by Nora Roberts
She took off her apron, hung it up, made herself some tea, and took two biscuits from the jar. With them, she sat, opened Sorcha’s book, her own, her notebook, her laptop.
In the quiet alone, she began to study all they’d done before, and how they might do it better.
He came in—fully thirty-five minutes late—and drenched. She barely spared him a glance, and said, firmly, “Don’t track up my floor.”
He muttered something she ignored, dried himself quickly. “There’s no point in being annoyed I’m later than I said. One of the horses took sick and needed tending.”
She often forgot he had work of his own. “How bad?”
“It was bad enough, but she’ll be all right. It’s Maggie, and a sudden stable cough. The medicine might have righted her, but . . . well, I wouldn’t risk it.”
“You wouldn’t, no.” And there, she knew him. His softest spot was for animals, for anything and anyone who needed tending. “And couldn’t.” And it had been bad enough, she could see that now as well in the fatigue in his eyes.
“Sit. You need some tea.”
“I wouldn’t mind it, or a couple of those biscuits I smell. The ginger ones?”
“Sit,” she said again, and went to turn up the heat on the kettle.
But he wandered around, restless.
“You’ve been working, I see. New candles not yet set.”
“I’ve a shop to fill. I can’t spend every moment of my day on bloody Cabhan.”
“You can spend it taking offense from me where none was meant. And as it happens I want some candles for myself.”
“Those just made are for gift sets.”
“I’ll have two of those then, as I’ve gifts to buy, and for more . . .” He wandered over to some shelves. “I like these you have here in the mirror jars. They’d shine in the light.” He lifted one, sniffed at it. “Cranberries. It smells of Yule, so that suits, doesn’t it? I’d have a dozen.”
“I don’t have a dozen of those, exactly, on hand. Just the three you see there.”
“You could make the rest.”
She made the tea, slanted him a look. “I could. You’ll have to wait for them until tomorrow.”
“That’ll do. And these tapers as well, the long white ones, the smaller red.”
“Did you come to work or to shop?”
“It’s a fine thing to do both in one place, at one time.” He took what he wanted, set it all on her counter for later.
After he sat, lifted his tea, he looked directly into her eyes. Her heart might have skipped, just once, but she ignored it.
“On the other side of the river, as we knew before. He gathers in the dark, in the deep. A cave, I think, but when and where I don’t know, not for certain.”
“You looked for him. Bloody, buggering hell, Fin—”
“Through the smoke,” he said, coolly. “No point thrashing about on a filthy day like this. I looked through the smoke, and like smoke, it hazed and blurred. But I can tell you he’s not as weak as he was, even days ago. And something’s with him, Branna. Something . . . else.”
“What?”
“Whatever, I think, he bargained with to be what he is, to have what he has. It’s darker yet, deeper yet, and I think . . . I don’t know,” he murmured, rubbing his shoulder where the mark dug into him. “I think it plays him, I think it uses him as much as he uses it, and in his weakness I could see that much. More than I have before. It’s a sense only, this other. But I know, and for certain, he heals, and he will come again before much longer.”
“Then we’ll be ready. What did we miss, Fin? That’s the question. So, let’s find the answer.”
He bit into a biscuit, smiled for the first time since he’d come in. “I might need more than two of these to sustain me while going over these bloody books again.”
“There’s more in the jar if you need them. Now.” She tapped her book. “The potion first.”
4
IT PAINED HIM TO LOOK AT HER—SO CLOSE, BUT DISTANT as Saturn. It sustained him, far more than ginger biscuits, to see her face, hear her voice, catch her scent, just hers, among the others wafting through her workshop.
He’d tried everything he knew to kill his love for her. He reminded himself she’d turned from him, cast him aside. He’d taken other women, tried to fill the abyss she’d left in him with their bodies, their voices, their beauty.
He’d left his own home, often for months at a go, just to put himself away from her. Traveling, rambling, to places near and far, foreign and familiar.
He’d made his fortune, and a good, solid one, with work, with time, with wit and grit. He’d built a fine home for himself, and had seen to it his parents had all they needed, though they’d moved to New York City to be near his mother’s sister. Or, he often thought, to be away of any talk or thought of magicks and curses. For that he couldn’t blame them.
