Shadow Spell

  “They’ll ride safe in here.” Seven times seven is—bugger it—forty-nine. “And haven’t you said plants are living things, and how they respond to music and conversation and affection? They’d miss you and likely wilt, however careful I was with them.”

  Inspired, Meara sang “On the Road Again” as she tucked balled paper around the pots. At least that got a glimmer of a smile from Colleen.

  “You’ve such a beautiful singing voice.”

  “I got it from my mother, didn’t I?”

  “Your father has a fine, strong voice as well.”

  “Hmm” was Meara’s response to that as she multiplied in her head. “Well now, you’ll want some of your photos, won’t you, to put around your room.”

  “Oh.” Colleen immediately linked her fingers together as she did when she didn’t know whether to turn left or right. “I’m not sure, and how would I choose which. And—”

  “I’ll choose, then it’ll be a nice surprise for you when you unpack. You know, I could do with some tea.”

  “Oh. I’ll make some.”

  “That would be grand.” And provide five minutes of peace.

  With Colleen in the kitchen, Meara quickly snatched framed photos—captured moments of the past, of her childhood, of her siblings, and, though it didn’t sit particularly well, of her parents together.

  She studied one of her parents, smiling out with the lush gardens of the big house they’d once had surrounding them. A handsome face, she thought, studying her father. A fine, strapping man with all the charm in the world.

  And no spine whatsoever.

  She wrapped the photo to protect the glass of the frame, tucked it in the box. She might be of the opinion her mother would be better off without the constant reminder of what had been, but it wasn’t her life to live.

  And that life, right at the moment, fit into two suitcases, a shoulder tote, and three market boxes.

  There would be more if the move became permanent—a word Colleen wasn’t ready to hear. More packing to do, but much more than that, Meara was sure, more life to be lived.

  Considering the job done—or nearly enough—she went back to the kitchen. And found her mother sitting at the tiny table, weeping quietly into her hands.

  “Ah, Ma.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I haven’t made the tea. I feel at sea, Meara. I’ve lived in Cong and hereabouts all my life. And now . . .”

  “It’s not far. You’ll not be far.” Sitting, Meara took her hands. “Not even a full hour away.”

  Colleen looked up, tearfully. “But I won’t see you or Donal as I do.”

  “It’s just a visit, Ma.”

  “I may never come back here. It’s what you’re all thinking for me.”

  With little choice, Meara shouldered the guilt. “It’s what we’re all thinking you’ll want once you’re there a little while. If you stay in Galway with Maureen and Sean and the kids, we’ll visit. Of course we will. And if you’re not happy there, you’ll come back here. Haven’t I said I’ll see the cottage is right here for you?”

  “I hate this place. I hate everything about this place.”

  Stunned, Meara opened her mouth, then shut it again without an idea what to say.

  “No, no, that’s not right, that’s not true.” Rocking herself, Colleen pressed her hands to her face. “I love the gardens. I do. I love seeing them, front and back, and working in them. And I’m grateful for the cottage, for it’s a sweet little place.”

  Taking a tissue from her pocket, Colleen dabbed away the tears. “I’m grateful to Finbar Burke for renting it to me for far less than a fair price—and to you for paying it. And to Donal for staying with me so long. To all of you for seeing someone rang me every day to see how I was doing. For taking me on little holidays. I know you’ve all conspired so I’ll move off to Galway with Maureen for my own good. I’m not altogether stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid at all.”

  “I’m fifty-five years old, and I can’t roast a joint of lamb.”

  Because that brought on another spate of weeping, Meara tried another tact. “It’s true enough you’re a bloody terrible cook. When I’d come home from school and smell your pot roast cooking, I’d ask God what I’d done to deserve such punishment.”

  Colleen goggled for a long minute, tears shimmering on her cheeks. Then she laughed. The sound was a bit wild, but it was a laugh all the same.

  “My mother’s worse.”

  “Is that even possible?”

  “Why do you think your grandda hired a cook? We’d have starved to death. And bless her, Maureen’s not much better.”

