Нора Робертс - Blood Magick

A blur and storm of the senses—the feel of her skin, silk like her hair and warm, so warm, chasing away all the cold. The shape of her, the lovely curves, the sound of her breathing his name, moving, moving under him, chasing away all the lonely.

His blood beat for her; his own heart pounded as she tangled her hands in his hair as she used to, as she ran them down his back. Gripped his hips, arched up. Opened.

He plunged in. The light exploded, white, gold, sparking like fire—all the world afire. Wind whipped in a torrent to send that fire into a roar. For an instant, one breath, the pleasure struck.

Then came the lightning. Then came the dark.

He stood with her in the storm, her hand gripped in his.

“I don’t know this place,” she said.

“Nor do I. But . . .” Something, something he knew, somewhere deep. Too deep to reach. Thick woods, whirling winds, and somewhere close the rush of a river.

“Why are we here?”

“Something’s close,” was all he said.

She turned up her hand, held a small ball of flame. “We need light. Can you find the way?”

“Something’s close. You should go back. It’s the dark that’s close.”

“I won’t go back.” She touched her amulet, closed her eyes. “I feel it.”

When she started forward, he tightened his hold on her hand. He would find a way to shield her, if needed. But the urgency to move on pulled him.

Thick trees, deep shadows that seemed to glow with the dark. No moon, no stars, only that wind that sent the night screaming.

In it, something howled, and the howl was hungry.

Fin wished for a weapon, dug deep for power, drew a blade, and set the blade on fire.

“Dark magicks,” Branna murmured. She, too, seemed to glow, alight with her own power. “All around. This is not home.”

“Not home, but near enough. Not now, but long ago.”

“Yes, ago. His lair? Could it be? Can you tell?”

“It’s not the same. It’s . . . other than that.”

She nodded as though she’d felt the same. “We should call the others. We should have our circle in full. If this is his place.”

“There.” He saw it, dark against dark, the mouth of a cave hunched in a hillside.

He would not take her in, Fin thought. Would not take her there, for within was death. And worse.

Even as he thought it, the old man stepped out. He wore rough robes, worn hide boots. Both his hair and beard were a long tangle of gray. Both madness and magick lived in his eyes.

“You are too soon. You are too late.” As he spoke he held up a hand. Blood dripped from it, blood spread over his rough robes.

“It’s done. Done, as I am done. You are too soon to see it, too late to stop it.”

“What is done?” Fin demanded. “Who are you?”

“I am the sacrifice. I am the sire of the dark. I am betrayed.”

“I can help you.” But as Branna started forward, power roared out of the cave. It swept her back, Fin with her, sent the old man falling to the ground where his blood pooled black on the earth.

“Dark Witch to be,” he said. “Cabhan’s whelp to come. There is no help here. He has eaten the dark. We are all damned.”

Fin pushed to his feet, tried to shove Branna back. “He’s in there. He’s in there. I can feel him.”

But as he made to leap toward the cave, she grabbed at him. “Not alone. It isn’t for you alone.”

He whirled toward her, all but mad himself. “He is mine; I am his. Your blood made it so. It’s your curse I carry, and I will take my vengeance.”

“Not for vengeance.” She wrapped herself around him. “For that would damn you. Not for vengeance. And not alone.”

But he woke alone, covered with sweat, the mark on his arm burning like a fresh brand.

And could still smell her on the sheets, on his skin. In the air.

The dog quivered against him, whining.

“It’s all right now.” Absently, he stroked. “It’s done for now.”

He showered off the sweat, grabbed pants, an old sweater, pulling the sweater on as he went downstairs. He let the dog out, barely noticed the rain had stopped and weak winter sunlight trickled down.

He needed to think, and clearly, so started for coffee. Cursed at the banging on his front door.

Then thought of Maggie, hurried to answer even as he thought her out, settled himself the mare was doing well.

He opened the door to Branna.

She walked through it, shoving him back with both hands.

“You had no right! Bloody bastard, you had no right pulling me into your dream.”

He grabbed her hands by the wrists before she could shove him again. And he thought again she all but glowed, but this was pure fury.

“I didn’t—or not by intent. For all I know you pulled me into yours.”

“I? What bollocks. You had me in your bed.”

“And willing enough while you were.” As he had her hands she couldn’t slap him, but she had power free enough, and shot him back two full steps with it. It burned a bit as well. “Stop it. You’d best cool yourself off, Branna. You’re in my home now. I don’t know if I pulled you, you pulled me, or if something else pulled us together. And I can’t shagging think as I haven’t had so much as a cup of fucking coffee.”

With that, he turned, strode off toward the kitchen.

“Well, neither have I.” She strode after him. “I want you to look at me.”

“And I want my fucking coffee.”

“Look at me, Finbar, damn it. Look at me and answer this. Did you pull me into your dream, into your bed?”

“No.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, I just don’t know, but if I did, I did it in my fecking sleep and not meaning to. Bugger it, Branna, I wouldn’t bespell you. Whatever you think of me you shouldn’t think that. I’d never use you that way.”

She took a breath, then a second. “I do know it. I apologize, for of course I know it when I calm myself. I’m sorry, I am. I was . . . upset.”

“Small wonder. I’m not doing so well myself.”

“I could do with coffee myself, if you don’t mind.”

“Right.”

He walked over to the coffeemaker—the type she’d been toying with indulging in, as it did all the fancy coffees and teas and chocolates besides.

“Will you sit?” He lifted his chin toward the little glassed-in bump where she imagined he took his coffee in the morning.

She slid onto one of the benches thickly padded in burnt orange, studied the turned wooden bowl—as glossy as glass—full of sharp red apples.

They were adults, she reminded herself, and couldn’t shy away from discussing what had happened in that big bed.

“I won’t, and can’t, blame you or any man for where his mind goes in sleep,” she began.

“I won’t, and can’t, blame you or any woman for where hers goes.” He set her coffee, served in an oversized white mug, on the table in front of her. “For it could’ve been you as easily as me.”

She hadn’t thought of it, and found herself baffled into silence for a moment. To give herself time to think, she tried the coffee, found it doctored exactly as she liked.

“That’s fair enough. Fair enough. Or, as I didn’t give myself the chance to think of it before this, it could’ve been other powers entirely.”

“Others?”

“Who can say?” More frustrated than angry now, she threw up her hands. “What we know is I came or was brought to your bed, and in this dreaming state we began what healthy people might begin.”

“Your skin’s as soft as rose petals.”

“Hardly a wonder,” she said lightly, “as I use what I make, and I make fine products.”

“For those moments, Branna, it was as it once was with us, and more besides.”

“For those moments, both bespelled. And what happened, Fin, when we joined? In that moment? The lightning, the storm, the light then the dark, and we were thrown into another place and time. Can it be clearer, the price paid for those moments?”