“I will never be yours.”
You will. You are. Come now, and know all the pleasures, all the glory. All the power.
“You will never have me, or what I hold inside me.”
Now the image in the fire shifted. And he came into the flames. Cabhan, whose power and purpose were darker than the winter night. Who wanted her—her body, her soul, her magick.
The sorcerer desired her, for she felt his lust like sweaty hands on her skin. But more, more, she knew, he coveted her gift. His greed for it hung heavy in the air.
In the flames he smiled, so handsome, so ruthless.
I will have you, Sorcha the Dark. You and all you are. We are meant. We are the same.
No, she thought, we are not the same, but as day to night, light to dark, where the only merging comes in shadows.
So alone you are, and burdened. Your man leaves you a cold bed. Come warm yourself in mine; feel the heat. Make that heat with me. Together, we rule all the world.
Her spirits sagged, the ache and pull inside her twisted toward pain.
So she rose, let the warm wind come to blow through her hair. Let the power pour in until she shone with it. And saw, even in the flames, the lust and greed in Cabhan’s face.
Here is what he wanted, she knew, the glory that rushed through her blood. And this was what he would never have.
“Know my mind and feel my power, then and now and every hour. You offer me your dark desire, come to me in smoke and fire. Betray my blood, my babes, my man, to rule o’er all, only take your hand. So my answer to thee comes through wind and sea, rise maiden, mother, hag in trinity. As I will, so mote it be.”
She threw out her arms, released the fury, fully female, whirled in, flung it toward the beat of his heart.
An instant of pure, wild pleasure erupted inside her when she heard his cry of rage and pain, when she saw that rage and pain burst onto his face against the flames.
Then the fire was just a fire, simmering low for the night, bringing a bit of warmth against the bitter. Her cabin was just a cabin, quiet and dim. And she was just a woman alone with her children sleeping.
She slumped down in the chair, wrapping an arm around the tearing in her belly.
Cabhan was gone, for now. But her fear remained, of him, and that if no potion or prayer healed her body, she would leave her children motherless.
Defenseless.
***
SHE WOKE WITH HER YOUNGEST CURLED WITH HER, FOUNDcomfort even as she shifted to rise for the day.
“Ma, Ma, stay.”
“There now, my sunbeam, I have work. And you should be in your own bed.”
“The bad man came. He killed my ponies.”
A fist of panic squeezed Sorcha’s heart. Cabhan touching her children—their bodies, their minds, their souls? It brought her unspeakable fear, unspeakable rage.
“Just a dream, my baby.” She cuddled Teagan close, rocked and soothed. “Just a dream.”
But dreams had power and risks.
“My ponies screamed, and I couldn’t save them. He set them afire, and they screamed. Alastar came and knocked the bad man down. I rode away on Alastar, but I couldn’t save the ponies. I’m afraid of the bad man in the dream.”
“He won’t hurt you. I’ll never let him hurt you. Only dream ponies.” Eyes tightly closed, she kissed Teagan’s bright, tousled hair, her cheeks. “We’ll dream of more. Green ones, and blue ones.”
“Green ponies!”