  “That’s why they invented take-away.” Hoping to stem more weeping, Meara rose to put the kettle on. “I never knew you hated living here.”

  “I don’t. That was wrong and ungrateful. I’ve a roof over my head, and a garden I’m proud of. I’ve good neighbors, and you and Donal close. I’ve hated it’s all I have—another’s property my daughter pays to keep around me.”

  “It’s not all you have.” How blind had she been, Meara wondered, not to see how it would score her mother’s pride to live in a rental her child paid for?

  “It’s only a place, Ma. Just a place. You have your children, your grandchildren, who love you enough to conspire for your happiness. You have yourself, a terrible cook, but a brilliant gardener. You’ll be a boon to those grandchildren.”

  “Will I?”

  “Oh, you will. You’ll be patient with them, and sincerely interested in their doings and their thoughts. It’s different with a parent, isn’t it? They have to consider constantly whether to say yes or no, now or later. They have to discipline and enforce as well as love and tend. You’ll only have to love, and they’ll soak all that up like sponges.”

  “I do miss having them closer, having the time to spoil them.”

  “So here’s your chance.”

  “What if Maureen objects to the spoiling?”

  “Then I’m off to Galway to kick her arse.”

  Colleen smiled again as Meara made the tea. “You’ve always been my warrior. So fierce and brave. I’m hoping I’ll have grandchildren from you to spoil one day.”

  “Ah well.”

  “I’ve heard you and Connor O’Dwyer are seeing each other.”

  “I’ve been seeing Connor O’Dwyer all my life.”

  “Meara.”

  No avoiding it, Meara thought, and brought the tea to the little table. “We’re seeing each other.”

  “I’m as fond of him as I can be. He’s a fine man, and so handsome as well. A good heart and a kind nature. He comes to see me now and then, just to see how I’m faring, and to ask if there’s any little thing he can do around the place.”

  “I didn’t know, but it’s like him.”

  “He has a way about him, and though I know the way of the world, I can’t approve of . . . that is, the sex before marriage.”

  Holy Mary, Meara prayed, have mercy and spare me from the sex talk.

  “Understood.”

  “I feel the same with Donal and Sharon, but . . . A man’s a man, after all, and they’ll want such things with or without Holy Matrimony.”

  “As do women, Ma, and I hate to break the news to you, but I’m a woman grown.”

  “Be that as it may,” Colleen said primly, “you’re still my daughter. And despite what the Church says on such matters, I’ll hope you’ll have a care.”

  “You can rest easy there.”

  “I’ll rest easy when you’re happy and married and starting a family in a home of your own. I’m as fond of Connor as I can be, as I said, but it’s a fact he’s an eye for the ladies. So have a care, Meara.”

  When she heard the front door open, Meara offered desperate thanks. “And here’s Donal set to take you to Galway,” she said brightly. “I’ll get another cup for his tea.”

  * * *

  SHE THOUGHT TO GO HOME, STARE AT THE WALLS UNTIL SHE felt less frazzled and guilty and generally o
ut of sorts. And ended up driving straight to Branna’s.

  The minute she’d dashed into the workshop, she saw she’d made a mistake.

  Branna and Fin stood together at the big work counter, their hands poised over a silver bowl. Whatever brew it contained glowed, a hard orange light that swirled up a thin column of smoke.

  Branna held up a finger of her free hand, a signal to wait.

  “Yours and yours and me and mine, life and death together twine. Blood and tears cast and shed mixed together thick and red. Fire and smoke will bubble true and seal your fate with this brew.”

  It bubbled up, frothed over, a virulent orange.

  “Damn it!” Branna stepped back, fisted her hands on her hips. “It’s still not right. It should go red, bloodred. Murderous red, and thick. We’re still missing something.”

  “It’s damn well not my blood,” Fin said. “I’ve given you a liter already.”

  “A few drops is all, don’t be such a baby.” Obviously frustrated, Branna shoved at the hair she’d bundled on top of her head. “I’ve taken mine and Connor’s and Iona’s as well, haven’t I?”

  “And there’s three of you to my one.”

  “Plus what we’ve used from the vial we have of his from the solstice, and what we’re using from the sword.”

