Нора Робертс - Blood Magick

Brannaugh held up a hand, pressed the other to her side. “My son comes. And he pulls me back. But listen, there is a place, a holy place. An abbey. It sits in a field, a day’s travel south.”

“Ballintubber. Iona weds her Boyle there come spring. It is a holy place, a strong place.”

“He cannot go there, see there. It is sacred, and those who made us watch over it. They gave us, Sorcha’s three, their light, their hope and strength. When next you face down Cabhan, we will be with you. We will find a way. We will prevail. If it is not to be you, there will come another three. Believe, Branna of the O’Dwyers. Find the way.”

“I can do nothing else.”

“Love.” She gripped Branna’s hand hard. “Love, I have learned, is another guide. Trust your guides. Oh, he’s impatient. My child comes today. Be joyful, for he is another bright candle against the dark. Believe,” she said again, and vanished.

Branna rose, and with a thought lit a candle for the new light, the new life.

And with a sigh, accepted her alone was at an end.

So she started breakfast. She had a story to tell, and no one would want to hear it on an empty stomach. Believe, she thought—Well, she believed it was part of her lot in life to cook for an army on nearly a daily basis.

She swore an oath that when they’d sent Cabhan to hell she’d take a holiday, somewhere warm, sunny—where she wouldn’t touch a pot, pan, or skillet for days on end.

She began to mix the batter for pancakes—a recipe new to her she’d wanted to try—and Meara came in.

Her friend was dressed for the day, a working day at the stables, in thick trousers, a warm sweater, sturdy boots. She’d braided back her bark brown hair, sent Branna a cautious look with her dark gypsy eyes.

“I promised I’d see to breakfast this morning.”

“I woke early, after a restless night. And have already had company this morning.”

“Someone’s here?”

“Was here. Drag the others down, would you, so I’ll tell my tale all at once.” She hesitated only a moment. “Best if Connor or Boyle rings up Fin, and asks if he’d come over as well.”

“It’s Cabhan. Is he back?”

“He’s coming, right enough, but no.”

“I’ll get the others. Everyone’s up, so it won’t take long.”

With a nod, Branna set bacon sizzling in a pan.

Connor came first, and her brother sniffed the air like Kathel might do.

“Be useful,” she told him. “Set the table.”

“Straightaway. Meara said something happened, but it wasn’t Cabhan.”

“Do you think I’d be trying my hand with these pancake things if I’d gone a round with Cabhan?”

“I don’t.” He fetched plates from the cupboard. “He stays in the shadows. He’s stronger than he was, but not full healed. I barely feel him yet, but Fin said he’s not full healed.”

And Finbar Burke would know, Branna thought, as he was Cabhan’s blood, as he bore the mark of Sorcha’s curse.

“He’s on his way,” Connor added.

When she only nodded, he went to the door, opened it for Kathel. “And look at you, wet as a seal.”

“Dry him off,” Branna began, then sighed when Connor simply saw to the task by gliding his hands over the wet fur. “We’ve towels in the laundry for that.”

Connor only grinned, a quick flash from a handsome face, a quick twinkle in moss green eyes. “Now he’s dry all the faster, and you don’t have a wet towel to wash.”

Iona and Boyle came in, hand in hand. A pair of lovebirds, Branna thought. If anyone had suggested to her a year before that the taciturn, often brusque, former brawler could resemble a lovebird, she’d have laughed till her ribs cracked. But there he was, big, broad-shouldered, his hair tousled, his tawny eyes just a little dreamy beside her bright sprite of an American cousin.

“Meara will be right down,” Iona announced. “She had a call from her sister.”

“All’s well?” Connor asked. “Her ma?”

“No problems—just some Christmas details.” Without being asked she got out flatware to finish what Connor started, and Boyle put the kettle on for tea.

So Branna’s kitchen filled with voices, with movement—and she could admit now that she’d had coffee—with the warmth of family. And then excitement as Meara dashed in, grabbed Connor and pulled him into a dance.

“I’m to pack up the rest of my mother’s things.” She did a quick stomp, click, stomp, then grabbed Connor again for a hard kiss. “She’s staying with my sister Maureen for the duration. Praise be, and thanks to the little Baby Jesus in his manger!”

Even as Connor laughed, she stopped, pressed her hands to her face. “Oh God, I’m a terrible daughter, a horrible person altogether. Dancing about because my own mother’s gone to live with my sister in Galway and I’ll not have to deal with her on a daily basis myself.”

“You’re neither,” Connor corrected. “Are you happy your mother’s happy?”

“Of course, I am, but—”

“And why shouldn’t you be? She’s found a place where she’s content, where she has grandchildren to spoil. And why shouldn’t you kick up your heels a bit, as she won’t be ringing you up twice a day when she can’t work out how to switch out a lightbulb?”

“Or burns another joint of lamb,” Boyle added.

“That’s the bloody truth, isn’t it?” So Meara did another quick dance. “I’m happy for her, I am. And I’m wild with joy for my own self.”

When Fin came in Meara launched herself at him—and gave Branna a moment to adjust herself, as she had to do whenever he walked in her door.

“You’ve lost a tenant, Finbar. My ma’s settled once and done with my sister.” She kissed him hard as well, made him laugh. “That’s thanks to you—and don’t say you don’t need it—for the years of low rent, and for holding the little cottage in case she wanted to come back to Cong.”

“She was a fine tenant. Kept the place tidy as a church.”

“The place looks fine now, it does, with the updates we’ve done.” As Iona took over the table setting, Connor grabbed his first coffee. “I expect Fin will have someone in there, quick as you please.”

“I’ll be looking into it.” But it was Branna he looked at, and into. Then saying nothing, took Connor’s coffee for himself.

She kept her hands busy, and wished to bloody hell she’d done that little glamour. No restless night showed on his face, on that beautiful carving of it, in the bold green eyes.

He looked perfect—man and witch—with his raven black hair damp from the rain, his body tall and lean as he shed his black leather jacket, hung it on a peg.

She’d loved him all her life, understood, accepted, she always would. But the first and only time they’d given themselves to each other—so young, still so innocent—the mark had come on him.

Cabhan’s mark.

A Dark Witch of Mayo could never be with Cabhan’s blood.

She could, would, and had worked with him, for he’d proven time and again he wanted Cabhan’s end as much as she. But there could never be more.

Did knowing it pained him as it did her help her through it? Maybe a bit, she admitted. Just a bit.

She took the platter heaped with pancakes she’d already flipped from the skillet out of the warmer, added the last of them.

“We’ll sit then, and eat. It’s your Nan’s recipe, Iona. We’ll see if I did her proud.”

Even as she lifted the platter, Fin took it from her. And as he took it, his eyes met and held hers. “You’ve a story to go with them, I’m told.”

“I do, yes.” She took a plate full of bacon and sausage, carried it to the table. And sat. “Not an hour ago I sat here and had a conversation with Sorcha’s Brannaugh.”