“I will. Don’t worry.” She slid the vial into her pocket. “Find him,” she said to Fin.
“So I will. Find, seek, lure.”
He took a crystal, round as a ball, clear as water, from his own pocket, cupped it in the palm of his hand.
As he spoke in Irish, the ball began to glow, to lift an inch above his hand. And to revolve, slower, then faster, faster until it blurred with speed.
“He seeks, blood to blood, mark to mark,” Branna told Iona quietly. “He uses what he is, what they share, to see, to stir. He...”
Fin’s eyes began to gleam, to glow, as unearthly a light as the crystal.
“Not so deep! He can’t—”
Connor caught Branna’s arm before she lurched forward. “He knows what he’s about.”
But for a moment, something dark lived behind the light in Fin’s eyes. Then it was gone.
“I have him.” His face a mask, Fin closed his fingers over the crystal. “He’ll come.”
“Where is he?” Boyle demanded.
“Not far. I gave him your scent,” he told Iona. “He’ll follow it, and you.”
“Then I’ll take him where we want him.”
“We’re behind you.” Meara grasped Iona’s arms. “Every one of us.”
“I know.” She breathed slow, kept her calm. “I believe.”
She touched her fingers to the hilt of the sword at her side, looked from one to the other, and thought what a wonder it was to have them all, to have what was inside her, to have such a purpose.
“I won’t let you down,” she said and started for the door.
“Bloody hell.” In two strides Boyle caught her, whirled her around, crushed his mouth to hers with everything that lived inside him.
“Take that with you,” he demanded, and set her aside.
“I will.” And she smiled before she walked out into the soft light of the longest day.
Alastar waited, pawed the ground at her approach.
Yeah, she thought, we’re ready, you and I.
She gripped his mane, hurled herself into the saddle. She closed a hand briefly around her amulet, felt heat pulse from it.
Ready, she thought again, and let Alastar have his head.
Faster was better. The others would come as quickly as they could, but the faster she reached her ground, the less time Cabhan could plot, plan, question.
Wind rushed by her ears. The ground thundered. And they flew.
When she reached the downed tree, the wall of vines, she drew her sword.
“I am Iona. I am the Dark Witch. I am the blood. I am one of three, and this is my right.”
She slashed out. The vines fell with a sound like glass shattering, and she rode through.
Like the dream she’d had that night at Ashford, she thought. Riding alone through the deep forest, through air so much stiller than it had a right to be, where the light went dim though the sun showered down.
