“I’m not feeling sorry for myself, for fuck’s sake. Did you hear what I said to you?”
“I heard it, we all heard it.” Connor stretched out his legs, slouched down in the chair with his own whiskey. “We heard you fought a battle, inward and outward, and won it. So cheers to you. And I’ll tell you something I know as easy as I know my own name. You’d slit your own throat before you’d do harm to Branna, or to any one of us. So drink up, brother, and stop acting the gom.”
“Acting the gom,” Fin muttered, and because it was there, drank the whiskey.
And because they knew him, his friends let him brood.
He waited until they were all in the kitchen, until everyone had taken a seat but himself.
“I’m grateful,” he began.
“Shut the feck up and sit down to eat,” Boyle suggested.
“You shut the feck up. I’m grateful and have a right to say as much.”
“So noted and acknowledged.” Branna ladled stew in his bowl. “Now shut the feck up and eat.”
He sampled some of the hearty beef and barley stew, felt it slide down to the cold still holding in his belly, and spread warmth again.
“What’s in it besides the beef and barley and potatoes?”
Branna shrugged. “There’s none of us here couldn’t do with a little tonic after this day.”
“It’s good.” Connor spooned some up. “More than good, so here’s another, Fin, advising you to shut the feck up.”
“Fine and well.” Fin reached for the bread on the dish. “Then I won’t tell you the rest of it, since you’re not interested.”
“What rest?” Iona demanded.
It was Fin’s turn to shrug. “I’ve shut the feck up, as advised.”
“I didn’t tell you to or so advise you.” Meara smiled sweetly. “I’m interested enough so you can talk to me.”
“All right then, to your interest, Meara, there were carvings on the walls in the cave. Old ones. Ogham script.”
“Ogham?” Connor frowned. “Are you sure of it?”
As it made him feel himself again, Fin ate more stew. “I’m speaking with Meara here.”
“Oh, give it over.” But Boyle laughed as he helped himself to the bread. “Ogham then? What did it say?”
Fin spared him a long, dry look. “My talents are many but don’t stretch far enough to read Ogham. But it tells us the cave’s been used, and as the script was high on the walls, and with magickal symbols here and there as well, very likely for dark purposes long before Cabhan’s time.”
“Some places are inherent for the dark, or for the light,” Branna speculated.
“What I felt there was all of the dark, like . . . a rooting place for it. The shadows moved like living things. And on the altar, as I was close enough to see, there were bones in a dish along with the cup of blood. Three black candles, and a book with a hide cover. Carved on it is the mark.” He touched his shoulder. “This mark.”
“So it goes back, the mark, before Teagan threw the stone and scarred Cabhan. Before Sorcha cursed him.” Iona angled her head. “A symbol of the demon in him? Or of his own dark places? I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
“No need.” Fin picked up his spoon again. “Near the book was a bell, again silver, with a wolf standing on its hind legs as a handle.”
“Bell, book, and candle, bones and blood. The symbol of Cabhan’s mark, the symbol of the wolf.” Branna considered. “So he had these things, symbols of what he became. Old things?”
“Very old, all but the candles. And they . . . made from human tallow mixed with blood.”
“Can it get more disgusting?” Meara wondered.
Connor gave her a pat. “I expect it can.”