Dark Witch Page 6

  She had known it. They had all known it. And hadn’t she come here, alone, for this as much as to visit her mother’s grave?

  “You will wait longer yet. You will wait a day, a moon, a thousand years, but you will never have what you covet.”

  You come alone, in the starlight. You look for love. I would give it to you.

  “I am not alone.” She spun around. Her hood fell back and her bright hair caught the light. “I am never alone.”

  The fog swirled, spun up, spun out, coalesced into the form of a man. Or what had been a man.

  She’d faced him before, as a child. But she had more than rocks now.

  A shadow he was, she thought. A shadow to haunt dreams and smother light.

  Such a pretty thing. A woman now, ripe for plucking. Do you still throw stones?

  Even as she stared into his eyes, she watched the red stone he wore around his neck gleam.

  “My aim is as true as it was ever.”

  He laughed, weaved closer. She caught his scent, the hint of sulphur. Only a devil’s bargain could have given him the power to exist.

  Your mother is gone, no skirts to hide behind now. I defeated her, took her life, rent her power with my hands.

  “You lie. Do you think we cannot see? Do you think we do not know?” His amulet pulsed red—his heart, she thought. His center, his power. She meant to take it, at any cost. “With a kiss she burned you. And I marked you. You bear it still.”

  She held up her hands, fingers curled toward him so the mark on his shoulder burned like a flame.

  On his scream she leapt forward, snatching at the stone he wore. But he lashed out, fingers going to claws, and scored their grooves in the back of her hand.

  Damned to you and all your blood. I will crush you in my fists, wring what you are out into a silver cup. And drink.

  “My blood will send you to hell.” She struck out with her bleeding hand, driving her power through it.

  But the fog collapsed so she struck only air. The red stone pulsed, pulsed, then vanished.

  “My blood will send you to hell,” she repeated.

  And in the dream he seemed to stare at Iona, into her eyes. Into her spirit.

  “It is not for me, in this time, in this place. But for you in yours. Remember.”

  And cradling her wounded hand, called to her horse.

  She mounted. She turned once to look at the stone, the flowers, the home she’d once known.

  “On my oath, on my love, we will not fail though it takes a thousand lifetimes.” She laid her hand on her belly, on the gentle bulge. “There is already another coming.”

  She rode away, through the woods, toward the castle where she and her family were housed.

  Iona woke trembling. Her right hand throbbing with pain, she groped for the light with her left. In its flash she saw the raw gashes, the run of blood. On a shocked cry, she scrambled up, dashed toward the bath, snatching a towel as she lurched toward the sink.

  Before she could wrap the wound, it began to change. She watched in fascinated horror as the gashes in her skin closed, the blood dried, then faded, like the pain. Within seconds she examined her unmarked hand.

  A dream, but not, she thought. A vision? One where she’d been an observer, and somehow a participant.

  She’d felt the pain—and the rage, the grief. She’d felt the power, more than she’d ever experienced, more than she’d ever known.

  Teagan’s power?

  Lifting her gaze, Iona studied herself in the mirror, called back the images from the dream. But it had been her face . . . hadn’t it? Her build, her coloring.

  But not, she thought now, her voice. Not even her language, though she’d understood every word. Old Gaelic, she assumed.

  She needed to know more, to learn more. To find a way to understand how events that had happened hundreds of years before could draw her in so absolutely that she actually felt genuine pain.

  Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water on her face, caught the time on her watch. Still shy of four A.M., but she was done with sleep. Her body clock would adjust eventually, and for now she might as well just go with it. Maybe she’d read until sunrise.

  She walked back into the bedroom, started to lift the tea tray she’d ended up sleeping with. And she saw on the lovely white sheets three drops of red. Of blood. Hers, she realized.

  The dream—vision—experience—hadn’t just given her pain. She’d bled in it.

  What kind of power could drag her into her own dreams and cause her to bleed from an ancestor’s wound?

  Leaving the tray where it was, she sat on the side of the bed, brushed her fingers over her throat.

  What if those claws had struck there, slashed her jugular? Would she have died? Could dreams kill?

  No, she didn’t want books, she decided. She wanted answers, and she knew who had them.