  “You can have mine if you need it,” Meara offered. “Otherwise it seems I’m just in the way.”

  “You’re not. It might be we can use another eye, another brain on this. But we’re having a break so I can think on this,” Branna decided. “We’ll have some tea.”

  “You’re upset,” Fin said to Meara as Branna mopped up the counter. “You saw your mother off to Galway today.”

  “Just a bit ago, yes, and with much of the weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

  “I’m sorry.” Immediately Branna came around the counter, rubbed Meara’s arm. “I was blocked off in my own frustrations and didn’t give a thought to yours. It was hard.”

  “In some ways more and in others less than I expected. But altogether exhausting.”

  “I’ve things I could do and leave the two of you to talk.”

  “No, don’t go on my account. And this gives me the chance to talk to you about the rental.”

  “It’s nothing you need worry over. As I told you, I can hold it until she’s decided what she wants to do. It’s been hers near to ten years now.”

  “It’s good of you, Fin. I mean it.”

  Saying nothing, Branna walked over to make the tea.

  “I think she won’t be back—not to live,” Meara said. “I think the change will boost her. The grandchildren, particularly the grandchildren, as she’ll be living with some and closer to the rest. Added to it, Maureen’s Sean will make a fuss over her, as he’s always had a soft spot there. And the fact is, she’s not happy on her own. She needs someone not just for conversation but direction, and Maureen will give her both.”

  “Then stop feeling guilty about it,” Fin advised.

  “I’m wading in it for a bit.” Doing just that, Meara pressed her fingers to her eyes. “She cried so, and said things I didn’t know were in her mind or her heart. She’s grateful to you, Fin, for the cottage, for the ridiculously low rent you’ve charged all these years—and I never thought she had any idea about the money at all. But she did, she’s grateful, and so am I.”

  “It’s nothing, Meara.”

  “It is, to her, to me. I couldn’t have managed my own rent and hers if hers hadn’t been cheaper than dirt even with Donal kicking in, and then there’d have been murder for certain. So you kept her alive and me out of prison, so you’ll take the gratitude that’s given.”

  “You’re welcome.” Then he went to her, drew her in, as she’d started to cry. “Enough now, darling.”

  “It’s just she started crying again when Donal and I loaded her things into the lorry, and she clung to me as if I were going off to war. Which I am, I suppose, but she doesn’t know. I swear she’s turned a blind eye to what three of my closest friends are about all these years, and now is only somewhat concerned that Connor and I are having sex outside Holy Matrimony.”

  Though he couldn’t help the smile, Fin rubbed her back. “It sounds like a very full day for you.”

  “Ending with me booting my own mother out of her home.”

  “You did no such thing. You helped her break a chain that’s kept her locked here when she’ll be happier in a house filled with family. I’ll wager she’ll thank you for it before the year’s out. Here now, dubheasa, dry your eyes.”

  He stepped back, patted his pockets, then pulled out a handkerchief swirling with color, and made her laugh.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Always a rainbow after the storm.” Then plucked an enormous and bright pink daisy from her hair. “And flowers from the rain.”

  “You’d make a fecking fortune at birthday parties.”

  “I’ll keep that for backup.”

  “And I’m a complete git.”

  “Not at all.” He gave her another hug. “Only a half a git at best.”

  He caught Branna’s eye over Meara’s head. And the smile she sent him stabbed straight into his heart.

  * * *

  SHE DRANK HER TEA, ATE THREE OF BRANNA’S LEMON biscuits, and though she knew next to nothing of writing spells and making potions, did her best to help.

  She ground herbs using mortar and pestle—sage, fleabane, rosemary for banishing. She measured out the dust of a crushed black fluorite crystal, snipped lengths of copper twine, marking all amounts precisely in Branna’s journal.

  By the time Connor arrived, with Iona and Boyle with him, all the ingredients Branna and Fin had chosen were ready.

  “We’ve failed twice with this today,” Branna told them, “so we’ll hope it’s true third time’s the charm. Plus we’ve had Meara’s hand in it this time, and that’s for luck.”

