Blood Magick (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 3)

He would not take her in, Fin thought. Would not take her there, for within was death. And worse.

Even as he thought it, the old man stepped out. He wore rough robes, worn hide boots. Both his hair and beard were a long tangle of gray. Both madness and magick lived in his eyes.

“You are too soon. You are too late.” As he spoke he held up a hand. Blood dripped from it, blood spread over his rough robes.

“It’s done. Done, as I am done. You are too soon to see it, too late to stop it.”

“What is done?” Fin demanded. “Who are you?”

“I am the sacrifice. I am the sire of the dark. I am betrayed.”

“I can help you.” But as Branna started forward, power roared out of the cave. It swept her back, Fin with her, sent the old man falling to the ground where his blood pooled black on the earth.

“Dark Witch to be,” he said. “Cabhan’s whelp to come. There is no help here. He has eaten the dark. We are all damned.”

Fin pushed to his feet, tried to shove Branna back. “He’s in there. He’s in there. I can feel him.”

But as he made to leap toward the cave, she grabbed at him. “Not alone. It isn’t for you alone.”

He whirled toward her, all but mad himself. “He is mine; I am his. Your blood made it so. It’s your curse I carry, and I will take my vengeance.”

“Not for vengeance.” She wrapped herself around him. “For that would damn you. Not for vengeance. And not alone.”

But he woke alone, covered with sweat, the mark on his arm burning like a fresh brand.

And could still smell her on the sheets, on his skin. In the air.

The dog quivered against him, whining.

“It’s all right now.” Absently, he stroked. “It’s done for now.”

He showered off the sweat, grabbed pants, an old sweater, pulling the sweater on as he went downstairs. He let the dog out, barely noticed the rain had stopped and weak winter sunlight trickled down.

He needed to think, and clearly, so started for coffee. Cursed at the banging on his front door.

Then thought of Maggie, hurried to answer even as he thought her out, settled himself the mare was doing well.

He opened the door to Branna.

She walked through it, shoving him back with both hands.

“You had no right! Bloody bastard, you had no right pulling me into your dream.”

He grabbed her hands by the wrists before she could shove him again. And he thought again she all but glowed, but this was pure fury.

“I didn’t—or not by intent. For all I know you pulled me into yours.”

“I? What bollocks. You had me in your bed.”

“And willing enough while you were.” As he had her hands she couldn’t slap him, but she had power free enough, and shot him back two full steps with it. It burned a bit as well. “Stop it. You’d best cool yourself off, Branna. You’re in my home now. I don’t know if I pulled you, you pulled me, or if something else pulled us together. And I can’t shagging think as I haven’t had so much as a cup of fucking coffee.”

With that, he turned, strode off toward the kitchen.

“Well, neither have I.” She strode after him. “I want you to look at me.”

“And I want my fucking coffee.”

“Look at me, Finbar, damn it. Look at me and answer this. Did you pull me into your dream, into your bed?”