Shadow Spell (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 2)
And a kind of smear over it—a shadow clinging to shadows. Buried in them so he couldn’t separate the shapes or substance.
The river. Beyond the river, aye. Though crossing it causes pain. Water, crossing water unsettles you. I can feel you, just feel you like cold mud oozing. One day I’ll find your lair. One day.
The jolt burned, just a little. Hardly more than a quick zap of static electricity. Connor drew himself in again, pulled the magick back. And smiled.
“You’re weak yet. Oh, we hurt you, the boy and me. We’ll do worse, you bastard, I swear on my blood, we’ll do worse before we’re done.”
Not quite as edgy now, not quite as dissatisfied, he whistled his way home.
* * *
THE RAIN CAME AND LINGERED FOR A LONG, SOAKING VISIT. Guests of Ashford Castle—the bulk of their clientele—still wanted their hawk walks.
Connor didn’t mind the rain, and marveled, as he always did, at the gear travelers piled on. It amused him to see them tromp along in colorful wellies, various slick raincoats, bundling scarves and hats and gloves, all for a bit of cool September rain.
But amused or not, he watched the mists that swirled or crawled—and found nothing in them but moisture. For now.
On a damp evening when work was done, he sat on the cottage stoop with some good strong tea and watched Meara train Iona. Their swords clashed, sharp rings though Branna had charmed them to go limp as noodles should they meet flesh.
His cousin was coming along well, he judged, though he doubted she’d ever match the style and ferocity of Meara Quinn.
The woman might have been born with a sword in her hand the way she handled one. The way she looked with one—tall and curved like a goddess, all that thick brown hair braided down her back.
Her boots, as broken-in as his own, planted on the soggy ground, then danced over it as she drove Iona back, giving her student no quarter. And those dark eyes—a prize like the gold-dust skin of her gypsy heritage—sparkled fierce as she blocked an attack.
Sure he could watch her swing a sword all day. Though he did wince in sympathy as she drove his little cousin back, back, in an unrelenting attack.
Branna came out holding a thick mug of tea of her own, sat beside him.
“She’s improving.”
“Hmm? Oh, Iona, yes. I was thinking the same.”
Placidly, Branna sipped her tea. “Were you now?”
“I was. Stronger than she was when she came to us, and she wasn’t a weakling then. Stronger though, and surer of herself. Surer, too, of her gift. Some of it’s us, some of it’s Boyle and what love does for body and soul, but most of it was always inside her, just waiting to blossom.”
He patted Branna’s knee. “We’re lucky, we two.”
“I’ve thought so a time or two.”
“Lucky in who we came from. We always knew we were loved and valued. And what we have, what we are, was indeed a gift and not something to be buried or hidden away. The two of them striking swords in the rain? Not so lucky as we. Iona had and has her granny, and that’s a treasure. But beyond that, for them their family’s . . . well, fucked, as Meara’s fond of saying.”
“We’re their family.”
“I know it, as they do. But it’s a wound that can’t fully heal, isn’t it, not to have the full love of those who made you. The indifference of Iona’s parents, the full mess of Meara’s.”
“Which is worse, do you think? That indifference, which is beyond my understanding, or the full mess? The way Meara’s da ran off, taking what money was left after he bollocksed all they had? Leaving a wife and five children alone, or just never giving a damn all along?”
“I think either would leave you flattened. And just look at them. So strong and full of courage.”
Iona stumbled back, slipped. Her ass hit the soggy grass. Meara leaned down, offered a hand, but Iona shook her head, set her teeth. And rolled over, sprang up. Moved in, sword swinging.
Now Connor grinned, slapped his sister’s leg.
“Though she be but little, she is fierce!”
“Because it’s true, I’ll forgive you for quoting the English bard when I’ve a pot of Guinness stew on the simmer.”