“We can make him a chain for it,” Iona suggested, “like ours.”
“Yes, we’ll do that. That’s a fine idea. This all tells me why I’ve always needed so much of your blood to make a poison. It’s never had enough of Cabhan in it.”
With a half laugh, Fin decided to eat the eggs that had gone cold on his plate. “Ever practical.”
“You’re one of us,” Iona realized. “I mean, you’re a cousin. A really, really distant one, but you’re a cousin.”
“Welcome to the family then.” Connor lifted his tea, toasted. “So it may be written, at some point, that the Cousins O’Dwyer, and their friends and lovers, sent Cabhan the black to hell.”
“I’ll raise a glass to that.”
As Fin did, Boyle gave Iona’s hand a squeeze. “I say we all raise them tonight, at the pub, and the new cousin stands the first round.”
“I’m fine with that, and the second’s on you.” Fin lifted his own glass, then drank the coffee that had gone cold as his eggs.
And still he felt a warmth in him.
19
FIN WORE THE BROOCH ON A CHAIN, FELT THE WEIGHT of it. But when he looked in the mirror, he saw the same man. He was what he ever was.
And while the brooch lay near his heart, the mark still rode on his shoulder. Knowing his blood held both dark and light didn’t change that, didn’t change him.
It wouldn’t change what would be in only a few weeks’ time.
He ran his businesses, worked the stables, the school, spent time in his own workshop trying to perfect spells that could be useful to his circle.
He walked or rode with Branna, along with the dogs, hoping to lure out Cabhan, hoping they would find the way to dig out that last piece.
But the demon’s name eluded them as February waned and March bloomed.
“Going back to the cave may be the only way left.” Fin said it casually as he and Connor watched a pair of young hawks circle above a
field.
“There’s time yet.”
“Time’s passing, and he waits as we wait.”
“And you’re weary of the waiting, that’s clear enough. But going back’s not the answer, and you can’t know you’ll learn the name if you did.”
Connor drew the white stone out of his pocket, the one Eamon of the first three had given him. “We all wait, Fin. Three and three and three, for I can’t find Eamon in dreams now. I can’t find him, and still I know he’s there. Waiting as we are.”
Fin could admire Connor’s equanimity—and curse it. “Without the name, what do we wait for?”
“For what comes, and that’s always been an easier matter for me than you. Tell me this, when it’s done, when we finish it, and I believe we will, what then for you?”
“There are places in the world I haven’t been.”
Temper flashed, and Connor was a man slow to temper. “Your place is here, with Branna, with us.”
“My home is here, and I can’t deny it. But Branna and I can’t have the life we wished for, so we take what we can while we can. We can’t have the life you’ll have with Meara, or Boyle with Iona. It’s not meant.”
“Ah, bollocks. She thinks too much for her own good, and you blame yourself for things beyond your doing. The past may be written, but the future isn’t, and two such clever people should be able to suss out how to make one together.”
“Having Daithi’s blood in me doesn’t change having Cabhan’s, or bearing his mark. If we win this, and destroy him, the demon, his lair, what’s to say I won’t be pulled as he was, a year from now, or ten? I know just how dark and sweet that pull can be, and Branna knows it’s in me. We could never have children who would carry that same burden.”
“If, can’t, doesn’t.” Connor dismissed all with a wave of his hand. “More bollocks. The pair of you stare into the hard side of things.”