Page 79 of Shadow Spell

For Meara it all happened at once.

Connor whirled and Eamon with him as if they were one form. The big gray—and it gave her a jolt to see Alastar, the same as the stallion she knew—charged from the lean-to. Almost as one, Roibeard dived, Kathel leaped.

Before she could fully turn, Connor yanked her back and behind him just as the wolf sprang.

It came from nowhere, silent as a ghost, quick as a snake.

In a blur, it dodged Alastar’s flashing hooves and charged. Straight at the boy, she realized, and without thought, shoved Eamon to the side, swung her sword.

She struck air, but even that sang up her arms to her shoulders. Then the full force of the wolf struck her, sent her flying. Pain, the shock of it, the bitter, bitter cold of it ripped through her side. Instinct—survival—had her clamping her hands around its throat to hold back the snap of its jaws.

And again, it happened at once.

The hound attacked, and light burst so bright it burned the air to red. Shouts and snarls tore through that searing curtain while her muscles quivered at the strain of holding back those snapping jaws. She heard herself scream, felt no shame in it as the wolf screamed as well.

She saw rage in its eyes, murderous and crazed, before it wavered, faded, vanished as it had come. Out of nowhere.

Her name, Connor saying it over and over and over. She couldn’t get her breath, simply couldn’t draw in the air—air that stank like brimstone.

Warm hands on her side, warm lips on her lips. “Let me see now, let me see. Ah, God, God. Not to worry,aghra, I’ll fix it. Lie quiet.”

“I can help you.”

She heard the voice, saw the face. Branna’s face, but younger. She remembered that face, Meara thought through the pain, the liquid daze of it all. Remembered it from her own youth.

“You’ll look like her in a few years. Our Branna’s a rare beauty.”

“Lie quiet, lady. Teagan, fetch—ah well, she already is. My sister’s getting the rest I need. I’m skilled, cousin,” she said to Connor. “You’ll trust me to this?”

“I will.” But he took Meara’s hand. “Here now, darling, here,mo chroi, look at me. At me, into me.”

So she went dreaming, dreaming into those green eyes, outside of pain, outside of all but him. And him murmuring sweet things to her as he did when they loved.

Then Iona—no Teagan, the youngest—Teagan, held a cup to her lips, and the taste on her tongue, down her throat, was lovely.

Now when she drew in breath, true and deep, it tasted the same—of the green and the earth, the peat fire, and the herbs thriving nearby.

“I’m all right.”

“Another moment, just another moment. How could he come here?” Brannaugh asked Connor. “We’re beyond him here.”

“But I’m not. Somehow I brought him, gave him passage. A trap it was after all. Using me to get to you, Eamon, and your sisters. I led him here, led him to this.”

“No, he used us both, our dreams.”

“And drew us in as well,” Brannaugh said. “There’s none of his dark left in you, my lady. Can you sit now, easy and slow?”

“I’m fine. Better than I was before the wound. You have her skill, or she has yours.”

“You stood for my brother. If you hadn’t risked yourself, he would be hurt, or worse, for Cabhan wanted his blood, his death.”

“Your sword.” Teagan laid it over Meara’s legs.

“There’s blood on it. I thought the strike missed.”

“You struck true.”

“’Tis shadow magick,” Brannaugh stated.

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