“You’re right, on all of it.” She eased away to pile a plate full for him. “I feel him lurking, don’t you? I feel him around the edges of my dreams trying to get in. He nearly does, and part of me realizes I’m allowing it. Then there’s Branna’s music, and the next I know it’s morning.”
Iona got down another plate, arranged about half as much on it as she had for Connor. “I’m going to leave this warming in the oven for Branna.”
When she turned around, Connor just wrapped his arms around her. He had, Iona thought, the most comforting way.
“There now, stop the fretting. He’s never faced the like of us three, or the three with us.”
“You’re right again. So let’s eat, then I’m going to drive to work, taking the long way for practice.”
“You’d be there in half the time if I walked you.”
“True, but I wouldn’t practice.” Or be able to stop off at the hotel, ask if they’d post her letter the next day.
She kept her eyes peeled for any trace of fog, of the black wolf, of anything that alarmed her instincts or senses. She made it to Ashford Castle without incident or accident. Really, she thought she handled the Mini, the roads, the left-hand drive very well, whatever Meara said to the contrary.
Just as she believed she handled the throbbing nerves of the waiting, of the silence, very well.
Maybe her pulse jittered every time she looked out a window of the cottage to scan forest, road, hills. Maybe she recognized the ache of stress in her back and shoulders every time she prepared to lead a group through the green shadows and thick woods.
But she continued to look from the window, continued to guide groups. And that, Iona told herself as she pulled up to the stables, counted most.
As she was the first to arrive, she opened the doors, shifted to flip on the lights.
And there in the center of the ring stood the wolf.
The doors slammed behind her; the lights flashed off. For one shocked moment, all she could see were three red glows. The wolf’s eyes, and its power stone.
They blurred when it charged.
She threw up a hand—a block, a shield. The wolf struck it with such force she felt the ground tremble. Just as she felt the cracks zig across her block like shattering glass.
She w
atched the shadow of its shape bunch to charge again.
She heard the cries of the horses, full of fear. And that decided her course.
As the wolf charged, she vanished the shield, jumped to the left. The momentum carried it through so it struck the doors with the force of a cannonball. When they burst open, it was Iona’s turn to charge.
She rushed out, threw the shield behind her this time. It wouldn’t get through, wouldn’t harm the horses. Bracing her feet, she prepared to protect even as the wolf circled back. Even as it rose up on two legs and became a man.
“You’re a quick one, and clever enough.” As in the dreams, his voice was like cold hands gliding over the skin. And still, somehow seductive. “But young, in years and in power.”
“Old enough in both.”
He smiled at her. Something in her spirit repelled even as something in her body stirred.
“I could kill you with a look.”
“Not so far.”
“Your death isn’t my wish, Iona the Bright. Only give me what has come so late to you, what is still so young, so fresh in you.” Dark, dark eyes holding hers, he edged closer as he spoke in that silky voice. “I want only the power you don’t yet understand, and I’ll spare you. I’ll spare all of you.”
Her heart pounded, too hard, too fast. But her power stirred, in the belly, and would rise. She would make it rise.
“Is that all? Really? Ah . . . no.” She heard the cry of the hawk overhead, and now she smiled. “Company’s coming.”
“You’ll be the death of them. Their blood will stain your hands. Look. See. Know.”