Page 89 of Shadow Spell

“Take it from the mark.”

When she shook her head, he gripped her knife hand by the wrist. “From the mark.”

“As you say.”

She laid the blade on the pentagram, his curse and heritage.

“Blood that runs from this mark, mix with mine. White and dark.” When she laid her cut hand on his shoulder, flesh to flesh, blood to blood, the candle flames shot high, and the air trembled.

“Dark and white, power and might, light and life burning bright.”

The blood ran in a thin river down her hand, into the bowl. The potion boiled, churned, spewing smoke.

“In the name of Sorcha, all who came before, all who came after, we join our power to make this fight. We cast thee out of shadow and into light.”

She tossed the copper figure into the bubbling potion, where it flashed—orange and gold and red flame, a roar like a whirlwind, a thousand voices calling through it.

Then a silence so profound it trembled.

Branna looked into the bowl, breathed out. “It’s right. This is right. This can end him.”

“Should I release the fire?” Iona asked her.

“We’ll leave it to simmer, one hour, then off the flame overnight to cure. And on Samhain, we choke him with it.”

“We’re done for now then?” Meara asked.

“Done enough so I want to clear my head and drink a good glass of wine.”

“Well then, we’ll be back in a minute. I just need to...” She was already pulling Connor from the room. “Just need Connor for a moment.”

“What is it?” He worried, as she had a death grip on his hand while she pulled him out the back of the workshop, through the kitchen. “Are you upset? I know the ritual was intense, but—”

“It was. It was. It was.” She all but chanted it, dragging him on through the living area, up the stairs.

“Was it the blood? I know it can seem harsh, but I promise you it’s needed to make the potion, to bespell it.”

“No. Yes. Jesus. It was all of it!” Breathless, she shoved him into his bedroom, then back against the door to slam it.

Then she covered his mouth with hers, all but fusing their lips with the heat pouring from her.

“Oh,” he managed, finally clueing in as she ripped his sweater up and away.

“Just give me.” She peeled off the insulated shirt under the sweater, latched her teeth on his bare shoulder. “Just give me.”

He’d have slowed things down—a bit—but she was already unhooking his belt, and what was a man to do?

He started tugging up her sweater—undressing a woman was one of the great pleasures of life—got tangled up with her very busy hands. He considered just ripping it away, then—

“Ah, to hell with all that.”

The next thing Meara knew she was naked, and so was he.

“Yes, yes, yes.” She gripped his hair, assaulted his mouth, moaned with pleasure when he took her breasts.

She’d never been so wild with lust, never known such quaking, roiling need. Perhaps something in the swirling air, the pulse of the fire, the stunning rise and merging of powers and magicks had punched into her.

All she knew was she’d had to have him or go mad.

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