No one could say he’d wasted his life or his skills—magickal or otherwise. But nothing he’d done had eroded even a fraction of that love.
He’d considered a potion, a spell, but he knew love magick, to bring it or remove it—held consequences far beyond the single person who wished for it, or wished it gone.
He would not, could not, use his gift to ease his heart.
Was it worse or better, he often wondered, knowing she loved him as well, she suffered as well? Some days, he admitted, he found some solace in that. Other days it buggered the living hell out of him.
But for now neither of them had a choice. They must be together, work together, join together for the single purpose of destroying Cabhan, for defeating him, for ending him.
So he worked with her, through argument and agreement, in her lovely workshop over endless cups of tea—and finally a bit of whiskey in it—poring over the books, writing out a new spell neither of them was satisfied with, and again, going over every step of the two previous battles.
And neither of them devised anything new, found another answer.
She was the canniest witch he knew—and all too often the strictest in her ethics. And beautiful with it. Not just the face and form, all that glorious hair, those warm gray eyes. What she was, the power and presence of it, added more, and her unstinting devotion to her craft, to her gift—to family—more still.
He was doomed to love her.
So he worked with her, then paid for the candles—full price, he thought with amusement, for the gods knew Branna O’Dwyer was a practical witch, and left her to drive home through the steady rain.
He checked on Maggie first, pleased with her progress. He gave the sweet-natured mare half an apple and some of his time and attention. He visited the rest of the horses, giving them time as well. He had pride in what he’d built here, in what he and Boyle had built here and at the rental stables. Pride, too, in the falconry school nearby.
Connor ran it like a dream, Fin thought.
If not for Cabhan, he could leave tomorrow for India or Africa, for America or Istanbul, and know Boyle and Connor would take care of all they’d built.
Once Cabhan was done, he’d do just that. Pick a spot on the map, and go. Get away, see something new. Anything but here for a bit, for here was all he loved far too deeply.
He gave the little stable dog Bugs a treat, then on impulse picked him up, took him along to the house. Fin imagined they’d both enjoy the company.
He liked his quiet and alone as much as Branna did hers—or nearly. But the nights were so bleeding long in December, and the chill and dark so unrelenting. He couldn’t pop up to Boyle’s above the garage as he’d often done in the past, and he expected Boyle and his Iona would end up at Branna’s even though she tried to discourage it.
They would guard her, as he could not.
That alone stirred rage and frustration he had to shove back down.
He set the dog down inside the house, flicked a hand to the fire to have the flames snapping, another toward the tree he’d put in the big front window.
The d
og pranced around, his joy at being inside so palpable, Fin smiled and settled a little. Yes, they’d both do well with the company.
He wandered back toward the kitchen, its light bright on all the gleaming surfaces, got himself a beer.
She’d only been in his home once, and only as Connor was there, and hurt. But he could see her there. He’d always seen her there. It ground his pride to admit he’d built the place with her in mind, with the dreams they’d once woven together in mind.
He carried a few of her candles into the dining room, put the tapers in silver holders, set out some of the mirrored ones. Yes, they caught the light well, he decided. Though she’d be unlikely to see her work in his space.
He thought of making some food, but put it off as he purely hated to cook. He’d slap something together later, he decided, as a trip to the pub for a meal didn’t appeal with the rain thrashing.
He could go downstairs, wile away some of the evening with sports on the big TV, or kill time with a game or two. He could stretch out with another beer in front of the fire with a book that wasn’t all magicks and spells.
“I can do whatever I bloody well please,” he told Bugs. “And it’s my own fault, isn’t it, that nothing pleases me. Maybe it’s just the rain and the dark. What would please me is a hot beach, some blasting sun, and a willing woman. And that’s not altogether true, is it?”
He crouched, sent Bugs into paralytic joy by giving him a belly rub. “Would we were all so easily happy as a little stable dog. Well, enough of this. I’m tired of myself. We’ll go up and work, for the sooner this is done, the sooner I’ll find if that hot beach is the answer after all.”
The dog followed him, slavishly devout, as he walked back, then up the wide stairs to the second floor. He thought of a hot shower, maybe a steam as well, but turned directly into his workroom. There he lit the fire as well, flames shimmering in a frame of deep green tourmaline while the dog explored.
