Blood Magick (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 3)
“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.”