Blood Magick

  “He could not get past us, and will not. But another maid is missing, and a kinswoman, and I fear the worst for her. Something changed.”

  Yes, Brannaugh thought, something changed. But first there were questions. “What do you know of demons?”

  Sorcha’s Brannaugh glanced down as Branna’s Kathel went to hers, and the hounds sniffed each other.

  “They walk, they feed, they thirst for the blood of mortals. They can take many forms, but all but one is a lie.”

  “And they search out, do they not,” Branna added, “those willing to feed them, to quench that thirst? The red stone, we’ve seen its creation, and we’ve seen the demon Cabhan bargained with pass through it and into him. They are one. Sorcha couldn’t end Cabhan because the demon lived, and healed him. They healed, I think, each other.”

  “How did you see?”

  “We went in a dream spell, myself and Finbar Burke.”

  “The one of Cabhan’s blood. You went with him, to Cabhan’s time, to his lair. How can there be such trust?”

  “How can there not? Here is trust,” she said, gesturing to the dogs who’d gone to wrestling on the floor. “I know Fin’s heart, and would not know all we do now without him.”

  “You’ve been with him.”

  “I have.” And though she felt her cousin’s concern, even disapproval, she wouldn’t regret it. “The storm came to you. I heard it when I joined with Fin, and I thought fate clashed at the choice we made. But you say it was Cabhan who rode the storm, and you felt it was his power, or rage, that shook the stones. It may be the joining angered him—this speaks true to me. What angers him only pleases me.”

  “I know what it is to love. Have a care, cousin, on how that love binds you to one who carries the mark.”

  “I’ve had a care since the mark came on him. I won’t shirk my duty. My oath on it. I believe Fin may be the true change, the weapon always needed. With him, as no three has before, we will end this. Cabhan, and what made him what he is now. It must be both, we believe that, or it will never end. So, what do you know of demons?”

  Brannaugh shook her head. “Little, but I will learn more. You will call him by his name. This I have heard. You must use his name in the spell.”

  “Then we’ll find his name. How long since last we talked in your time?”

  “Today is La nag Cearpairi.”

  Day of the Buttered Bread, Branna realized. New Year’s Day. “As it is here. We are on the same day, another change. This will be our year, cousin, the year of the three. The year of the Dark Witch.”

  “I will pray for it. I must go, the baby’s waking.”

  “Wait.” Branna closed her eyes again, brought the image into her mind from the box in her attic. Then held out a small stuffed dog. “For the baby. A gift from his cousins.”

  “A little dog.” As she petted it, Sorcha’s Brannaugh smiled. “So soft it is, and clever.”

  “It was mine, and well loved. Bright blessings to you and yours this day.”

  “And to you and yours. I will see you again. We will be with you when it’s needed, in that I will have faith, and trust.” She laid her hand on her dog’s head, and they faded away.

  Branna lowered her hand to her own dog’s head, stroked. “Once I thought to give the little dog to my own baby. But since that’s not to be, it seemed a fine gift for my cousin’s.” Kathel leaned his great body against her in comfort. “Ah, well, we’ve work to do, don’t we? But first I think you’ve earned a biscuit for being so welcoming to our cousin’s hound.”

  She got one for him, smiled when he sat so politely. “How lucky am I to have so many loves in my life.” She leaned down, pressed a kiss to the top of his head, then offered the biscuit.

  Content in the quiet, she made her tea, and she sat with her spell books, looking for whatever she might find on demons.

  She had the whole of the afternoon to herself, a precious thing, so mixed work and reading with some baking to please herself. She put a chicken on the boil, thinking chicken soup with chunky vegetables and thick egg noodles would go well. If she didn’t have a houseful, she could freeze most of it for when she did.

  With dusk she shifted her books to the kitchen so she could continue to work as she monitored her soup. She’d just rewarded herself with a glass of wine when Iona came in.

  “Boy, I could use one of those. I took Nan back, got weepy—sad she had to go home, so happy she’s coming back. And I thought I was done for the day.” She poured the wine. “But Boyle texted me they’d had a group of twelve who’d celebrated New Year’s at Ashford, decided they’d finished feeling hungover and wanted guided rides. So it was back to work.”

  She took her first sip. “And I’m babbling about all that—can babble about more if necessary—to keep from asking about you and Fin if you don’t want to be asked.”

  “You may have gleaned we had sex.”

  “I think we all gleaned that was a strong probability. Are you happy, Branna?”

