Page 160 of Cathmoir's Sons

I kiss her temple. “I’m sorry the process of awakening was scary for you. Law and Luca worried about it, you know. They wanted to reassure you, but they didn’t want you to think they were conspiring with your awakened self or something. Lu talked about it a lot.”

“The months of my awakening have been hardest on him, I think,” Caileán says softly, tracing a fingertip over my collarbones. “Thank you for giving him the care and attention I didn’t give him while I was waking.”

“That’s what it means to be a foursome, doesn’t it? We balance each other. We fill in the gaps. I know you mediate between me and Law a lot. I appreciate it, because he can still drive me crazy with five words or less.”

Caileán chuckles. “He loves you, really.”

I snort. “No, he doesn’t. He tolerates me the same way people tolerate incurable skin conditions.”

Caileán breaks into sweet peals of laughter.

When the mighty hunters return, Caileán and I have moved from bath to bed. We’re on round two. She’s utterly relaxed in my arms, following my lead, giving me what I need to enjoy our joining the most. She’s riding me slowly, rocking over me while I bury my hands in her hair, pull her head back, and run nipping kisses up and down her throat. She whimpers so beautifully when I bite at the same time as I hit a spot deep inside her, swamping her with sensation. And Blessed Mother, it feels so good to be inside her. My fucking toes are curling.

So, of course, that’s when Law and Luca stroll in.

Caileán lifts her head, pulling against my grip. She takes an audible sniff.

“You are so bad,” she growls.

“We couldn’t find any boars!” Law protests.

“Those aremysheep.”

“This one will beyourdinner.” Law blows her a kiss as he sheds his leathers and dashes into the bathroom. He makes, at best, a passing acquaintance with water before he races back into the bedroom, shaking out his hair, before he pounces on the bed. “Sex!”

Caileán collapses over me, laughing.

Chapter 45

A Tale of Two Families

CAILEÁN

Ileave my consorts sleeping, full of pilfered lamb, and wander Cait House until I find my sisters. Hraena is sitting in the library, combing and plaiting Aine’s hair while Aine reads aloud from one of her schoolbooks. It doesn’t surprise me that Hraena’s befriended the girl. Aine’s easy to love.

At my nod, Hraena quickly finishes the braid, kisses Aine on the top of her head, and follows me. I slip out of the side doors, following Didrane’s scent. The white crow’s perched in the low branches of a tree, looking up at the waxing moon.

Hraena slides her hand into mine as we walk to the base of Didrane’s tree. “The Mother’s rising,” she says.

I nod. I felt power whispering through my blood even as the boys yawned their way into warm dreams.

The crackle of bare feet on ice-brittle branches heralds Kathu’s arrival. Brangwy stomps up in her Doc Martens a minute later.

“What are we doing?” Brangwy demands, her breath puffing white in the evening air.

“Listening to the Mother,” I respond, squeezing Hraena’s hand. Hraena never had any patience with Brangwy, although Hraena seems less angry than she used to. She’s harnessed her rage and channeled it into something implacable.

Didrane drops out of the tree and into her skin, her snow-white cloak falling around her bare, clawed feet.

“The Mother rises,” Didrane says, echoing Hraena. “Before the before and long ago, there was a name. There was a chant. There was a call the Mother would not ignore. If we name the name, chant the chant, and call the call, the Mother will walk with us. But there will be no excuses. Nowhere to hide. The Mother’s will be done.”

Hraena lifts her chin. “Kin-blood stains my talons but I don’t regret anything I’ve done, and I don’t fear the Mother’s judgment.”

Didrane nods. “So mote it be. The Mother’s will be done.”

“The Mother’s will be done,” we echo.

Didrane holds out her hands. I take her left hand. Brangwy takes her right. Kathu closes the circle. Beneath the Mother’s silvery eye, we name the name. Into the night’s icy breath, we chant the chant. When Didrane moves, we dance, circling widdershins, as we call the call.

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