“We’ll hold him.” Boyle punched out, fire and fist.
“By God we will. Go.” Fin met Branna’s eyes. “Or it’s
for nothing.”
No choice, she thought, holding out a hand for Connor so he could grip it, swing onto Aine with her.
“She’s hurt. Meara’s hurt.”
“We have to pull them through, Connor. It’s the three who bring the three. Without them, we may not be able to heal her.”
Kathel, she thought, bleeding from the muzzle, from the flank, Alastar slashing hooves in the air, hawks screaming as they dived with flashing talons.
And for nothing if they couldn’t bring Sorcha’s three fully into the now.
She rode straight into the circle, slid off the horse with her brother. She took Iona’s hand, Connor’s, and felt the power rise, felt the light burn.
“Three by three by three,” she shouted. “This is magick’s prophecy. Join with us no matter the cost, come through now or all is lost. Stand with us on this night and by our blood we finish this fight.”
They came, Sorcha’s three. Brannaugh with bow, Eamon with sword, Teagan with wand and great with child. Without a word they joined hands, so three became six.
Light exploded, all white, all brilliance. The heat of power poured into her, staggering, breathless, beyond any she’d known.
“Draw him away from them!” Branna heard her voice echo over the shaking air. “We have what will take him down, but they’re too close.”
“For me.” Sorcha’s Brannaugh held out the hand joined with her brother’s. Arrows flew from her quill, flame white, to strike the ground between the wolf and the remaining three.
Crazed, the wolf turned, charged.
Branna broke the link; Connor closed it behind her.
“Hurry,” he told her.
“A bit closer yet, just a bit.” But she reached in the pouch, drew out the poison. The bottle throbbed in her hand, like a living thing. As the wolf leaped toward the circle, she sent the bottle flying.
Its screams rent the air, slammed her so she staggered back. All he’d called from the bowels of the dark flamed, and their screams joined the wolf’s.
“It’s not done.” Iona gripped Teagan’s hand. “Until we kill what lives in him, it can’t be done.”
“The name.” Branna staggered, but Eamon caught her before she fell. “The demon’s name. Do you know it?”
“No. We’ll burn what’s left of him, salt the ground.”
“It’s not enough. We must have its name. Fin!”
Even as she started forward, he waved her off, dropped to the ground with the bloody body of the wolf. “Start the ritual.”
“You’re bleeding—and Meara, Boyle. You’ll be stronger if we take time to heal you.”
“Start the ritual,” he said between his teeth as he closed his hands around the wolf’s throat. “That’s for you. This is for me.”
“Start it.” Meara sprawled to the ground with Boyle. “And finish it.”
So they rang the bell, opened the book, lit the candle.
And began the words.
Blood in the cauldron, of the light, of the dark. Shadows shifting like dancers.