Chapter 7 #2
Fin leaped, swung. Then met, sliced only fog, and even that died away with the dog bleeding in the grass, his eyes glazed with shock and pain.
“No, no, no, no.” He started to drop to his knees. The hawk called; the horse trumpeted. Both struck out at the wolf that had re-formed behind Fin.
With a howl, it vanished again.
Even as he knelt, Branna was there.
“Oh God.” He reached down, but she took his hands, nudged them away.
“Let me. Let me. My strength is healing, and hounds are mine.”
“His throat. It tore his throat. Harmless, he’s harmless, but it went for him rather than me.”
“I can help. I can help. Fin, look at me, look in me. Fin.”
“I don’t want your comfort!”
“Leave it to her.” Connor crouched down beside him, laid a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Let her try.”
Already grieving, for he felt the life slipping away, he knelt in helpless rage and guilt.
“Here now, here.” Branna crooned it as she laid her hands on the bloodied throat. “Fight with me now. Hear me, and fight to live.”
Bugs’s eyes rolled up. Fin felt the dog’s heart slow.
“He suffers.”
“Healing hurts. He has to fight.” She whipped her gaze to Fin, all power and fury. “Tell him to fight, for he’s yours. I can’t heal him if he lets go. Tell him!”
Though it grieved him to ask, Fin held his hands over Branna’s. Fight.
Such pain. Branna felt it. Her throat burned with it, and her own heart stuttered. She kept her eyes on the eyes of the little hound, poured her power in, and the warmth with it.
The deep first, she thought. Mend and mend what was torn. In the cold field, the wind blowing, sweat beaded on her forehead.
From somewhere, she heard Connor tell her to stop. It was too much, but she felt the pain, the spark of hope. And the great grief of the man she loved.
Look at me, she told the dog. Look in me. In me. See in me.
Bugs whimpered.
“He’s coming back, Branna.” Connor, still scanning the field, still guarding, laid a hand on Branna’s shoulder, gave her what he had.
The open wound narrowed, began to close.
Bugs turned his head, licked weakly at her hand.
“There now,” she said gently. “Yes, there you are. Just another moment. Just a bit more. Be brave, little man. Be brave for me another moment.”
When Bugs wagged his tail, Fin simply laid his brow against Branna’s.
“He’ll be all right. He could do with some water, and he’ll need to rest. He . . .”
She couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop herself. She wrapped her arms around Fin, held him.
“He’s all right now.”
“I owe you—”
“Of course you don’t, and I won’t have you say it, Fin.” She eased back, framed his face with her hands. For a moment they knelt, the dog gamely wagging his tail between them.
“You should take him home now.”
“Yes. Home.”
“What happened?” Connor asked. “Can you tell us? We told Iona not to come. Christ, she’s driving her grandmother from the airport in Galway.”
“Not now, Connor.” Branna pushed to her feet. “We’ll get the details of it later. Take him home, Fin. I have some tonic that would do well. I’ll get it for you. But rest is all he really needs.”
“Would you come with me?” He hated to ask, to need to ask, but still feared for the little dog. “Look after him for just a bit longer, just a bit to be sure?”
“All right. Of course. Connor, you could ride Baru back, and take the hawks, take Kathel. I’ll be home soon.”
“Well, I—”
But Branna put her hand in Fin’s. She, Fin, and the little dog winked away together.
“Well, as I was saying.” Connor ran his fingers through his hair, looked up to where Fin’s hawk and his own Roibeard circled. He gave Kathel’s head a pat, then swung onto Baru. “I’ll just see to the rest.”
· · ·
IN HIS KITCHEN, THE DOG SNUGGLED IN HIS ARMS, FIN TRIED to sort out what to do next.
“I should bathe this blood off him.”
“Not in there,” Branna said, all sensibilities shocked when he walked to the kitchen sink. “You can’t be washing up a dog in the same place you wash up your dishes. You must have a laundry, a utility sink.”
Though he didn’t see the difference, Fin changed directions, moved through a door and into the laundry with its bright white walls and burly black machines. Opening a cupboard, he reached for laundry soap.
“Not with that, for pity’s sake, Fin. You don’t bathe a dog with laundry soap. You’re wanting dish soap—the liquid you’d use for hand washing.”
He might have pointed out the bloody dish soap was under the bloody kitchen sink where he’d intended to wash the dog in the first place. But she was bustling about, pulling off her coat, notching it on a peg, pushing up her sleeves.
“Give me the dog; get the soap.”
Fine then, he thought, just fine. His brain was scattered to bits in any case. He fetched the soap, stepped back in.
“You’re doing fine,” she murmured to Bugs, who stared up at her with adoration. “Just tired and a little shaky here and there. You’ll have a nice warm bath,” she continued as she ran water in the sink. “Some tonic, and a good long nap and you’ll be right as rain.”
