking, slicing at the fog, cutting through its bitter cold, slashing a path with his flame and his will.

  He saw the rider, for a moment saw him, the bright hair, the dark cape, the faintest glint from a copper brooch, from the sword he wielded at the attacking wolf.

  Then the fog closed again.

  Rushing forward blindly, Fin hacked at the fog, called out in hopes of drawing the wolf off the man and to him. He brought the wind, a torrent of it to tear and tatter the thick and filthy blanket that closed him in. Through the frayed ribbons of it, he saw the horse stumble, the wolf again gather to leap, and threw out power to block the attack as he charged into the battle.

  The wolf turned, red stone, red eyes gleaming bright fire. It flew at Fin’s throat, so fast
, so fleet, Fin only had time to pivot Baru. Claws scored his left arm, shoulder to wrist, the force of it nearly unseating him, the pain a tidal wave that burned like hellfire. Swinging out with his sword arm, he lashed out with blade and flame, seared a line along the wolf’s flank—and felt the quick pain of it stab ice through the mark on his shoulder.

  He pivoted again, hacking, slicing as the fog once again closed in to blind him. Fighting free, he saw the maneuver had cost him distance. Another charge, another burst of power, but the wolf was already airborne, and though the wounded warrior swung his sword, the wolf streaked over the flash of the blade, and clamped his snapping jaws on the warrior’s throat.

  On a cry of rage, Fin spurred Baru forward, through the shifting curtains of fog.

  Both horse and rider fell, and with a triumphant howl the wolf and fog vanished.

  Even as Baru ran, Fin jumped down, fell to his knees beside the man with bright hair and glazed blue eyes.

  “Stay with me,” Fin told him, and laid his hand over the gaping, jagged wound. “Look at me. Look in me. I can help you. Stay with me.”

  But he knew the words were hollow. He had no power to heal death, and death lay under his hands.

  He felt it—the last beat of heart, the last breath.

  “You bled for him.”

  With rage, pain, grief all swirling a tempest inside him, Fin looked up, saw the woman. Branna, was his first thought, but he knew almost as soon as that thought formed, he was wrong.

  “Sorcha.”

  “I am Sorcha. I am the Dark Witch of Mayo. It is my husband, dead on the ground. Daithi, the brave and bright.”

  Her dress, gray as the fog, swayed over the ground as she walked closer, and her dark eyes held Fin’s.

  “I watch him die, night after night, year after year, century by century. This is my punishment for betraying my gift, my oath. But tonight, you bled for him.”

  “I was too late. I didn’t stop it. Saving him might have saved all, but I was too late.”

  “We cannot change what was, and still your blood, my love’s, Cabhan’s lay on this ground tonight. Not to change what was, but to show what can be.”