  “An apprentice witch are you?” Connor nipped her in for a kiss.

  “Hardly, but I can grind and measure.”

  “Did you see your mother on her way?”

  “I did, and mopped her up after she cried her buckets. Then came here where Fin mopped me up in turn.”

  “Be happy.” This time Connor kissed her forehead. “For she will be.”

  “I’m closer to believing it as Donal texted me not an hour ago to say Maureen’s family gave her a queen’s welcome, with streamers and flowers, cake and even champagne. I can be a little shamed for not thinking Maureen had it in her to make the fuss, but I’ll get past that the first time she pisses me off. Donal says she’s giddy as a girl—Ma, not Maureen, so that’s a cloud gone from over my head.”

  “We’ll go up and take her out to dinner once we can get away easy.”

  A good heart, her mother had said. And a kind nature.

  “You’d be taking a chance as you’re having sex with her daughter outside Holy Matrimony.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain later. I think Branna wants your blood.”

  “From all,” Branna countered. “As we took from all for the spell before the solstice.”

  “It didn’t finish it.” Boyle frowned at the bowl as Branna carefully added ingredients. “Why should this?”

  “We have his blood—from the ground, from the blade,” Fin said. “That adds his power to it, it adds the dark, and the dark we’ll use against him.”

  “Cloak the workshop, Connor.” Branna measured salt into the bowl. “Iona, the candles if you will. This time we’ll do it all together as we’re all here, and within a circle.

  “Within and without,” she began, “without and within, and here the devil’s end we’ll spin.” Taking up a length of copper, she twisted it into the shape of a man. “In shadows he hides, in shadows we’ll bide and trap his true form inside. There to flame and burn to ash in the spell we cast.”

  She set the copper figure on the silver tray with vials, a long crystal sphere, and her oldest athame.

&n
bsp; “We cast the circle.”

  Meara had seen the ritual dozens of times, but it always brought a tingle to her skin. The way a wave of the hand would set the wide ring of white candles to flame, and how the air seemed to hush and still within their ring.

  Then stir.

  The three and Fin stood at the four points of the compass, and each called on the elements, the god and goddesses, their guides.

  And the fire Iona conjured burned white, a foot off the floor with the silver bowl suspended over it.

  Herbs and crystals, blessed water poured from Branna’s hand—stirred by the air Connor called. Black earth squeezed from Fin’s fist dampened by tears shed by a witch.

  And blood.

  “From a heart brave and true.” With her ritual knife Iona scored Boyle’s palm. “To mix with mine as one from two.”

  And scored her own, pressed her hand to his.

  “Life and light, burning bright,” she said as she let the mixed blood slide into the bowl.

  Connor took Meara’s hand, kissed her palm. “From a heart loyal and strong.” He scored her palm, his. “Join with mine to right the wrong. Life and light, burning bright.”

  Branna turned to Fin, started to take his hand, but he drew it back, and pulled down the shoulder of his shirt.

  “Take it from the mark.”

  When she shook her head, he gripped her knife hand by the wrist. “From the mark.”

  “As you say.”

  She laid the blade on the pentagram, his curse and heritage.

  “Blood that runs from this mark, mix with mine. White and dark.” When she laid her cut hand on his shoulder, flesh to flesh, blood to blood, the candle flames shot high, and the air trembled.

  “Dark and white, power and might, light and life burning bright.”

  The blood ran in a thin river down her hand, into the bowl. The potion boiled, churned, spewing smoke.

  “In the name of Sorcha, all who came before, all who came after, we join our power to make this fight. We cast thee out of shadow and into light.”

  She tossed the copper figure into the bubbling potion, where it flashed—orange and gold and red flame, a roar like a whirlwind, a thousand voices calling through it.

  Then a silence so profound it trembled.

  Branna looked into the bowl, breathed out. “It’s right. This is right. This can end him.”

  “Should I release the fire?” Iona asked her.

  “We’ll leave it to simmer, one hour, then off the flame overnight to cure. And on Samhain, we choke him with it.”

  “We’re done for now then?” Meara asked.