She got “good evenings” and “welcome backs” from the staff as she stepped in, crossed through the lobby. Curious, she took brochures on the falconry school and the stables, then—what the hell, she was sort of on vacation—asked for tea to be sent to her room.
Once inside, she made herself set the brochures and books aside to deal, finally, with the unpacking.
After the brutal purge of her wardrobe, the selling of whatever she’d put aside, she still had more than enough. And she’d brought all she thought she’d need for her new life.
By the time she’d filled the wardrobe, the drawers, repacked items she decided could wait, the tea arrived, along with a plate of pretty cookies. Satisfied she’d done her chores, she changed back into her sleep pants, piled up the pillows and, sitting in bed, composed the email on her notebook to let her grandmother know she’d arrived safe, had met with Branna.
Ireland’s all you said and more, even just the little I’ve seen. So is Branna. It’s so generous of her to let me stay with her. The castle’s just awesome, and I’m going to enjoy every minute I’m here, but I’m already looking forward to moving in with Branna—and Connor. I hope I meet him soon. If I get the job at the stables, it’ll just be perfect. So think good thoughts.
Nan, I’m sitting in this wonderful bed in a castle in Ireland, drinking tea and thinking of all that’s yet to come. I know you said it could be a hard road, hard choices, and Branna sure as hell made that clear. But I’m so excited, I’m so happy.
I think, maybe, I’ve finally found where I fit.
Tomorrow I’ll check out the stables, the falconry school, the village—and Branna’s shop. I’ll let you know how it all goes. I love you!
Iona
She sent dutiful emails to her mother, her father. A few cheerful ones to friends and coworkers. And reminded herself to take some pictures to send next time.
She set the notebook aside to charge, retrieved the books, the brochures. This time she got into the bed, wiggled her shoulders back against the pillows.
Blissfully happy, she scanned the brochures, studied the photos. The school sounded absolutely fascinating. And the stables perfect. One of her mother’s favorite warnings was: Don’t get your hopes up.
But Iona’s were, high, high up.
She slipped the stable brochure under her pillow. She’d sleep on it for luck. Then she opened Branna’s book again.
Within twenty minutes, with the lights on, the tea tray still on the bed beside her, she’d dropped back into sleep.
And this time dreamed of hawks and horses, of the black hound. Of the deep green woods where a stone cabin nestled with fog crawling at its feet.
After dismounting a horse as gray as the fog, she walked through the mists, the hood of her cloak drawn up to cover her hair. She carried roses, for love, to the stone polished smooth and carved deep by magick and grief. There she laid the roses, white as the innocence she’d lost.
“I am home, Mother. We are home.” Dabbing the tears on her cheeks with her fingers, she traced the name.
SORCHA
The Dark Witch
And the words bled against the stone.
I am waiting for you.
Not her mother’s voice, but his. With all that had been done, all that had been sacrificed, he survived.
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 toes of her boots. The cheerful gesture made her eyes sting, and her nerves vanish.