“Sidhe, heed your servant, your son, and with your breath bring his damnation.”
She watched Connor, a flame within the flames lift his arms high. As she struggled to her feet she saw the boiling sky above open. And whirl.
Came the lightning, spearing out of the dark to strike the quaking earth. Even the rain sparked with fire. She saw Iona fall, saw Boyle spring over to lift her. Flames shot from her hands at the wolf, at the man, at the twisting, snaking branches of fog.
She fought her way through, back toward the circle where the candles still glowed like beacons. Back toward Connor, who’d gripped Branna’s hand, then Iona’s, so the three of them lit, candles themselves.
It howled, the wolf.
It laughed, the man.
The candles, wax and witch, sputtered and began to dim.
“Pull it back!” Branna shouted. “We’ve lost it. We’ve lost the night. It’s drained from us. Flee, while we can.”
Connor gripped Meara around the waist—strong hands, face fierce, sheened with sweat, with blood. “I’ll steer clear of you after I save your life a second time.”
Spinning through the air, showers of stars, sparks of fire. Light so brilliant she had to squeeze her eyes tight, turn her head.
Falling, too fast, too fast, so the speed sucked the air from her lungs.
The next she knew she was sprawled over Connor on the kitchen floor with his heart galloping under her like a runaway horse.
A terrible roar swept over, around, rattling the windows. Great fists pounded at the doors, the walls, so the cottage shook. For a moment Meara braced for it to collapse on their heads.
Then there was silence.
The others lay, like survivors of some terrible smashup. Kathel leaped over her to Branna, licked at her face, whined.
“I’m all right, there now. We’re all right.”
“That should convince him we’d gone to war tonight, as it bloody well convinced me.” Connor stroked Meara’s hair as he shifted her. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. You’re bleeding.”
He swiped his fingers over a gash on his temple. “Didn’t dodge fast enough.”
“Here, let me see to it.” Branna scooted over. “Iona—”
“I know what you need.” As she ran toward the workshop, Meara tugged up her trouser leg, saw the livid bruise circling just above her ankle.
“Here, let me see to that.” Even as Branna tended him, Connor reached out, laid his hands on the bruising.
“The fog—it turned to snakes. And thorns. It grew thorns.”
“Not thorns, teeth.” Fin, his face shiny with sweat, sat on the kitchen floor with his back braced against a cupboard.
“You’re hurt. A bit of that for Connor’s head,” Branna snapped to Iona as she pushed up to go to Fin. “See that it’s clear and clean. Were you bitten?” she demanded of Fin.
“I’m just winded.”
She pressed her hand to his chest. “It’s more. Let me see.”
“I’ll tend to myself when I’ve my breath back.”
“Oh, bollocks.” With a flash of her hand, she stripped him to the waist.
“If you’re after getting my clothes off, we could do with some privacy.”