“There had to be some runts in the litter.”
“Word is she’s small but mighty,” Branna added.
“Damn right! See what I can do?” She popped a jittery ball of flame into her hand.
“Best not to play with fire, or magick, when you’re a little bit drunk,” Branna advised.
“Right.” She winked it out. “But I can do it, that’s the point. I can take care of myself. I’m going to buy a car, then when I want to drive around, I’ll drive my own damn self. I’ve got power and purpose. I don’t need a man.”
“If we’re to be Amazons, we’ll just use them for sex or whatever else comes to mind, then cast them out or kill them.”
Iona nodded at Meara. “Let’s do that. Not the killing, it’s a little extreme. But the sex and whatever. I really like sex.”
“Here’s to it.” Meara lifted her glass, drank, then glanced at Branna.
“Aren’t you drinking to sex?”
“I’ll drink to it, as that’s the closest I’ve come to it in some time.”
Iona sighed, a little bit drunkenly. “You could have sex with anybody. You’re so gorgeous.”
“Thanks very much, but anybody doesn’t appeal to me at this time.”
“She’s particular about the matter,” Meara added.
“Me, too, or I have been. I think I’ll stop doing that. Sex with Boyle was spectacular.”
“Do tell,” Meara commented. “And I mean do. I’ve all the time in the world.”
With a laugh, Iona sipped more wine. “Hot and wild and sweaty. Like the world was going to end any minute and you had to have each other first.”
“Ah well, I haven’t come close to that particular brand in some time myself.”
“Done now.” Iona swiped a hand through the air. “It’s time for a good dose of cynicism because love sucks. Who needs it when you’ve got pizza and ice cream and girls, and lots of wine?”
“I’ve always figured it was the frosting.”
Now Iona stabbed a finger toward Meara. “Frosting’s fattening and gives you cavities.”
“There’s the risk of that to be sure, but . . . Well, you’ve got to bake the cake, don’t you? Bake it well so it satisfies yourself. And maybe you decide to add frosting, maybe you don’t.”
“Love as a choice?” No, Iona thought. No. Love just picked you up and tossed you in. “But how do you choose? You’ve baked your cake, and there it is, and you’re thinking that’s a pretty good cake, that’s good enough for me. Then you blink and all this wonderful frosting just plops down on it out of nowhere.”
Meara shrugged. “You could scrape it off.”
“You can,” Branna agreed. “But it takes some of the cake with it, and you never get all the frosting gone.”
“That’s sad. It sounds true,” Iona murmured, “and sad. We can’t be sad. I refuse it. We need music,” she decided. “Would you play, Branna? I love to hear you play.”
“Why not?” Branna stood. “I’m in the mood to play. I’ll get my fiddle, and Meara, you tune up your pipes.”
Iona got up to stir the fire when Branna went out. “I know Branna’s answer because I’ve seen her and Fin, and heard the story. But have you ever been in love?”
“Well, sticking with the theme, I’ve dipped my finger in the bowl of frosting and had a small sample or two, but nothing more.” From her own corner of the couch, Meara shifted. “I want to say, Boyle can be a idjit.”
“Branna called him a gobdaw.”
“And that as well, as can most men. And I’m sorry to say our side as well has moments of grand stupidity. I want to say as well, I’ve known him a good long time, and I’ve never seen him look at another woman the way he looks at you.”
She believed that. She’d felt that. But. “I wish it could be enough. My problem is I always want more.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“It’s a problem when you don’t get it.”
She plopped down again as Branna came back with her violin case. “He’s out there,” Branna said.
“Boyle?” And damn it, Iona felt her heart jump.
“No. Cabhan.”
This time her nerves jumped even as she and Meara pushed off the couch.
“There’s fog all around the house, pressed right up to the windows like a Peeping Tom.”
“What should we do?” Iona saw it now, the gray curtain of it as she stepped to the glass with her friends. “We should do something.”
“We will. We’ll have music. He can’t go past my shield on this place,” Branna said as she calmly took out the fiddle, the bow. “So we’ll have more wine, and we’ll have music. And we’ll shove the sound of it right up his arse.”
“Something lively then.” Meara shot her middle finger at the window before she turned. “Something for dancing. I’ll see if I can teach Iona a few steps.”
“I’m a fast learner,” she said, as much to what lurked outside as to Meara.
17
THE HANGOVER WOKE HER, THE STEADY THROB, THROB, throb in her temples that picked up the beat from the bang, bang, bang in the center of her skull.
She’d had worse, Iona thought, but not by much.
She considered pulling the covers over her head and trying to sleep it off, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—miss work. Cautiously she opened her eyes, then squinted at the living room window.
