Page 75 of Shadow Spell

“Sure it’s true enough.” Under the table, Connor danced his fingers up Meara’s thigh and down again. “And when things progress as things do, he comes again. With a shadow spell.”

“Could he do harm in that form that’s not a form?” Meara wondered.

“I think yes. A delicate balance from what I know,” Branna added. “And the conjurer of the spell would have to be able to shift—away, or into full form quickly—without losing that delicate balance.”

“If he can do that, why didn’t he come at me today? I had a knife, and I’m not helpless, but it would’ve been his advantage I’d think.”

“He wants to unnerve you more than cause you harm,” Fin told her. “Hurting you gives him some satisfaction, of course, as causing harm feeds him. But you’d be worth more to him in another area.”

“He wants you,” Connor said flatly, and with the bubble of that pure rage she’d seen rippling, “because I do. He thinks to seduce you—spellbind you or shake you enough so you don’t fight, but run or plead—”

Her eyes fired, black suns. “Neither of those will ever happen.”

“We won’t underestimate him,” Connor snapped back. “It’s what he seeks so he can take you. And taking you the way he seeks would harm us all. He understands we’re bound, but sees it as a binding for power—only that. Taking you breaks our circle. Be grateful he doesn’t understand it’s not just a binding for power, but one of love and loyalty. If he understood that, the power of that, he’d hunt you without ceasing.”

“You’ve caught his eye,” Fin added, “as he understands sex very well—though with none of its true pleasures or depth. It’s another kind of power to him, and he has desire enough for the act of it.”

“So the last day or two has been a kind of... mating dance?”

“That’s not far from the mark,” Branna said to Meara. “Sorcha writes of the weeks and weeks he tried to seduce her, bribe her, threaten her, wear down her mind and spirit. He wanted her power without question, but he wanted her body as well—and he wanted to make a child with her, I think.”

“I’d slit my own throat before I’d let him rape me.”

“Don’t say that.” The bubble of fury burst as Connor rounded on her. “Don’t ever say such a thing again.”

“Don’t.” Iona spoke quietly before Meara could fling words back. “Connor’s right. Don’t say that. We’ll protect you. We’re a circle, and we protect each other. You’ll protect yourself, but you need to trust us to protect you.”

“I’ll say something here.” Before he did, Boyle helped himself to another ladle of stew. “The four of you can’t and don’t fully understand what it is for Meara and me. We have our fists, our wits, a blade, instincts, strategies. But these are ordinary things. I’m not after poking at a spot still sore, but when a thought from you can lock us away, out of the mix, it comes home we’ve only those ordinary things.”

“Boyle, you have to know—”

Fin stopped Iona, a light brush on her arm. “And I’ll say something back to that—as an outsider. One step back,” he insisted as Iona sent him a sorrowful look. “We’re not the three, but with the three. Another delicate balance we could say. What we bring to the circle is as vital as the other end of that balance. The three might think it different from time to time, and some with the three might think different, but it is what it is, and that’s for us all to remember and respect.”

“You’re eating at my table,” Branna said quietly. “Food I made. I’ve given you respect.”

“You have, and I’m grateful. But it’s come time for you to open the door again, Branna, and let me work with you without me having to pry that door open. It’s Meara we’re speaking of, and the whole of it that hangs in that balance.”

Branna’s fingers tightened on the stem of her wineglass, then relaxed again. “You’re right, and I’m sorry for it. And I see he’s shaken us. That’s a victory for him, and it ends now.”

“We can’t understand what it is not to be what we are. Iona would, I think,” Connor continued, “as what she is, and has, was held back from her for so long. But I think you—and you as well, Fin—don’t understand that for Branna and for me, knowing you’re with us, when for Fin, going back to Paris and his fine restaurant would be an easier choice, for you, Meara, and for you, Boyle, not having power but being with us, is braver by far than going on with this, as Branna and I, and now Iona must do. We must, but you, all three of you choose. We don’t forget that. Don’t think, don’t ever think, we do.”

“We’re not looking for gratitude,” Boyle began.

“Well, you have it, want it or not. And admiration as well, even if there’s been times, and will be again, we don’t show it.”

Rising, Branna got another bottle of wine, poured it all around. “For feck’s sake, do you think I spend hours cooking a meal like this for myself? I do fine with a bacon sandwich. So we’ll all of us stop feeling sorry for ourselves, or sorry to each other, and just be.”

Very deliberately Meara scooped up more stew. “It’s a gorgeous meal, Branna.”

“Bloody right it is, and unless all of you want nothing but that bacon sandwich next time you come, we’ll set all that business aside. Now, why do we think Cabhan jumped on the bonnet of Connor’s lorry?”

“I might be risking that bacon sandwich, though they’re tasty enough,” Fin said, “but answering that, for what I think myself, digs back into the other a bit.”

“Answer.” Branna waved a hand in the air. “I’ll decide whether you eat at all next time.”

“He wanted to see what would happen. He was fully formed.”

“He was,” Meara agreed. “Muscle, bone, and blood.”

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