Iona
She sent dutiful emails to her mother, her father. A few cheerful ones to friends and coworkers. And reminded herself to take some pictures to send next time.
She set the notebook aside to charge, retrieved the books, the brochures. This time she got into the bed, wiggled her shoulders back against the pillows.
Blissfully happy, she scanned the brochures, studied the photos. The school sounded absolutely fascinating. And the stables perfect. One of her mother’s favorite warnings was: Don’t get your hopes up.
But Iona’s were, high, high up.
She slipped the stable brochure under her pillow. She’d sleep on it for luck. Then she opened Branna’s book again.
Within twenty minutes, with the lights on, the tea tray still on the bed beside her, she’d dropped back into sleep.
And this time dreamed of hawks and horses, of the black hound. Of the deep green woods where a stone cabin nestled with fog crawling at its feet.
After dismounting a horse as gray as the fog, she walked through the mists, the hood of her cloak drawn up to cover her hair. She carried roses, for love, to the stone polished smooth and carved deep by magick and grief. There she laid the roses, white as the innocence she’d lost.
“I am home, Mother. We are home.” Dabbing the tears on her cheeks with her fingers, she traced the name.
SORCHA
The Dark Witch
And the words bled against the stone.
I am waiting for you.
Not her mother’s voice, but his. With all that had been done, all that had been sacrificed, he survived.
She had known it. They had all known it. And hadn’t she come here, alone, for this as much as to visit her mother’s grave?
“You will wait longer yet. You will wait a day, a moon, a thousand years, but you will never have what you covet.”
You come alone, in the starlight. You look for love. I would give it to you.
“I am not alone.” She spun around. Her hood fell back and her bright hair caught the light. “I am never alone.”
The fog swirled, spun up, spun out, coalesced into the form of a man. Or what had been a man.
She’d faced him before, as a child. But she had more than rocks now.
A shadow he was, she thought. A shadow to haunt dreams and smother light.
Such a pretty thing. A woman now, ripe for plucking. Do you still throw stones?
Even as she stared into his eyes, she watched the red stone he wore around his neck gleam.
“My aim is as true as it was ever.”
He laughed, weaved closer. She caught his scent, the hint of sulphur. Only a devil’s bargain could have given him the power to exist.
Your mother is gone, no skirts to hide behind now. I defeated her, took her life, rent her power with my hands.
“You lie. Do you think we cannot see? Do you think we do not know?” His amulet pulsed red—his heart, she thought. His center, his power. She meant to take it, at any cost. “With a kiss she burned you. And I marked you. You bear it still.”
She held up her hands, fingers curled toward him so the mark on his shoulder burned like a flame.
On his scream she leapt forward, snatching at the stone he wore. But he lashed out, fingers going to claws, and scored their grooves in the back of her hand.