Strong, bright, with a whip-snap that lashed through the creeping fog, made it boil, made it steam and die to thin black ash.
“To the dark I bring the light. Against the black I forge the white. From my blood I call the fire to burn, to flame high and higher. Awake or in dreams, my power runs free. As I will, so mote it be.”
A curl of fog snuck out, slithered close. Boyle lunged in front of Iona, threw out a fist.
He felt a quick pain across his knuckles. Then both fog and ash vanished, and there was only fire and light.
She saw blood well up across Boyle’s hand.
And woke with a jolt.
Morning, she saw now, the pearly promise of it glowing against the window.
A dream, just a dream, and she took a breath to steady herself. When Boyle sat up beside her, she reached for his hand.
And saw the blood.
“Oh God.”
“In the woods, together.” His fingers curled tight over hers. “Is that how it was?”
She nodded. “It’s a kind of astral projection, I think. We’re here, but we were there. I must have pulled you in with me. You... You hit out at the fog.”
“It worked, and felt fine as well, though your fire did more.”
“No, yes. I don’t know. You struck out, and it was like you punched a hole, for a moment. I... But you’re bleeding.”
“Sure it’s but a scratch.”
“No, it’s from him. I don’t know if it’s just a scratch.” She could call on Connor or Branna, but shefelt, somehow, this was for her to do.
“I need to fix it.”
“Just needs a quick wash, and ointment if you’re going to fuss about it.”
“Not that way.” Her heart beat so fast now, faster, she realized, than it had, even through the fear of the dream.
He bled, and it was Cabhan who’d drawn that blood.
“It’s an unnatural wound. I’ve studied it, if you’ll trust me.”
She laid her hand over the shallow gash, closed her eyes. She saw his hand—strong, broad, the fascinating scarred knuckles from his boxing days. The blood, and deeper, looking deeper, the thin black line of Cabhan’s poison.
Just as she’d feared.
Draw it out, she told herself. Out and away. White against black again. Light against dark. Out and away before it sank deeper, before it could spread.
She felt it go, little by little, felt it burn away. She knew by the way his hand stiffened, it caused him pain. But now the wound ran clean. Slowly, carefully, she set to the healing of the shallow gash. Now the pain—small, sharp stings were hers. But they faded, faded.
Just a scratch, as he’d said, once the poison had been drawn out.
She opened her eyes, found his on her.
“You’ve gone pale.”
“It took some doing. My first try at this kind of thing.” Her head spun a little, and her stomach did a couple of slow rolls.
But the wound was clean, and it was closed. She studied his hand, satisfied. “He used poison. I don’t know if it would’ve done anything, but it might have spread. It wasn’t much, but it’s gone now. You could have Connor take a look.”