  By six, fueled with coffee, she headed out once again past the fountains and flowers and green lawns to the thick woods. This time the light held soft and luminous to drip palely through branches as the wide path narrowed. And this time she saw the signposts for the falconry school, the stables.

  Later that morning, she promised herself, she’d visit both, then top it off with a hike to Cong. But she wouldn’t be put off with a stack of books and a bit of tabletop magick.

  The dream stayed with her so closely she caught herself checking her hand for claw marks.

  A long, high note had her head snapping up, her gaze shooting skyward. The hawk soared across the pale blue, a gorgeous golden brown sweep that circled, then swooped. She swore she heard the wind of its wings as it danced through the trees, and landed on a branch overhead.

  “Oh my God, look at you! You’re just gorgeous.”

  He stared down at her, golden eyes steady, unblinking, his wings regally folded. She wondered fancifully if he’d left his crown at home.

  Slowly, she dug into her back pocket for her phone, holding her breath as she hit camera mode. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s not every day a woman meets a hawk. Or a falcon. I’m not sure which you are. Just let me . . .” She framed him in, took the shot, then a second.

  “Are you hunting, or just out for your version of a morning stroll? I guess you’re from the school, but—”

  She stopped when the hawk turned its head. She thought she caught it, too, a faint whistle. In response, the hawk lifted off the branch, swooped and dodged its way through the trees and was gone.

  “I’m definitely booking a falcon walk,” she decided, and checked her photos before she stuffed the phone away to hike on.

  She reached the upended tree, the wall of vines. Though the pull returned, she pushed it back. Not now, not today when the emotion of the dreams swam so close to the surface.

  Answers first.

  The dog waited at the edge of the woods as if he’d been expecting her. He swished his tail by way of greeting, accepted the stroke on his head.

  “Good morning. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one out and about early. I hope Branna’s not pissed when I come knocking, but I really need to talk to her.”

  Kathel led the way to the pretty blue cottage, straight to the bright red door. “Here goes.” She used the knocker shaped like a trinity knot, considered how best to approach her cousin.

  But the one she hadn’t yet met answered the door.

  He looked like some rumpled, sleepy warrior prince with his mass of waving hair, a burnished brown that spilled around a face as elegantly boned as his sister’s. Eyes green as the hills blinked at her.

  He stood tall and lean in gray flannel pants and a white pullover unraveling at the hem.

  “I’m sorry,” she began, and thought those words appeared to be her default when she came to this house.

  “Good morning to you. You must be cousin Iona from the States.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Welcome home.”

  She found herself enfolded in a big, hard hug that lifted her up to the to
es of her boots. The cheerful gesture made her eyes sting, and her nerves vanish.

  “I’d be Connor, if you’re wondering. Did Kathel find you and bring you ’round?”

  “No, that is, yes. I was already coming here, but he found me.”

  “Well then, come in out of the cold. Winter’s still got its teeth in us.”

  “Thanks. I know it’s early.”

  “That it is. The day will insist on starting that way.” In a gesture she found both casual and miraculous, he flicked a hand at the living room hearth. Flames leaped up to curl around the stacked peat. “We’ll have some breakfast,” he continued, “and you can tell me everything there is to know about Iona Sheehan.”

  “That won’t take long.”

  “Oh, I’ll wager there’s plenty to tell.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the house.

  She had a quick impression of color and jumble and light, the scents of vanilla and smoke. And space, more of it than she’d expected.

  Then they were in the kitchen with a pretty stone hearth, long counters the color of slate, walls of lake blue. Pots of herbs thrived on wide windowsills, copper pots hung over a center island. Cabinets of dark gray showed colorful glassware, dishes behind their glass fronts. In a jut ringed with windows stood a beautiful old table and charmingly mismatched chairs.

  The combination of farmhouse casual and the modern efficiency of glossy white appliances worked like magick.

  “This is really beautiful. Like something out of a really smart magazine.”

  “Is it? Well, it’s Branna who has very definite ideas, and this is one of them.” Tilting his head in study, he gave her another quick, charming smile. “Can you cook?”

  “Ah . . . sort of. I mean, I can, I just suck at it.”

