And plunged the knife into his side.
He roared, more fury than pain, and, leaping up, dragged her with him, holding her a foot above the ground by a hand clamped around her throat.
“You’re nothing! Pale and weak and human. I’ll crush the life out of you, and your power with it.”
She kicked, tried to call for fire, wind, a flood, but her vision grayed, her lungs burned.
She heard another roar, and flew, hitting the ground hard enough to shock her bones and clear her vision.
She saw Boyle, his face a mask of vengeance, pummeling his fists into Cabhan’s face.
With each hit, flames leapt.
“Stop.” She couldn’t get the word out, no more than a croak, even as Boyle’s hands burned.
She managed to gain her knees, swayed as she fought to find her center.
The man dropped away. The wolf slipped out of Boyle’s hold and bunched for attack.
The hound streaked into the clearing, snarling, snapping. Hawks dove, talons slicing at the wolf’s back.
An arm circled her waist, lifted her to her feet. Hands linked with hers.
“Can you do it?” Branna shouted.
“Yes.” Even the single word cut her throat like shards of glass.
The fog thickened, or her vision grayed. But all she could see through it were vague shapes, the flash of fire.
“We are the three, dark witches we, and stand this ground in unity. Before the longest day departs, we forge all light against the dark. On this ground, in this hour, we join our hands, we join our power. Blood to blood, we call on all who came before, flame to flame, their fires restore. Match with us, your forces free. As we will, so mote it be.”
Light, blinding, heat churning, and the wind that whirled it all into a maelstrom.
“Again!” Branna called out.
Three times three. And as she cast the spell, her hands caught tight with her cousins’, Iona felt she was the fire. Made of heat and flame, and a cold, cold rage that burned in its core.
Even as she pushed to finish, the fog vanished. She saw blood, smoke, both Fin and Meara at the edge of—not in—the circle, swords in hand. And Boyle, kneeling on the ground, pale as death, his hands raw and blistered.
Alastar, blood seeping from his wounds, nudged his head against Boyle’s side, while the hound guarded him. Two hawks perched in branches beside the stone cabin.
“Boyle.” Iona stumbled forward, fell to her knees beside him. “Your hands. Your hands.”
“They’ll be all right. You’re bleeding. And your throat.”
“Your hands,” she said again. “Connor, help me.”
“I’ll see to it. Here now, this isn’t for you. You’re hurt, and I’ll do better without you.”
“Here, little sister, let me help you.” Fin crouched down as if to lift Iona into his arms.
“I’ll tend her.” Briskly, Branna took Iona’s arm. “Help Connor with Boyle as he’s taken the worst of it.”
“His hands were on fire.” When her head spun, Iona simply slid to the ground. “His hands.”
“Connor and Fin will fix him right up, you’ll see. Quiet now, cousin. Meara, I want his blood. Find something to put it in. The blood, the ash. Look at me now, darling. Look at me, Iona. It’ll hurt a little.”
“You, too.”