  Branna went to stir the soup. “I can say, without question, I’ve had a long-nagging itch thoroughly scratched, and I’m not sad about it. I’m happy,” she said when Iona just waited. “Today, I’m happy and that’s enough.”

  “Then I’m happy.” She stepped closer, gave Branna a hug. “What can I do to help? In any area.”

  “I’ve dinner under control. You could sit there, read over my notes, see what you think of it all.”

  “Okay. Boyle and I were going to eat out, and stay at his place—and Connor and Meara the same. We thought you’d have plans with Fin and wanted to give you room. But you’ve got that vat of soup going, so . . .”

  “Don’t change plans on my account. I’d already thought of freezing the bulk of it. I was in the mood to make soup, and give my head time to think that way.” She didn’t mention she’d made no plans with Fin—and wouldn’t mind a night alone.

  “You’re planning to keep seeing him—being with him, I mean.”

  “A day at a time, Iona. I won’t think on it further than that.”

  “All right, but I may as well tell you Fin was by to talk through some business with Boyle and he looked . . . happy. Relaxed.”

  “Sex will relax you in the aftermath. We’ve an understanding, Fin and I. We’re both content with it.”

  “If you are, I am.” Iona sat, started to read.

  Branna tested the soup, considered, then added more rosemary.

  At the table, Iona said, “A portal! It makes so much sense. It’s an evil stone, created from human sacrifice—through patricide, matricide—what better way for a demon to transport into Cabhan? It all makes sense. Sorcha burned him to ash. We had him on the ropes—we had him bleeding under the damn ropes, but we didn’t deal with the demon. How do we?”

  “Read on,” Branna suggested. She considered having her soup in her pajamas. Maybe even on a tray in her room while she read a book that had nothing to do with magicks, evil, or demons.

  “A second poison,” Iona muttered, “a kind of one-two punch. And a spell that closes the portal. How do we close a portal opened through human sacrifice? That’s going to be tricky. And . . . Call the demon by his name.” She looked up and over at Branna. “You know its name?”

  “I don’t, not yet. But it was the advice given me by Brannaugh of the first three. She came to me today. And I’ve written all that down as well, but the most important part to my thinking is it was the same day for her as it is for us. For her today was the first day of the year. I think if we can somehow stay balanced that way, we’ll draw more from each other.”

  “Do we know any demonologists?”

  “Not offhand, but . . . I suspect we could find one should we need one. I think it might be more simple and basic than that.”

  “What’s simple and basic about finding out a demon’s name?”

  “Asking it.”

  Iona flopped back in the chair, gave a half laugh. “That would be simple. We could all come here, or all meet in the pu
b if you want to go over this tonight.”

  “I think you can pass it all on well enough.”

  “Then I will. When’s Fin coming by? I don’t want to be in the way.”

  “Oh . . .” Branna went back to the soup. “We didn’t set any specific time. It’s best if we keep it more casual-like.”

  “Gotcha. I’m going to go up, grab a shower, and change. I’ll just ask Boyle to swing by and get me. The four of us can put our heads together on it, and talk it to death with you and Fin later.”

  “That would suit me very well.”

  Evasive, Branna thought when alone again. She preferred evasive to deceptive. She hadn’t absolutely said she expected Fin. And it would give her brain a rest not to have to talk it all through, to give it all a day or two to stir around in her head first.

  Maybe she’d rest her brain with the telly instead of a book. Watch something fun and frivolous. She couldn’t think of the last time she’d done only that.

  “I’m heading out!” Iona called back. “Text me if you need me.”

  “Have a good time.”

  Branna waited until she heard the door close, then, smiling to herself, got out a container to freeze all but a bowl of the soup.

  A bowl of soup, a glass of wine, followed by a bit of the apple crumble she’d baked earlier. A quiet house, old pajamas, and something happy on the telly.

  Even as she thought what a lovely idea it all was, the door opened.

  Fin, with Bugs on his heel, came in with a ridiculously enormous bouquet of lilacs. The scent of them filled the air with spring and promise. She wondered where he’d traveled for them, and arched her eyebrows.

  “And I’m supposing you’re thinking a forest of flowers buys your way into dinner and sex?”

  “You always favored lilacs. And both Boyle and Connor did mention going off tonight to give us the cottage to ourselves. Who am I to disappoint my mates?”

  She got out her largest vase, began to fill it while Bugs and Kathel had a cheerful bout of wrestling. “I’m after a bowl of soup in front of the telly.”

  “I’d be more than happy with that.”