Not in bed, she realized, but on the couch with a pretty throw in melting shades of purple tucked around her. She remembered now. She’d stretched out on the couch after dancing herself breathless and after joining her friends in a song or two.
She didn’t have their quality of voice, but she knew the words thanks to Nan, and could pull off some decent harmony.
Plus it was fun, she thought. And defiant, making song as the fog curled outside.
She’d drunk, eaten, talked, laughed, then sung and danced her way through that first awful punch of pain. And now she had a hangover to distract her, and that was all to the good.
She hadn’t cried—or not enough to count—and that was even better.
She’d down a gallon of water, a bottle or two of aspirin, make herself eat something. Then shower for a few days. All better.
And she’d work through the rest.
Sometime between the first glass of wine and the last, she determined she’d go to the stables as usual. She wouldn’t crawl off and quit a job she loved because her boss—her lover—had broken her all-too-fragile heart.
If he wanted her gone, he’d have to fire her.
She got up, shuffled her way to the kitchen. She’d gulped down water, some aspirin, and was contemplating trying some dry toast when Meara walked in looking annoyingly bright-eyed and rosy.
“Got a bit of a head this morning, do you?”
Iona gave Meara as close to the stink eye as she could manage. “Why don’t you?”
“Oh, I’ve a head like a rock and a stomach like iron.” She spoke cheerfully as she put on coffee. “Can’t remember ever being the worse for wear after a drinking night.”
“I hate you.”
“And who’s to blame you? We left you where you dropped last night, as it seemed best. Since I’d brought a change with me in case we made a night of it, I slept in your room. You’ll want the coffee and some food in your system. Oatmeal, I’m thinking.”
Iona winced. “Really?”
“Good and healthy. I’ll make it up, as Branna won’t be stirring as yet.”
“Does she have a head like a rock and a stomach like iron, too?”
“I’d say she does, yes. But then she’s careful how much she drinks. She’s one to keep her wits about her, always. Here now.” Meara poured the coffee. “When she’s up, ask her to fix you a potion for the head. She has one that’s renowned.”
“Good to know. I’d like a clear head when I get to work.”
“So you’re sticking with it then?” Meara gave her a light shoulder punch of approval. “Good for you.”
“I’m not going to deprive myself of work I love, or mope in a corner. I need the job, so we’ll figure out how to work together, unless he fires me.”
“He never would. He’s not so hard, Iona.”
“No, he’s not. Besides, the sun may be out now, but there’s always a chance of fog. With that to deal with, we have to put the rest aside. No chinks in the circle, right?”
“You’ve got spine.” This time Meara gave her a quick rub on the shoulder.
“If you’re really making oatmeal, I’ll go up, soak some of this hangover away in the shower, and get dressed for work.” She hesitated, then wrapped her arms around Meara in a hug. “You and Branna got me through a tough night.”
“Ah, well now, what else are friends for if not that?”
By the time she got out of the shower, the throbbing and banging had clicked down a couple levels. But a sober study of her face in the mirror told her more help was needed. Instead of her usual workday slap-and-dash-on makeup, she took some time, some care. She didn’t want Boyle to think the pale cheeks and smudged eyes were due to him, though indirectly they were, since she’d overindulged to buffer the hurt.
Satisfied she’d done the best with what she had to work with, she dressed and went back down to face oatmeal.
She found Branna, sleepy-eyed in her pajamas, drinking coffee as Meara hummed a tune while she slapped butter on toasted bread.
“And there’s herself now, and looking only half dragged out.”
“That bad?”
“Not bad at all,” Meara said staunchly, and dished out oatmeal.
“Sure we can do better.” Branna crooked a finger. “Lean down here, since you won’t do it for yourself.” She glided her hands gently over Iona’s face. “Just a touch, as we don’t want him to think you fussed for him either.”
That brought on a smile. “You read my mind.”
“It’s sensible, so a little glamour adds just the right touch. We women, and witches, stick together. Meara says you’ve a bit of a head.”
“It’s better.”
“Drink that.” She tapped her finger on a glass filled with pale green liquid.
“What is it?”
“Good for what ails you. Herbs and such, and a touch of more. No point going in as you are, feeling less than well, or looking it. You’re showing backbone by dealing with what is, so you’ll have a reward.”
“And oatmeal.” Meara set three bowls on the table, went back for the toast, then sat.
“Here goes.” Considering it medicine, Iona drank the potion—but found it had a cool, fresh flavor with a faint hint of mint. “It’s nice.”
“Good for what ails you doesn’t have to be unpleasant. Eat as well, it adds to it.”
“You’re both taking care of me. I want to say if either of you get the crap kicked out of you by love, I’ll be there for you.”