  “Well now, that’s a real pity. I’m on duty then. Will it be coffee or tea for you?”

  “Oh, coffee, thanks. You don’t have to cook.”

  “I do if I want to eat, and I do. In general, around here Branna’s the cook and I’m the bottle washer, but I can manage breakfast well enough.”

  He punched controls on a very intimidating-looking coffeemaker as he spoke, pulled a basket of eggs, a hunk of butter, a pack of bacon from the fridge.

  “Take off your coat and be at home,” he told her. “Branna says you’re living the life at Ashford for a few days before you’re coming here. How are you finding Ashford?”

  “Like a dream. I slept too much of the day away yesterday. Obviously, I’m making up for it. You don’t mind me moving in?”

  “Why would I? We’ll be taking turns as bottle washers, so that’s one for me.”

  He got down a skillet, set it on the stove top. “Cups up there, and fresh cream if you’re wanting it, and sugar as well.” He gestured here and there before he tossed bacon into the skillet.

  All of it, and all of him, she thought, seemed as casual and miraculous as his wrist-flick fire-starting.

  “I hear you’re after working at the stables.”

  “I’m hoping.”

  “Branna had a word with Boyle. He’ll be talking to you about that today.”

  “Really?” Her heart actually leapt at the prospect. “That’s great. That’s fantastic. A lot of people thought I’d lost my mind, just packing up, coming here without a serious plan, without a ready job or a place to stay.”

  “What’s an adventure if you know all the steps before you take them?”

  “I know!” She grinned at him. “Now I’ve got a job interview, and family to live with. And this morning—certainly it wasn’t my plan last night to walk over at six A.M.—I saw a hawk in the woods. It flew right down, sat on a branch and watched me. I took pictures.”

  She dug out her phone to show him. “I guess you’d know what kind of hawk—falcon—he is.”

  As he lifted the bacon out of the skillet, Connor angled his head to study the image. “A Harris’s hawk—the same we use for our hawk walks. That’s Fin’s Merlin, and a fine bird he is. Finbar Burke,” he added. “He owns the stables with Boyle, and he started the falconry school here at Ashford. He owns quite a bit of this and that, does Fin.”

  “Will I interview with him, too?”

  “Oh, he’d likely leave that to Boyle. Plenty of cream and two sugars in my coffee, if you will.”

  “Same as me.”

  “Branna, she’s one for just a dollop of the cream. Go ahead and fix her up. She’s on her way down, and she’ll need it.”

  “She is? How do you . . . Oh.”

  He only smiled. “She sends out fierce vibrations of a morning before her coffee, and it’s a bit on the early side for her so she may bite.”

  Iona grabbed another cup, hurriedly poured the coffee. She was stirring in that dollop of cream when Branna walked in, dark hair tumbled nearly to her waist, eyes blurry and annoyed.

  She took the cup Iona held out, took two deep swallows as she watched Iona over the rim. “All right then, what happened?”

  “Ah now, don’t poke at her,” Connor said. “She’s had a rough go. Give her a chance to get some food into her.”

  “I doubt she’s come here at dawn for breakfast. You’re going to overcook those eggs, Connor, as always.”

  “I’m not. Slice up some bread for toasting why don’t you, and she’ll tell us once she’s settled.”

  “She’s standing right here,” Iona reminded them.

  “At half-six in the bloody morning,” Branna finished, but she picked up a bread knife, took a cloth off a loaf on a cutting board on the counter.

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Every second sentence she utters starts with those two words.” Branna sliced bread, tossed it into the toaster.

  “Jesus, finish your coffee before your black mood ruins my appetite. Let’s have some plates, Iona, there’s a girl.” His tone shifted from sharp to gentle as his sister leaned back against the counter and sulkily drank her coffee.

  Saying nothing, Iona got down plates and, at his direction, located the flatware, set the table.

  She sat with her cousins, looked at the platter heaped with bacon and eggs, the plate of toasted bread, listened to the two of them bicker about how the eggs were cooked, whose turn it was to go to the market and why the laundry hadn’t been folded.

  “My coming here like this put you at odds, so you’re fighting, but I—”

  “We’re not fighting.” Connor scooped up a forkful of eggs. “Are we fighting, Branna?”