  She took the lilacs, breathed them in—remembered doing the same on a long-ago spring when he’d brought her an equally huge bouquet of them.

  “I baked an apple crumble to follow.”

  “I’m fond of apple crumble.”

  “So I recall.” And so, she thought, this explained why she’d had a yen to bake one. “I had myself a fine plan for the evening. An all but perfect one for me.” She laid the flowers aside a moment, turned to him. “All but perfect, and now it is. It’s perfect now you’re here.”

  She walked into his arms, pressed her face into his shoulder. “You’re here,” she murmured.

  • • •

  BRANNA THOUGHT OF IT AS REFOCUSING. WEEKS AND WEEKS of studying, charting, calculating had brought her no closer to a time and date for the third and, please the gods, last battle with Cabhan. She rarely slept well or long, and she had eyes to see the lack of sleep had begun to show.

  Pure vanity if nothing else demanded a change of direction.

  Now that she was bedding Fin and being bedded by him, very well, thank you very much, she couldn’t say she’d gotten more sleep, but she’d rested considerably better in those short hours.

  Still, she’d gotten no further, not on the when or precisely the how. So, she’d refocus.

  Routine always steadied her. Her work, her home, her family, and the cycle that spun them together. A new year meant new stock for her shop, meant seeds to be planted in her greenhouse flats. Negative energies should be swept out, and protection charms refreshed.

  Added to it she had two weddings to help plan.

  She spent the morning on her stock. Pleased with her new scents, she filled the containers she’d ordered for the Blue Ice line, labeled all, stacked them for transport to the village with the stack of candles she’d replenished from the stock Iona had decimated for Fin’s party.

  After a check of her list, she made up more of the salve Boyle used at the stables. She could drop that by if the day went well, and thinking of it, added a second jar for the big stables.

  A trip to the market as well, she decided. Despite it being Iona’s turn for it, Branna thought she’d enjoy a trip to the village, a drive in the air. The dinner with the rest of her circle after their night away hadn’t accomplished much more than emptying her container of soup, so the stop by the market was necessary.

  With a glance at the clock she calculated she could be back in two hours, at the outside. Then she’d try her hand at creating a demon poison. Wrapped in her coat, a bold red and blue scarf, and the cashmere fingerless gloves she’d splurged on as a Yule gift to herself, she loaded up her car.

  As Kathel was nowhere in sight, she sent her mind to his, found him spending some quality time with Bugs and the horses. She gave him leave to stay till it suited him, then drove herself to Cong.

  She spent half her allotted time in the village, loitering with Eileen in the shop. More time in the market, buying supplies and exchanging gossip with Minnie O’Hara, who knew all there was to know—including the fact that on New Year’s Eve Young Tim McGee (as opposed to his father Big Tim, and his grandfather Old Tim) had gotten himself drunk as a pirate. And so being had serenaded Lana Kerry—she who had broken off their three-year engagement for lack of movement—below her flat window with songs of deep despair, sadly off key.

  It was well known Young Tim couldn’t sing a note without causing the village dogs to howl in protest. He had begun this at near to half-three in the morning, and until the French girl in the flat below—one Violet Bosette who worked now in the cafe—opened her own window and heaved out an old boot. For a French girl, Minnie considered, her aim was dead-on, and she clunked Young Tim right upside the head, knocking him flat on his arse where he continued to serenade.

  At which time Lana came out and hauled him inside. When they’d emerged near to dinnertime the next day, the ring was on Lana’s finger once more, and a wedding date set for May Day.

  It was a fine story, Branna thought as she drove out of the village again, especially as she knew all the participants but the French girl with good aim.

  And it had been worth the extra time spent.

  She took the long way around just for the pleasure of it, and was nearly within sight of the stables when she saw the old man on the side of the road, down on his knees and leaning heavily on a walking stick.

  She pulled up sharply, got out.

  “Sir, are you hurt?” She started toward him, began to search for injuries or illness with her mind.

  Then stopped, angled her head. “Have you fallen, sir?”

  “My heart, I think. I can bare get my breath. Will you help me, young miss?”

  “Sure and I’ll help you.” She reached out a hand for his, and punched power into it. The old man flew back in a tumble.

  “Do you think to trick me with such a ploy?” She tossed back her hair as the old man lifted his head, to look at her. “That I couldn’t see through the shell to what’s inside?”

  “You stopped, outside your protection.” As the old man rose, he became Cabhan, smiling now as the red stone pulsed light.

  “Do you think I’m without protection? Come then.” She gestured with an insulting wiggle of her fingers. “Have a go at me.”

