Meara switched to water to wet her throat, brought a glass over to Branna. She felt suddenly tired, and a little drunk. It was air she needed more than water, she thought. Air cool and damp and dark.
“After Samhain,” Connor said, “we’ll have a real céilie, invite the neighbors and those all around as Ma and Da did. Near Christmas, do you think, Branna?”
“With a tree in the window, and lights everywhere. With enough food to set the tables groaning. I’ve a fondness for Yule, so that would suit me.”
It was rare for Connor to slide into her mind, but he did now.
He’s close, circling close, pressing hard. Do you feel him?
Branna nodded, but kept smiling. The music draws him like a wasp to the light. But we’re not ready, not altogether ready to take him on.
Here’s a chance to try, and we shouldn’t miss taking it.
Then tell the others, this way. We’ll try the chance, and hope surprise is enough.
Connor saw, as Branna did, that Fin already felt that pressure, those dark fingers scrabbling against the bright. He saw Iona jolt, just a little, as he slid his thoughts into her head.
Her hand squeezed Boyle’s.
He glanced toward Meara.
The instant he realized she wasn’t there he felt her, saw her reach out to open the front door of the cottage.
The fear gripped his throat like claws, all but drawing blood. He shouted for her, in his mind, with his voice, and rushed out of the room.
Nearly half asleep, floating on the shadows soft and dim, she stepped outside. Here’s what she needed, here’s what she had to have. The dark, the thick and quiet dark.
Even as she started to draw in a deep breath, Connor caught her around the waist, all but threw her back into the cottage.
Everything shook—the floor, the ground, the air. To her stunned eyes, the dark mists outside the door bowed inward as if something large and terrible pushed its weight against them. Boyle slammed the door on it, and the dull roar—like an angry surf—that rolled with it.
“What happened? What is it?” Meara shoved against Connor, who’d thrown his body over hers.
“Cabhan. Stay back,” Branna snapped, and flung the door open again.
A storm raged outside, the shadows twisting, knotting. Under them came a kind of high shriek and a rumble that was thousands of wings beating.
“Bats, is it?” Branna said in disgust. “Try as you might,” she shouted, fists clenched at her sides. “Try your worst, then try again. But this is my home, and never will you cross the threshold.”
“Jesus,” Meara whispered as the mists thinned enough for her to see the bats. Like a living, undulating wall, red eyes gleaming, spiked wings beating.
“Stay here.” Connor shouted against the din, then leaped up to join his sister. And with him, Iona and Fin moved to form a line.
“In our light you’ll twist and turn,” Connor began.
“In our flame you’ll scorch and burn,” Iona continued.
“Here merge the power of one and three,” Fin added.
“As we will, so mote it be,” Branna finished.
Meara, dragged back by Boyle, watched as the bats lit like torches. Hated herself for cringing as they screamed, as they burst, as smoking bodies twisted.
Ash fell like black rain, whipped in the terrible wind.
Then all went quiet.
“You’re not welcome here,” Branna murmured, then firmly shut the door.