He’d designed every inch of the room—with some help from Connor—the black granite work counters, the deep mahogany cabinetry, the wide plank cypress floors that ran throughout the house. Tall, arched windows, with the center one of stained glass that created the image of a woman in white robes bound by a jeweled belt. She held a wand in one hand, a ball of flame in the other while her black hair swirled in an unseen wind.
It was Branna, of course, with the moon full behind her and the deep forest surrounding her. The Dark Witch watched him with eyes, even in glass, full of power and light.
He had a heavy antique desk—topped by a state-of-the-art computer. Witches didn’t fear technology. A cabinet with thick and carved doors held weapons he’d collected the world over. Swords, a broadaxe, maces, foils, throwing stars. Others held cauldrons, bowls, candles, wands, books, bells, athames, and still others various potions and ingredients.
She would have liked the room, he thought, for when it came to work as well as living, he was nearly as ruthlessly tidy as she.
Bugs looked up at him, tail wagging hopefully. Reading him, Fin smiled.
“Go ahead then. Make yourself at home.”
The dog wagged more fiercely, then ran over and leaped onto a curved divan, circled about, and settled down with a sigh of utter contentment.
Fin worked into the night, dealing with practical matters such as charms—protection needed refreshing with regularity—on tonics and potions. Something specifically for Maggie. He cleansed some crystals—what he thought of as housework—as that needed doing as well.
He’d have forgotten supper altogether, but he felt the dog’s hunger. He went down, Bugs on his heels, put together a sandwich, some crisps, sliced up an apple. As he’d neglected to bring in any food for the dog, he simply shared the meal, amusing them both by tossing bits of sandwich for Bugs to snatch out of the air as handily as he did the bugs from which he’d earned his name.
Considering the practical again, he let the dog out, kept his mind linked with Bugs so he’d know if the little hound headed back to the stables after the practical was seen to.
But Bugs pranced right back to the kitchen door, sat, and waited until Fin opened it for him.
“All right then, it seems you’re spending the night. And that being the case, it’s God’s truth you could use a shower even more than I. You carry the stables with you, little friend. Let’s take care of that.”
In the bath, the shower nearly had Bugs scrambling off, but Fin was quick. And laughing, carted the dog in with him. “It’s just water. Though we’re going to add soap all around.”
Bugs trembled, lapped at the spray coming out of the many jets, wiggled against Fin’s bare chest when Fin rubbed in some of the liquid soap.
“There you see, not so bad now is it?” He stroked gently to soothe as well as clean. “Not so bad at all.”
He gestured toward the ceiling. Lights streamed, soft colors, music flowed in, soft and lilting. He set the dog down, gave himself the pleasure of the hot jets while the dog lapped at the wet tiles.
Fin was quick, but not quite quick enough to dry the dog before Bugs shook himself, shooting drops all over the bath. His own laugh echoed in the room as the little dog shot him a look of satisfaction.
With that mess sorted out, he moved into the bedroom, tossed down one of the big pillows that grouped on the sofa in his sitting area. But the dog, fully at home now, jumped onto the big, high bed, stretched out like a potentate at his ease.
“Well, at least you’re clean.”
He climbed in himself, decided on a book rather than TV to ease him toward sleep.
By the time Fin turned off the light, Bugs was quietly snoring. Fin found the sound of it a small comfort, and wondered how pathetic it was when a snoring dog eased the lonely.
In the dark, with the fire down to glowing embers, he thought of Branna.
She turned to him, her hair a black curtain, all silk spilling over her bare shoulders. The fire flickered now, gold flames that turned her eyes to silver with that gold dancing in them.
And she smiled.
“You yearn for me.”
“Day and night.”
“And here you want me, in your big bed, in your fancy house.”
“I want you anywhere. Everywhere. You torture me, Branna.”
“Do I?” She laughed, but the sound wasn’t cruel. It was warm as a kiss. “Not I, Finbar, not I alone. We torture each other.” She trailed a finger down his chest. “You’re stronger than you were. As am I. Do you wonder, would we be stronger together?”
“How can I think, how can I wonder, when I’m so full of you?”
