by Nora Roberts
Spinning through the air, showers of stars, sparks of fire. Light so brilliant she had to squeeze her eyes tight, turn her head.
Falling, too fast, too fast, so the speed sucked the air from her lungs.
The next she knew she was sprawled over Connor on the kitchen floor with his heart galloping under her like a runaway horse.
A terrible roar swept over, around, rattling the windows. Great fists pounded at the doors, the walls, so the cottage shook. For a moment Meara braced for it to collapse on their heads.
Then there was silence.
The others lay, like survivors of some terrible smashup. Kathel leaped over her to Branna, licked at her face, whined.
“I’m all right, there now. We’re all right.”
“That should convince him we’d gone to war tonight, as it bloody well convinced me.” Connor stroked Meara’s hair as he shifted her. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. You’re bleeding.”
He swiped his fingers over a gash on his temple. “Didn’t dodge fast enough.”
“Here, let me see to it.” Branna scooted over. “Iona—”
“I know what you need.” As she ran toward the workshop, Meara tugged up her trouser leg, saw the livid bruise circling just above her ankle.
“Here, let me see to that.” Even as Branna tended him, Connor reached out, laid his hands on the bruising.
“The fog—it turned to snakes. And thorns. It grew thorns.”
“Not thorns, teeth.” Fin, his face shiny with sweat, sat on the kitchen floor with his back braced against a cupboard.
“You’re hurt. A bit of that for Connor’s head,” Branna snapped to Iona as she pushed up to go to Fin. “See that it’s clear and clean. Were you bitten?” she demanded of Fin.
“I’m just winded.”
She pressed her hand to his chest. “It’s more. Let me see.”
“I’ll tend to myself when I’ve my breath back.”
“Oh, bollocks.” With a flash of her hand, she stripped him to the waist.
“If you’re after getting my clothes off, we could do with some privacy.”
“Shut it.” She looked over her shoulder, spoke urgently. “Iona, the balm!”
“I’ll see to myself,” Fin began.
“I’ll put you under if you don’t be still, be quiet. You know I can and will. Connor, I need you.”
“How bad is it?”
He saw for himself when he pushed across the kitchen floor.
Raw and black puncture wounds ran down both sides of Fin’s torso, as if a monstrous jaw had closed over him.
“They’re not deep.” Branna’s voice stayed low and steady. “Thank the gods for that. And the poison . . .” She looked up sharply. “What did you do to stop the spread of it?”
“I’m his blood.” Breathing labored, Fin spoke slowly, almost too precisely. “What he makes from his weakens in mine.”
“There’s pain,” Connor said.
“There’s always pain.” But he hissed out a breath as Branna worked deeper. “Christ Jesus, woman, your healing’s worse than the wound.”
“I have to draw it out, weakened or not.”
“Look at me, Fin,” Connor ordered.
“I’ll take my own pain, thanks.”
Connor merely gripped Fin’s jaw in his hand, turned his head.
He’s taking the pain, Meara realized. Taking Fin’s pain so the healing goes quickly. And so, she knew, Branna couldn’t take it herself.
Boyle got out the whiskey, so she stood to fetch glasses. Then sitting on the floor again, passed them out when Branna sat back, nodded.
“That will do.”
“A bit more of a dust-up than we reckoned on.” Mirroring Fin, Connor leaned back against the cupboards. His own face shone now, from the sweat of the effort, of the pain. “But we singed his ass more than a bit, and we’re safe and whole.”
“He’ll think we’re cowed,” Branna said. “He’ll think we’re bickering among ourselves, licking our wounds, questioning if we should ever try such a thing again.”
“And when we go at him in two days’ time, we’ll burn him to ashes before he knows we’ve duped him. A fine show, one and all.” He lifted his glass. “A notion of brilliance, Meara my darling, and one that may have turned the tide good and hard. It’s hardly a wonder I love you.”
He drank, as did the others, but Meara held her glass and studied him.
“No taste for your whiskey?” he asked her.
“I’m waiting for my heart to shake. It may be I’m in a bit of shock. Why don’t you tell me again? We’ll see if it gets through.”
He set his glass aside, walked over on his knees to where she sat on the floor. “I love you, Meara, and ever will.”
She downed the whiskey, set the glass down, rose up on her knees to face him. “No, it’s not shaking. But really, what sort of weak and foolish heart shakes in fear of love. Will yours?” She laid her hand on his chest. “Let’s see if it does. I love you, Connor, and ever will.”
“It may have stopped for a second.” He closed his hand over hers, held it to him. “But there’s no fear, there’s no doubt. Do you feel that? It’s dancing, with joy.”
She laughed. “Connor O’Dwyer of the dancing heart. I’ll take you.” She threw her arms around him, met his mouth with hers.
“Would you like us to move along then?” Boyle replied. “Give the two of you your privacy there on the kitchen floor?”
“I’ll let you know,” Connor murmured, then went back to kissing his love.
He stood, plucked her up, swept her up, gave her a toss to make her laugh again. “On second thought, we’ll get out of your way.”
He carried her from the room on more laughter.
“It’s what you’ve always wanted,” Fin said to Branna.