  “We’re not. We’re communicating.” Then she laughed, tossed her magnificent hair, and bit into her toast. “If we were fighting, more than these eggs would be scorched.”

  “They’re not scorched,” Connor insisted. “They’re . . . firm.”

  “They’re good.”

  Branna rolled her eyes at Iona. “You’d have eaten better at the hotel, be sure of it. The chef there is brilliant.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about food this morning. I can’t just read books, and stumble around trying to . . . I don’t know what to do unless I know.”

  “She’s a bit of food in her now,” Branna said to Connor. “So, what happened?”

  “I had a dream, that wasn’t a dream.”

  She told all of it, every detail she could remember as carefully as she could manage.

  “Let me see your hand,” Branna interrupted. “The one that bled.”

  She took it, held it fast while she traced fingertips over the back. The skin split, filled with blood. “Be still!” Branna snapped when Iona gasped and tried to pull free. “It’s but a memory now. There’s no pain. This is just the mirror of what was.”

  “It was real. It hurt, burned. And there was blood on the sheet.”

  “Then, yes, it was real. This is only a reflection.” She traced her fingertips over it again, and the wound vanished.

  “I was pregnant. I mean, she was pregnant. In the vision, or dream. He didn’t know. He couldn’t see it, or feel it? I don’t know which.” Agitated, Iona shoved at her hair
with both hands. “I have to know, Branna. You said I needed to think carefully, but how can I when I don’t have all the information?”

  “It’s twined close,” Branna said, and got Connor’s nod. “And you’re more open than I understood. I’ll give you something to filter the visions; it may help you keep yourself a step back we’ll say. We’ll guide you, Connor and I, best that we can. But we can’t tell you what we don’t know. If Teagan went alone back to the cabin, back to the woods, was confronted, you’re the one telling us.”

  “We know pieces, Branna and I, and now you’ll know more. We’ve both gone back, had glimpses, felt as you feel now.”

  “But we were only two,” Branna added. “There must be three.”

  “He was bolder with you, as you’re more vulnerable. You won’t stay that way,” Connor assured her.

  It sounded ridiculous, but she had to say aloud what churned through her mind. “Can he kill me? If I go back, when I sleep, could he kill me?”

  “He could try and likely will try.” Branna answered the ridiculous with bald simplicity. “You’ll stop him.”

  “How?”

  “With your will, with your power. With the amulet you wear, and must always wear, and with what I’ll give you.”

  Branna stopped pushing her eggs around her plate, picked up her coffee. And once again watched Iona over the rim.

  “But understand, if you stay, if you mean to be with us, and be what you are, he will come for you. You must stay freely, and knowing that, or go and live your life.”

  It was all too fantastic. And yet. She’d lived that dream. She’d felt the pain.

  And she knew the draw and pull of what lived inside her.

  Bridges burned, Iona reminded herself, for the chance to build new ones. Wherever they led—and they’d already brought her closer to what and who she was than any of the ones before.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “You’ve had little time to think or understand,” Branna began, but Iona only shook her head.

  “I know I’ve never belonged anywhere before. And I think I understand this is why. Because I belong here. I come from her, from Teagan. I understand, too, she wanted me to see she hurt him that night, and he was afraid. Doesn’t that— Couldn’t that mean I can hurt him?”

  “If it’s here you belong, and I believe it is, then here you are. But don’t rush your fences,” Connor warned her, and patted her hand. “You’ve only begun.”

  “I’m an excellent rider with a damn good seat. And I’ll learn. Teach me.” She leaned closer as the urgency rose in her. “Show me.”

  Branna sat back. “You haven’t much patience.”

  “It depends. No,” Iona admitted. “Not a lot.”

  “You’ll need to find some, but we’ll take some steps. Small ones.”

  “Tell me about the cabin. They lived there, Sorcha died there. Is it still there? There’s a big tree, uprooted, and these thick vines, and—”

  “Don’t go there,” Branna said quickly. “Not yet and not alone.”

  “She’s right. You have to wait for that. You have to promise not to go through on your own.” Connor gripped her hand, and she felt the heat pump against