He took her hair in his hands, pulled her to him. And God, oh God, the taste of her after so long, after a lifetime, was like life after death.
He rolled over, pressing her under him, going deeper into the wonder of it. Her breasts, fuller, softer, sweeter than he remembered, and her heart drumming under his hands as she arched up to him.
A blur and storm of the senses—the feel of her skin, silk like her hair and warm, so warm, chasing away all the cold. The shape of her, the lovely curves, the sound of her breathing his name, moving, moving under him, chasing away all the lonely.
His blood beat for her; his own heart pounded as she tangled her hands in his hair as she used to, as she ran them down his back. Gripped his hips, arched up. Opened.
He plunged in. The light exploded, white, gold, sparking like fire—all the world afire. Wind whipped in a torrent to send that fire into a roar. For an instant, one breath, the pleasure struck.
Then came the lightning. Then came the dark.
He stood with her in the storm, her hand gripped in his.
“I don’t know this place,” she said.
“Nor do I. But . . .” Something, something he knew, somewhere deep. Too deep to reach. Thick woods, whirling winds, and somewhere close the rush of a river.
“Why are we here?”
“Something’s close,” was all he said.
She turned up her hand, he
ld a small ball of flame. “We need light. Can you find the way?”
“Something’s close. You should go back. It’s the dark that’s close.”
“I won’t go back.” She touched her amulet, closed her eyes. “I feel it.”
When she started forward, he tightened his hold on her hand. He would find a way to shield her, if needed. But the urgency to move on pulled him.
Thick trees, deep shadows that seemed to glow with the dark. No moon, no stars, only that wind that sent the night screaming.
In it, something howled, and the howl was hungry.
Fin wished for a weapon, dug deep for power, drew a blade, and set the blade on fire.
“Dark magicks,” Branna murmured. She, too, seemed to glow, alight with her own power. “All around. This is not home.”
“Not home, but near enough. Not now, but long ago.”
“Yes, ago. His lair? Could it be? Can you tell?”
“It’s not the same. It’s . . . other than that.”
She nodded as though she’d felt the same. “We should call the others. We should have our circle in full. If this is his place.”
“There.” He saw it, dark against dark, the mouth of a cave hunched in a hillside.
He would not take her in, Fin thought. Would not take her there, for within was death. And worse.
Even as he thought it, the old man stepped out. He wore rough robes, worn hide boots. Both his hair and beard were a long tangle of gray. Both madness and magick lived in his eyes.
“You are too soon. You are too late.” As he spoke he held up a hand. Blood dripped from it, blood spread over his rough robes.
“It’s done. Done, as I am done. You are too soon to see it, too late to stop it.”
“What is done?” Fin demanded. “Who are you?”
“I am the sacrifice. I am the sire of the dark. I am betrayed.”
“I can help you.” But as Branna started forward, power roared out of the cave. It swept her back, Fin with her, sent the old man falling to the ground where his blood pooled black on the earth.
“Dark Witch to be,” he said. “Cabhan’s whelp to come. There is no help here. He has eaten the dark. We are all damned.”
Fin pushed to his feet, tried to shove Branna back. “He’s in there. He’s in there. I can feel him.”
But as he made to leap toward the cave, she grabbed at him. “Not alone. It isn’t for you alone.”
He whirled toward her, all but mad himself. “He is mine; I am his. Your blood made it so. It’s your curse I carry, and I will take my vengeance.”
“Not for vengeance.” She wrapped herself around him. “For that would damn you. Not for vengeance. And not alone.”
But he woke alone, covered with sweat, the mark on his arm burning like a fresh brand.
And could still smell her on the sheets, on his skin. In the air.
The dog quivered against him, whining.
“It’s all right now.” Absently, he stroked. “It’s done for now.”
He showered off the sweat, grabbed pants, an old sweater, pulling the sweater on as he went downstairs. He let the dog out, barely noticed the rain had stopped and weak winter sunlight trickled down.
He needed to think, and clearly, so started for coffee. Cursed at the banging on his front door.
Then thought of Maggie, hurried to answer even as he thought her out, settled himself the mare was doing well.
He opened the door to Branna.
She walked through it, shoving him back with both hands.