“What I knew could be, felt should be, and yes, what I wanted.” She let out a sigh. “I’ll put on the kettle.”
* * *
LATER, WRAPPED UP WITH MEARA IN BED, THE HOUSE QUIET around them, and moonlight coming through the window, Connor asked her.
“Was it the battle that did it? The knowing of life and death that steadied your heart?”
“You took his pain.”
“What? Who?”
“Down in the kitchen. Though he didn’t want it of you, you wouldn’t let him hurt, so you took Fin’s pain. I thought, That’s who he is, down into it. A man who’d take on the pain of a friend—or anyone else for that matter. A man of power, of kindness. Of fun and music and loyalty. And he loves me.”
She laid a hand on his cheek. “I’ve loved you as long as I can remember, but I wouldn’t let myself have it, have that gift you spoke of, or give it. That was fear.
“And I thought, when I watched you tonight, in the horrible heat of battle, in the bright lights of the kitchen, how can I let myself be too afraid to have what I love? Why do I keep convincing myself I might be like my father, or let what he did define the whole of my life? I owe Cabhan a debt.”
“Cabhan?”
“He thought to hurt and shame and shake me by bringing the image of my father to me. And he did, right enough, but that was from me. And seeing plain what I held in me, I could start seeing the truth. He didn’t leave me, or my mother, or the rest of us. He left his own shame and his mistakes and failures because he couldn’t stand and look at them in the mirror.”
“You always stand, you always look.”
“I try, but I didn’t look from the right angle. I didn’t let myself tip the glass. It’s my mother who stayed, with the shame he left her with, who lived—in her own dithering way—with mistakes and failures that were his. And she stood, and stayed, for me and my family, even after we were grown. She’s happy now, free of that whether she knows it fully or not. I’m free of it as well. So I owe Cabhan a debt. But it won’t stop me from doing all I can to send him to hell.”
“Then I owe him a debt alongside you. And we’ll send him to hell
together.”
* * *
IT WAS HARD OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS OUTSIDE OF THE cocoon of the cottage to stop himself from radiating joy. He had to go about his work, and avoid contact with Meara until they were inside that sanctuary.
He felt Cabhan probing once or twice, but lightly, cautiously. And there were bruises there, oh yes, they’d given the bastard a few bruises for his trouble.
He’d come into it weaker than he’d been—and thinking their circle damaged when it was stronger and more vital than it had ever been.
And yet.
“You have doubts,” he said to Branna. Only hours remained, so he’d come home to help however he could.
“It’s a good scheme.”
“And still?”
She took out the dream potion, padded it carefully in a silver box that had come down through their family, placing it alongside the bloodred brew she hoped would end Cabhan.
“A feeling, and I don’t know if it’s a true one. I wonder if I was so confident on the solstice that now I doubt when it’s time to try again. Or if there’s truly something I’m not seeing, not doing that needs seeing, needs doing.”
“It’s not only on your shoulders, Branna.”
“I know it. Whatever Fin thinks, I know that very well.” She gathered the tools she’d cleansed and charmed to wrap in a roll of white velvet.
She opened a drawer, took out a smaller silver box. “I have something for you, whatever tonight brings.”
Curious, he opened it, saw the ring, the deep glow of the ruby in hammered gold. “This came to you, down from our great-grandmother.”
“Now it’s yours if you want it for Meara. She’s my sister, and that bind only tightens when you give her the ring. Another circle, and it should be hers. But only if it’s what you want.”
He came around the work counter, drew her in. “After the night’s done. Thank you.”
“I want it ended, now more than ever. I want to see you and Meara make your lives together.”
“We’ll end it. We’re meant to.”
“Your heart’s talking.”
“It is, and if your head wasn’t talking so bloody loud, you’d hear your own.” He drew her back. “If you won’t trust your heart, trust your blood. And mine.”
“I am.”
He gathered his own tools and readied himself for the night to come.
They met at the big stables, and at Fin’s request, Connor saddled Aine, the white filly Fin bought to breed with Alastar.
“I thought Fin was taking Baru, his stallion.”
Connor glanced back at Meara. She wore sturdy boots, rough pants, a thick belt with her sword and sheath carried on it. He knew Iona had braided charms in her hair.
And she wore his necklace over a flannel shirt.
“So he is. We’re to take Aine, and Iona and Boyle take Alastar. The third horse makes the getting there easier.”
“So we’re riding to Sorcha’s cabin.”
“In a way. You’re prepared for what’s to come?”
“As well as I can be.”
He reached across the saddle for her hand. “We’ll come through it.”
“I believe that.”
Together, they led the horse out to join the others in the pale light of a crescent moon. “Once we’re there it must go quickly, without a missed step. My father, Iona’s grandmother, Fin’s cousin, they’ll have ahold of things, and they’ll bring us back should things go wrong.”
“You’ll bring me back,” she said.
Once he’d mounted, she swung up behind him. He glanced at Boyle and Iona already on a restless Alastar.
Wants to be going, he does, to be doing.
He saw Fin gather up the little mutt, mount the black stallion, then hold his hand down to Branna.
“It’s hard for her,” Connor murmured. “To go with him this way.”
