Blood Magick (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 3)

He thought of making some food, but put it off as he purely hated to cook. He’d slap something together later, he decided, as a trip to the pub for a meal didn’t appeal with the rain thrashing.

He could go downstairs, wile away some of the evening with sports on the big TV, or kill time with a game or two. He could stretch out with another beer in front of the fire with a book that wasn’t all magicks and spells.

“I can do whatever I bloody well please,” he told Bugs. “And it’s my own fault, isn’t it, that nothing pleases me. Maybe it’s just the rain and the dark. What would please me is a hot beach, some blasting sun, and a willing woman. And that’s not altogether true, is it?”

He crouched, sent Bugs into paralytic joy by giving him a belly rub. “Would we were all so easily happy as a little stable dog. Well, enough of this. I’m tired of myself. We’ll go up and work, for the sooner this is done, the sooner I’ll find if that hot beach is the answer after all.”

The dog followed him, slavishly devout, as he walked back, then up the wide stairs to the second floor. He thought of a hot shower, maybe a steam as well, but turned directly into his workroom. There he lit the fire as well, flames shimmering in a frame of deep green tourmaline while the dog explored.

He’d designed every inch of the room—with some help from Connor—the black granite work counters, the deep mahogany cabinetry, the wide plank cypress floors that ran throughout the house. Tall, arched windows, with the center one of stained glass that created the image of a woman in white robes bound by a jeweled belt. She held a wand in one hand, a ball of flame in the other while her black hair swirled in an unseen wind.

It was Branna, of course, with the moon full behind her and the deep forest surrounding her. The Dark Witch watched him with eyes, even in glass, full of power and light.

He had a heavy antique desk—topped by a state-of-the-art computer. Witches didn’t fear technology. A cabinet with thick and carved doors held weapons he’d collected the world over. Swords, a broadaxe, maces, foils, throwing stars. Others held cauldrons, bowls, candles, wands, books, bells, athames, and still others various potions and ingredients.

She would have liked the room, he thought, for when it came to work as well as living, he was nearly as ruthlessly tidy as she.

Bugs looked up at him, tail wagging hopefully. Reading him, Fin smiled.

“Go ahead then. Make yourself at home.”

The dog wagged more fiercely, then ran over and leaped onto a curved divan, circled about, and settled down with a sigh of utter contentment.

Fin worked into the night, dealing with practical matters such as charms—protection needed refreshing with regularity—on tonics and potions. Something specifically for Maggie. He cleansed some crystals—what he thought of as housework—as that needed doing as well.

He’d have forgotten supper altogether, but he felt the dog’s hunger. He went down, Bugs on his heels, put together a sandwich, some crisps, sliced up an apple. As he’d neglected to bring in any food for the dog, he simply shared the meal, amusing them both by tossing bits of sandwich for Bugs to snatch out of the air as handily as he did the bugs from which he’d earned his name.

Considering the practical again, he let the dog out, kept his mind linked with Bugs so he’d know if the little hound headed back to the stables after the practical was seen to.

But Bugs pranced right back to the kitchen door, sat, and waited until Fin opened it for him.

“All right then, it seems you’re spending the night. And that being the case, it’s God’s truth you could use a shower even more than I. You carry the stables with you, little friend. Let’s take care of that.”

In the bath, the shower nearly had Bugs scrambling off, but Fin was quick. And laughing, carted the dog in with him. “It’s just water. Though we’re going to add soap all around.”

Bugs trembled, lapped at the spray coming out of the many jets, wiggled against Fin’s bare chest when Fin rubbed in some of the liquid soap.

“There you see, not so bad now is it?” He stroked gently to soothe as well as clean. “Not so bad at all.”

He gestured toward the ceiling. Lights streamed, soft colors, music flowed in, soft and lilting. He set the dog down, gave himself the pleasure of the hot jets while the dog lapped at the wet tiles.

Fin was quick, but not quite quick enough to dry the dog before Bugs shook himself, shooting drops all over the bath. His own laugh echoed in the room as the little dog shot him a look of satisfaction.

With that mess sorted out, he moved into the bedroom, tossed down one of the big pillows that grouped on the sofa in his sitting area. But the dog, fully at home now, jumped onto the big, high bed, stretched out like a potentate at his ease.

“Well, at least you’re clean.”

He climbed in himself, decided on a book rather than TV to ease him toward sleep.

By the time Fin turned off the light, Bugs was quietly snoring. Fin found the sound of it a small comfort, and wondered how pathetic it was when a snoring dog eased the lonely.

In the dark, with the fire down to glowing embers, he thought of Branna.

She turned to him, her hair a black curtain, all silk spilling over her bare shoulders. The fire flickered now, gold flames that turned her eyes to silver with that gold dancing in them.

And she smiled.

“You yearn for me.”