Shadow Spell (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 2)

“Shut it.” She looked over her shoulder, spoke urgently. “Iona, the balm!”

“I’ll see to myself,” Fin began.

“I’ll put you under if you don’t be still, be quiet. You know I can and will. Connor, I need you.”

“How bad is it?”

He saw for himself when he pushed across the kitchen floor.

Raw and black puncture wounds ran down both sides of Fin’s torso, as if a monstrous jaw had closed over him.

“They’re not deep.” Branna’s voice stayed low and steady. “Thank the gods for that. And the poison . . .” She looked up sharply. “What did you do to stop the spread of it?”

“I’m his blood.” Breathing labored, Fin spoke slowly, almost too precisely. “What he makes from his weakens in mine.”

“There’s pain,” Connor said.

“There’s always pain.” But he hissed out a breath as Branna worked deeper. “Christ Jesus, woman, your healing’s worse than the wound.”

“I have to draw it out, weakened or not.”

“Look at me, Fin,” Connor ordered.

“I’ll take my own pain, thanks.”

Connor merely gripped Fin’s jaw in his hand, turned his head.

He’s taking the pain, Meara realized. Taking Fin’s pain so the healing goes quickly. And so, she knew, Branna couldn’t take it herself.

Boyle got out the whiskey, so she stood to fetch glasses. Then sitting on the floor again, passed them out when Branna sat back, nodded.

“That will do.”

“A bit more of a dust-up than we reckoned on.” Mirroring Fin, Connor leaned back against the cupboards. His own face shone now, from the sweat of the effort, of the pain. “But we singed his ass more than a bit, and we’re safe and whole.”

“He’ll think we’re cowed,” Branna said. “He’ll think we’re bickering among ourselves, licking our wounds, questioning if we should ever try such a thing again.”

“And when we go at him in two days’ time, we’ll burn him to ashes before he knows we’ve duped him. A fine show, one and all.” He lifted his glass. “A notion of brilliance, Meara my darling, and one that may have turned the tide good and hard. It’s hardly a wonder I love you.”

He drank, as did the others, but Meara held her glass and studied him.

“No taste for your whiskey?” he asked her.

“I’m waiting for my heart to shake. It may be I’m in a bit of shock. Why don’t you tell me again? We’ll see if it gets through.”

He set his glass aside, walked over on his knees to where she sat on the floor. “I love you, Meara, and ever will.”

She downed the whiskey, set the glass down, rose up on her knees to face him. “No, it’s not shaking. But really, what sort of weak and foolish heart shakes in fear of love. Will yours?” She laid her hand on his chest. “Let’s see if it does. I love you, Connor, and ever will.”

“It may have stopped for a second.” He closed his hand over hers, held it to him. “But there’s no fear, there’s no doubt. Do you feel that? It’s dancing, with joy.”

She laughed. “Connor O’Dwyer of the dancing heart. I’ll take you.” She threw her arms around him, met his mouth with hers.

“Would you like us to move along then?” Boyle replied. “Give the two of you your privacy there on the kitchen floor?”

“I’ll let you know,” Connor murmured, then went back to kissing his love.

He stood, plucked her up, swept her up, gave her a toss to make her laugh again. “On second thought, we’ll get out of your way.”