“What’s right about rain, I’ve always wondered.” He dumped soap in the running water.
“That’s enough—enough, Fin. You’ll have the poor thing smothered in bubbles.”
He set the bottle on the counter. “I’ve something upstairs—a potion—that should do for him.”
“I’ll get him started here if you’ll get it.”
“I’m grateful, Branna.”
“I know. Here now, in you go. Isn’t that nice?”
“He’s fond of the shower.”
With the dog sitting in the sea of bubbles looking, to Fin’s eye, ridiculous, Branna turned.
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll get the tonic.”
“The shower, is it?” she murmured when Fin left, rubbing her hands over the dog. Bugs lapped at the bubbles, at her hand, and brought on a very clear image of Fin, wearing nothing but water, laughing as he held the dog in a glass-walled shower where the jets streamed everywhere and steam puffed.
“Hmmm. He’s kept in tune, hasn’t he? Still some of the boy in there though, showering with a dog.”
It amused her, touched her, which wasn’t a problem. It stirred her, which was.
Fin brought back a pretty bottle with a hexagon base filled with deep green liquid. At Branna’s crooked finger, he unstopped it, held it out for her to sniff.
“Ah, yes, that’s just what he needs. If you have a little biscuit, you’d add three—no, let’s have four—drops to it. It’ll go down easier that way, and he’ll think it a treat.”
Without thinking, Fin reached in his pocket, took out a thumb-sized dog biscuit.
“You carry those in your pocket—what, in case you or the dog here get hungry?”
“I didn’t know how long we’d be out,” he muttered, and added the drops.
“Set it down to soak in. We could use an old towel.”
He set off again, came back with a fluffy towel the color of moss.
“Egyptian cotton,” Branna observed, and smoothly lifted the dog out, bundled him up before he could shake.
“I don’t have an old towel. And it’ll wash, won’t it?”
“So it will.” She rubbed the dog briskly, kissed his nose. “That’s better now, isn’t it? All clean and smelling like a citrus grove. An Egyptian one. Give him his treat, Fin, for he’s a good boy, a good, brave boy.”
Bugs turned those adoring, trusting eyes on Fin, then gobbled down the offered treat.
“He could do with some water before . . .” She glanced down, and stared. Truly horrified. “Belleek? You’re using Belleek bowls for the dog’s food and water.”
“They were handy.” Flustered, he took the dog, tossed the towel on the counter, then set Bugs down by the water bowl.
The dog drank thirstily, and noisily, for nearly a full minute. Let out a small belch then sat, stared up at Fin.
“He only needs a warm place to sleep for a while,” Branna told him.
Fin picked the dog up, snagged a pillow from the sofa in the great room, tossed it down in front of the fire.
Egyptian cotton, Belleek bowls, and now a damask pillow, Branna thought. The stable dog had become a little prince.
“He’s tired.” Fin stayed crouched down, stroking Bugs. “But he doesn’t hurt. His blood’s clear. There’s no poison in him.”
“He’ll sleep now, and wake stronger than he was. I had to give him a boost to bring him back. He’d lost so much blood.”
“He’ll have a scar here.” Gently, Fin traced a finger over the thin, jagged line on the dog’s throat.
“As Alastar carries one.”
Nodding, Fin rose as the dog slept. “I’m in your debt.”
“You’re not, and insult us both by saying it.”
“Not insult, Branna, gratitude. I’ll get you some wine.”
“Fin, it can’t be two in the afternoon.”
“Right.” He had to scrub his hands over his face, try to find his balance again. “Tea then.”
“I wouldn’t say no.” And it would keep him busy, she thought as he walked back into the kitchen, until he settled a little more.
“He’s for the stables. It’s been two years, thereabouts, since he wandered in. I wasn’t even here. It was Sean cleaned him up, fed him. And Boyle who named him.”
“Could be he wandered here for a reason, more reason than a bed of straw and scraps and some kind words. He’s in your home now, sleeping on a damask pillow in front of the fire. You took him on Samhain.”
“He was handy, like the bowls.”
“More than that, Fin.”
He shrugged, measured out tea. “He has a strong heart, and I never thought Cabhan would pay him any mind. He’s . . .”
“Harmless. Small and harmless and sweet-natured.”
“I brought him in one night. He has a way of looking at you, so I brought him in.”
Yes, still some of the boy, she thought, and all the kindness born in him. “A dog’s good company. The best, to my mind.”
“He chases his tail for no good reason but it’s there. I haven’t any biscuits,” he realized after a quick search. “Of the human sort.”
“Tea’s fine. Just the tea.”
Understanding he’d want to be close to the dog, she took a chair in view of the fire, waited until he’d brought the tea, sat with her.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I wanted a ride, a good, fast ride. The hills, the open.”
“As I wanted to walk in my garden. I understand the need.”