  The fog spread, nipping like icy needles at her ankles; the sky darkened in a quick, covering dusk. Cabhan dropped to the ground, became the wolf, and the wolf gathered itself, leaped.

  With a wave of hands, palms out, Branna threw up a block that sent the wolf crashing against the air, falling back.

  Poor choice, she thought, watching it as it stalked her. For in this form she could read Cabhan like the pages of a book.

  She probed inside, searched for a name, but sensed only rage and hunger.

  So when he charged as wolf from the right, she was prepared for the man rushing in from the left. And sh
e met fire with fire, power with power.

  It surprised her the earth itself didn’t crack from the force that flew out of her, the force that flashed out at her. But the air snapped and sizzled with it. She held, held, while the muscles of her body, the muscles of her power ached with the effort. While she held, the brutal cold of the fog rose higher.

  Though her focus, her eyes, her magicks locked with his, she felt his fingers—its fingers—crawl up her leg.

  Sheer insult had force. She swung what she had out at him so it struck like a fist. Though it bloodied his mouth, he laughed. She knew she’d misjudged, let temper haze sense, when he lunged forward and closed his hands over her breasts.

  Only an instant, but even that was far too much. Now she merged temper, intellect, and skill and called the rain—a warm flashing flood that washed away the fog and burned his skin where the drops fell.

  She braced for the next attack, saw it coming in his eyes, then she heard, as he did, the thunder of hoofbeats, the high, challenging cry of the hawk, the ferocious howl of the hound.

  “Soft and ripe and fertile. And in you I’ll plant my seed and my son.”

  “I’ll burn your cock off at the root and feed it smoldering to the ravens should you try. Oh, but stay, Cabhan.” She spread her arms, stopped the rain, held a wand of blinding light and a ball of fire. “My circle comes to greet you.”

  “Another time, Sorcha, for I would have you alone.”

  Even as Fin slid from his still-racing Baru, his sword flaming, Cabhan swirled into mists.

  Fin and Kathel reached her on a run, and Fin gripped her shoulders.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “I’m not hurt.” But as she said it she realized her breasts throbbed, a dark throb like a rotted tooth. “Or not enough to matter.”

  She laid one hand on Fin’s heart, the other on Kathel’s head. “Be easy,” she said as the others came up on horseback or in lorries. The hawks—Roibeard and Merlin—landed together on the roof of Boyle’s lorry. Before she could speak through the rapid-fire questions, she saw Bugs running for all he was worth down the road to her.

  “Brave heart,” she crooned, and crouched to gather him up when he reached her. “It’s too open here,” she told the others. “And I’m right enough.”

  “Connor, will you see to Branna’s car? She’ll ride with me. My house is closest.”

  “I can drive perfectly well,” Branna began, but he simply picked her up, set her in the saddle, then swung up behind her.

  “You take too much for granted,” she said stiffly.

  “And you’re too pale.”

  She held Bugs safe as Baru lunged forward.

  If she was pale, Branna thought, it was only because it had been an intense battle, however short. She’d get her color back, and her balance with it quickly enough.

  No point in arguing, she decided, as the lot of them were worried for her—as she’d have been for any of them in the same case.

  When they reached the stables, Fin swung down, plucked her off, and called out to an openmouthed Sean, “See to the horses.”

  Since she deemed it more mortifying to struggle, Branna allowed him to carry her into his house.

  “You’ve made a scene for no reason, and will have tongues wagging throughout the county.”

  “Cabhan going at you in the middle of the road in the middle of the day is reason enough. You’ll have some whiskey.”

  “I won’t, but I’d have some tea if it’s no trouble to you.”

  He started to speak, then just turned on his heel, leaving her on his living room sofa as he strode off to the kitchen.

  In the moment alone, she tugged at the neck of her sweater, looked down at herself. She could clearly see the imprint of Cabhan’s fingers on her skin over the top of her bra. She rose, deciding the matter would be best dealt with in private.

  And the rest of her circle, along with her dog, crowded in.

  “Don’t start. I want the powder room a moment first.” She sent a look at Meara, at Iona, the request clear in her eyes.

  So they followed her into the pretty little half bath under the stairs.

  “What is it?” Iona demanded. “What don’t you want them to see?”

  “I’d as soon my brother and your fiancé don’t get a gander of my breasts.” So saying she stripped off the sweater. And on Meara’s hiss of breath, the bra.

  “Oh, Branna,” Iona murmured, lifted her hands. “Let me.”