Chapter 6 #3
She jabbed out with the garden knife, managed to stab shallowly in his chest as she grabbed for the pendant with her other hand.
The ground trembled under her feet; the chain burned cold.
For an instant his eyes burned red as the stone, then the fog swirled, snapped out with teeth, and she held nothing but the little knife with blood on its tip.
She looked down at her hand, at the burn scored across her palm. Closing her hand into a fist she drew up, warmed the icy burn, soothed it, healed it.
Perhaps her hands trembled—there was no shame in it—but she picked up the flowers, the wineglass she’d dropped.
“A waste of wine,” she said softly as she walked toward the house.
But not, she thought, a waste of time.
She’d stirred the potatoes, taken the bread from the oven, and had poured a fresh glass of wine before the rest of her circle began wandering in.
“What can I do,” Iona asked as she washed her hands, “that won’t give anyone heartburn?”
“You could mince up that garlic there.”
“I’m good at mincing, also chopping.”
“Mincing will do.”
“Are you all right?” Iona said under her breath. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m right enough, I promise you. I have something to tell all of you, but I’d as soon wait until I have this all done.”
“Okay.”
She focused on cooking, on letting the voices flow around her while she worked. She didn’t have to ask for help—others set the table, poured wine, arranged food on platters or in bowls.
“Do you have a marketing list?” Meara asked as those bowls and platters made their way around the table. “And if not, if you could make one, I’ll be doing the marketing for you—unless you object.”
“You’re doing my marketing?”
“The lot of us will be taking turns on it, from now on. Well, as long as you’re stuck doing most of the cooking. It’s gone past cleaning up after being a fair trade-off. So we’ll see to the marketing.”
“I have a list started, and planned to go to the market tomorrow.”
“It’ll be my turn for that, if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure it’s fine with me.”
“If there’s anything you want taken into your shop, I can haul it in for you at the same time.”
She started to speak, then looked around the table, narrowed her eyes. “What’s all this then, doing the marketing, taking in my stock?”
“You look tired.” At Connor’s eye-roll and sigh, Boyle scowled. “Why dance around it?”
“Thank you so much for pointing it out to me,” Branna snapped back.
“You want the truth or want it fancied up?” Boyle’s scowl only deepened. “You look tired, and that’s that.”
Eyes narrowed still, she ran her hands down her face, did a glamour. Now she all but glowed. “There, all better.”
“It’s under it where you’re tired.”
She started to round on Fin, and Connor threw up his hands. “Oh leave off, Branna. You’re pale and heavy-eyed, and we’re the ones looking at you.” He jabbed a finger when she started to rise, sent a little shove across the table to put her back in her chair.
She didn’t need the glamour now to bring the flush to her cheeks. “Want to take me on, do you?”
“Just stop it, both of you,” Iona ordered.
“Just stop. You have every reason to look tired, with all you’re doing, and we have every right to take some of the load off.
It’s just marketing, for God’s sake, and cleaning up and chores.
We’re doing it so you can have some time to breathe, damn it. So stop being so snarly about it.”
Branna sat back. “Doesn’t seem so long ago it was an apology coming out of your mouth every two minutes or less. Now it’s orders.”
“I’ve evolved. And I love you. We all love you.”
“I don’t mind the marketing,” Branna said, but calmly now. “Or the chores—very much. But I’m grateful to pass some of it on for the time being as we’ll all be busy with more important matters, and Yule’s all but on us. We should have light and joy for Yule. We will have.”
“Then it’s settled,” Iona stated. “If anybody wants to say anything else about it, I’m cooking tomorrow.” She forked up some chicken, smiled. “I thought that would close the subject.”
“Firmly.” Branna reached over to squeeze her hand. “And there’s another subject entirely needs discussion. Cabhan was here.”
“Here?” Connor shoved to his feet. “In the house?”
“Of course not in the house. Be sane. Do you think he could get through the protection I’ve laid—and you as well?
