She saw the ruins ahead, vine– and brush-covered as if it grew out of the trees. She walked the horse toward it, and toward the stone that bore Sorcha’s name.
Now her skin vibrated. Not nerves, she realized, but power. Energy. Alastar quivered under her, let out a bugle that sounded of triumph.
“Yes, we’ve been here before. The place of our blood. The place where our power was born.” She dismounted, looped the reins, knowing Alastar would stay with her, stay close.
She took the vial from her pocket, crushed it under her boot.
So it would begin.
From the bag she’d secured to the saddle, she took the flowers first. Simple wood violets, then a small flask holding bloodred wine.
“For the mother of my mother and hers, and all who lived and died, who bore the gift with its joys and sorrow, back to Teagan who is mine, and the Dark Witch who bore her.”
She laid the flowers by the stone, poured wine over the ground in tribute.
Speaking the words of the spell only in her mind, pulling power up from her belly, she took the four white candles from the bag, set them on the ground at the compass points. Next, the crystals, between each point.
As she laid them, Alastar let out a warning chuff. She saw fingers of fog crawling over the ground.
We’re with you. Connor’s voice sounded in her ear.Finish the circle.
She drew her athame, pointed north. Flame sparked on the first candle.
“You think that can stop me?” Cabhan spoke with amusement. “You come here, where I rule, and play your pitiful white magick.”
“You don’t rule here.”
The second candle flamed.
“See.” He threw his arms high. The stone around his neck flamed with light both dark and blinding. “Know.”
Something changed. The ground tipped under her feet as she struggled to finish the ritual. The air turned, turned until her head spun with it. The third candle flamed, but she fell to her knees, fighting the terrible sensation of dropping from a cliff.
The vines drew back from the ruin. The walls began to climb, stone by stone.
Night fell like a curtain dropped.
“My world. My time.” The shadows seemed to lift from him. The stone pulsed, a dark heart over his. “And here, you are mine.”
“I’m not.” She got painfully to her feet, laid a hand on Alastar’s flank as he reared. “I’m Sorcha’s.”
“She sought my end, gained her own. It’s she who sleeps in the dark. It’s I who live in it. Give me what you have, what weighs on you, what it demands from you, what it takes from you. Give me the power that fits you so ill. Or I take it, and your soul with it.”
She lit the last candle. If they could come, they would come, she thought. But she couldn’t hear them through the rush in her ears, or sense them through the stench of the fog.
No retreat, she told herself. And never surrender.
She drew her sword. “You want it? Come and get it.”
He laughed, and the sheer delight on his face added a terrible beauty.
“A sword won’t stop me.”
“You bleed, so let’s find out.” She punched power into the sword until it flamed. “And I bet you’ll burn.”
He swept an arm out, and from feet away, threw her back, knocked her to the ground. Winded, she tried to push to her feet. Alastar reared again, screaming in rage as his hooves lashed out.
She saw Cabhan’s face register pain, and shock with it. Then he hunched, dropped to all fours, and became the wolf.