“Hard for him as well.”
But Branna mounted, then signaled to Kathel. The hound raced off. Overhead Roibeard called, and Fin’s Merlin answered.
“Hold on to me,” Connor advised, and the three horses leaped forward in a gallop.
Then they flew.
“Sweet Jesus!” Meara’s big laugh followed the exclamation. “This is brilliant! Why haven’t we done this before?”
The wind streamed by, cool and damp, while clouds winked over the moon and away again. The air filled with the scent of spice and earth, of things going bold before they settled down to rest.
They flew, riding the air above that earth, into the deep, and straight through the vines to Sorcha’s cabin.
“Quickly now,” Connor told her.
He had to leave her to move to Branna and Iona, to cast the circle, a hundred candles, the bowls, the cauldron.
Branna opened the silver box, removed the dream potion.
“Spirits ride upon this night. We come to join them with our light. In this place and in this hour, we call upon bright things of power. We are the three, and are three more. Together we walk through the door and into the dreaming there to find the meaning of our destiny. So we drink one by three and one by three.”
She poured the potion into a silver cup, lifted it up. Lowered it, sipped.
“Body, blood, mind, and heart, into the dreaming we depart.”
She passed the cup to Fin. He sipped, repeated the words, and then to Iona, and around the circle.
It tasted of stars, Connor thought as he took his turn, one by three.
He joined hands, his sister’s, Meara’s, and with her circle said the words.
“With right, with might, with light we seek the night. A dreamwalk back in time, Cabhan’s evil to unwind. To the time of the return of Sorcha’s three. As we will, so mote it be.”
There wasn’t a floating as he’d experienced before, but a kind of swimming through mists and colors with voices murmuring behind, before, and images just on the edges of his vision.
When the mists cleared, he stood as he had been, with his circle, and his hand clasped with Meara’s, his other with Branna’s.
“Did we go back?”
“Look there,” Connor said to Meara.
Vines covered the cabin, but it stood. And bluebells bloomed on the ground beneath the gravestone.
The horses stood with the hawks on branches above them. Kathel sat calm as a king beside Branna, while Bugs quivered a little between Fin’s boots.
“We’re all here, as we should be. You’ll call him now, Meara.”
“Now?”
“Start,” Branna confirmed, and took out the vial filled with red. “Draw him in.”
Inside the vial brilliance pulsed and swirled. Liquid light, magick fire.
“In the center of the circle.” Connor took her by the shoulders, kissed her. “And sing, whatever happens.”
She had to steady herself, calm her heart, then open it.
She’d chosen a ballad, sang in Irish though he doubted she knew the meaning of all the words. Heartbreaking they were, and as beautiful as the voice that lifted over the clearing, into the night, and across all the dreaming time.
He’d ask her to sing it for him, he decided, when they were done with dark things, when they were alone. She would sing it again, for him.
“He hears,” Fin whispered.
“It’s a night that calls to black and white, to dark and light. He’ll come.”
Branna stepped out of the circle, then Connor, then Iona.
“Whatever happens,” Connor said again. “Sing. He’s coming.”
“Aye.” Fin stepped out of the circle, leaving Boyle to guard Meara.
He drew a sword, and set it to burning.
It came on the fog, a shadow that became a wolf. It stalked toward the line of four witches, then whirled and leaped at the circle.
Boyle blocked Meara’s body with his, but the wolf leaped back from the fireball Iona threw.
It paced the clearing, eyed the horses until Alastar pawed the ground, then it rose up to a man.
“Do you think to try for me again? Do you think to destroy me with song and your weak white magick?” He waved a hand and the flame on Fin’s sword died.
Fin simply lifted it, caught the fire again.
“Try me,” Fin suggested, and stepped forward in front of the three.
“My son, blood of my blood, you are not my enemy.”
“I am your death.” Fin leaped forward, swinging out, but cleaved only fog.
The rats came, a boiling flood of them, red eyes feral. Those that streamed to the circle screamed as they flashed into flame. But Meara saw one of the candles gutter out.
Now she drew her sword and sang.
Aine reared, hooves flashing. Her eyes rolled in fear. Fin grabbed her reins, used the sword to set a ring of fire around her. While the two stallions crushed the rats, the hawks dived for them.
The bats spilled out of the sky.
Connor saw another candle wink out.
“He’s attacking the circle to get to her. It must be now, Branna.”
“We have to pull him closer.”
Connor threw his head back, called the wind. The torrent of it tore through those thin wings until the air filled with smoke and screaming.
Meara’s voice wavered as a single twisted body fell at the circle’s edge, and a third candle went out.
“Steady, girl,” Boyle murmured.
“I’m steady.” Drawing in air, she lifted her voice over the screams.
“I’ll slice open your throat and rip your heart out through it.” Cabhan, his eyes nearly as red as his stone, threw black lightning at the circle.
Boyle took an opening, jabbed through with his knife, drew first blood. The explosion of air knocked him back. The blood on the tip of his knife hit the ground and sizzled black as pitch.
“It has to be now,” Connor shouted, and began the chant.
The power rose up, clear heat. Again he heard voices, not only Meara’s and