I saw him outside. I went out in the back garden to check on the winter plantings, and to get some air as I’d been working inside all day.
He was bold enough to come to the edge of the garden, which is as far as he can step. We spoke.”
“After Connor and I went down to the pub.” Fin spoke coolly. “And you’re just telling us of it now?”
“I wanted to get supper on as there’s enough confusion in that with the kitchen full of people. And once we sat, the conversation began on my haggard self.”
“I never said haggard,” Boyle muttered.
“In any case, I’m telling you now, or would if Connor would stop checking out all the windows and come back to the table.”
“And you wonder I don’t like leaving you on your own.”
She shot arrows at her brother with the look. “Mind yourself or you’ll be trying to make such insulting remarks with a tongue tied in knots. I was wandering the garden, with a glass of wine. The light changed, the fog came.”
“You didn’t call for us.”
This time she pointed a warning finger at her brother.
“Leave off interrupting. I didn’t call, no, because I wanted to know what he had to say, and I wasn’t in trouble.
He couldn’t touch me, and we both knew it.
I wouldn’t risk my skin, Connor, but more, you—all of you—should know I’d never risk the circle, what we have to do.
Not for curiosity, not for pride. For nothing would I risk it. ”
“Let her finish.” Though Meara was tempted to give Connor’s leg a kick under the table, she gave it a comforting squeeze instead. “Because we do know it. Just as we knew he’d try for Branna before it was done.”
“A poor try, at least this time,” Branna continued. “The usual overtures. He’d make me his, give me more power than I could dream of and more bollocks of the same sort. He was still hurting a bit, hiding it, but the red stone was weaker. But he still has power up his sleeve. He changed to Fin.”
In the silence, Fin lifted his gaze from his wineglass, and the heat of it clashed with Branna’s. “To me?”
“As if his illusion of you would shatter all my defenses. But he had a bit more. He’s canny, and he’s been watching us for a lifetime. He changed again, back to when you were eighteen. Back to the day . . .”
“We were together. The first time. The only time.”
“Not that day, no, but the week after. When I learned of the mark. All you felt and said, what I felt and said, all there as it had been. He had enough to make me feel it, to draw me to the edge of my protection. He fed on that so the stone glowed deeper, as did his arrogance, as he didn’t understand I had more than enough to take out my garden knife and give him a good jab with it.
As I did I grabbed the chain of the stone, and I saw fear.
I saw his fear. Back he went to fog, so I couldn’t hold it, couldn’t work fast enough to break the chain.
“It’s ice. So cold it burns,” she murmured, studying her palm. “And holding it, for that instant, I felt the dark of him, the hunger, and most I felt the fear.”
Connor snatched her hand.
“I saw to it,” she assured him as he scanned for injuries. “You could see the links of the chain scored across my palm.”
“But you wouldn’t risk yourself.”
“I didn’t. Connor, he couldn’t touch me. And had he been quick enough to lay a hand on me when I grabbed the chain, the advantage would have been mine.”
“Certain of that, are you?” Fin rose, came around the table, held out his hand. “Give it to me. I’ll know if there’s any of him left.”
Without a word, Branna put her hand in his, stayed quiet as she felt the heat run under her skin, into her blood.
“And if he’d gotten the knife from you?” Boyle asked. “If he’d used it against you, sliced at your hand or arm when you held the chain?”
“Gotten the knife from me?” She picked up her table knife. And held a white rose. “He gave me an opportunity. I took it, and gave him none.” She looked at Fin. “He put nothing in me.”
“No.” He released her hand, walked back and sat. “Nothing.”
“He fears us. I learned this. What we’ve done, the harm we caused him, gives him fear. He gained some strength from my emotions, I won’t deny it, but he bled for it, and he ran.”
“He’ll come back.” Fin kept his eyes on hers as he spoke. “And fear will have him strike more violently at the source of the fear.”
“He’ll always come back until we end him. And while he may strike more violently, the more he fears, the less he is.”