So he checked the connections on the fuel pump, rechecked the connection on the battery, and didn’t notice the fog swimming in along the ground.
“Well it’s a bloody mystery.”
He started to spread his hands over the engine, do a kind of scan—a compromise before giving up completely.
And felt the dirty smudge on the air.
He turned slowly, saw that he waded ankle deep in the fog that went icy with his movement. Shadows drew in, dark curtains that blocked the trees, the road, the world. Even the sky vanished behind them.
He came as a man, the red stone around his neck glowing against the thick and sudden dark.
“Alone, young Connor.”
“As you are.”
Spreading his hands, Cabhan only smiled. “I’ve a curiosity. You have no need for a machine such as that to travel from one place to another. You have only to . . .”
Cabhan swung his arms out, lifted them. And moved two feet closer without visibly moving at all.
“Such as we respect our gift, our craft, too much to use it for petty reasons. I’ve legs for walking or, if needs be, a lorry or a horse.”
“Yet here you are, alone on the road.”
“I’ve friends and family close by.” Though when he tested, he found he couldn’t quite reach them—couldn’t push through the thick wall of fog. “What have you, Cabhan?”
“Power.” He spoke the word with a kind of greedy reverence. “Power beyond your ken.”
“And a hovel beyond the river to hide in, alone, in the dark. I’ll take a warm fire, the light of it, and a pint with those friends and family.”
“You’re the least of them.” Pity dripped like sullen rain. “You know it, as they do. Good for a laugh and the labor. But the least of the three. Your father knew enough to pass his amulet to your sister—to a girl over his only son.”
“Do you think that makes me less?”
“I know it. What do you wear? Given you by an aunt, as consolation. Even your cousin from away has more than you. You have less, are less, a kind of jester, even a servant to the others you call family, you call friends. Your great friend Finbar chooses one with no power over you as partner, while you labor for wages at his whim. You’re nothing, and have less.”
He eased closer as he spoke, and the red stone throbbed like a pulse.
“I’m more than you know,” Connor replied.
“What are you, boy?”
“I’m Connor, of the O’Dwyers. I’m of the three. I’m a dark witch of Mayo.” Connor looked deep into the black eyes, saw the intent.
“I have fire.” He threw his right hand out, held a swirling ball of fire. “And I have air.” Stabbed a finger up, twirled it, and created a small, whirling cyclone. “Earth,” he said as the ground trembled. “Water.”
Rain spilled down, hot enough to sizzle on the ground.
“And hawk.”
Roibeard dived with a piercing call, and landed soft as
a feather on Connor’s shoulder.
“Parlor tricks and pets.” Cabhan raised his arms high, fingers spread wide. The red gem went bright as blood.
Lightning slapped the ground inches from Connor’s boots, and with it came the acrid stink of sulfur.
“I could kill you with a thought.” Cabhan’s voice boomed over the roar of thunder.