“Then I’ll help you with it.” As if it was already accepted, he shrugged out of his coat.
“We have different... techniques, you and I.”
“So we do, and Iona would only benefit from seeing, and trying the differences.”
“This habit of talking about me in the third person when I’m right here is getting really old,” Iona decided.
“And rude,” Fin said with a nod. “You’re right. I’d like to help, and once we’re done with the work, I’d very much like if you’d tell me exactly what happened, and how you left it—from your eyes, Iona. If you will.”
“I... I’m supposed to meet Meara later. But...” Iona glanced back at Branna, watched her cousin sigh, shrug. “We could ask her to come here, and Boyle, too. It would be smart, I think, to have us all here, go through it once and for all, and talk about what comes next.”
“All right then. I can have dinner brought in. You’ve no need to cook for a horde again, Branna.”
“I’ve sauce I put on an hour ago for pasta. It’ll stretch easily enough.”
“I’ll ring up the others then.” He drew out his phone. “Then we’ll get started.”
14
IT FELT GOOD, AND IT FELT RIGHT TO HAVE EVERYONE TOGETHER AGAIN. Everyone tucked into the roomy kitchen with good cooking smells, voices carrying over voices, the dog sprawled at the hearth.
It made the normal, to Iona’s mind, despite the dark and light of the paranormal.
She tossed a big salad, kind of her specialty. She did pretty well in the kitchen as long as it didn’t involve actually cooking.
So she felt good and right and, with the increased push on her lessons with Branna, strong. Even the recounting of the altercation with the wolf, once again, reminded her of the power in the blood, at her fingertips. And made her feel confident.
“It’s bold, isn’t it?” Meara commented as she slathered herbed butter over thick slices of baguette. “To come at the pair of you that way, in the daylight and so close to Ashford.”
“I’m thinking it wasn’t planned.” Connor nipped a slice of bread from the baking tray before Meara could slide it in the oven to toast. “But more he saw an opportunity and took it, without the planning.”
“Maybe to frighten more than harm,” Fin suggested. “To harm certainly if that opportunity opened. You were having a nice, easy ride, relaxed.”
“And not on guard.” Boyle nodded. “A mistake we won’t be making again.”
“It’s a kind of terrorism, isn’t it?” Fin carried the big bowl of salad to the table. “The constant threat, the not knowing when or where it may come. And the disruption of the normal rhythm of things.”
“Sure he’s the one who bore the brunt of it.” Branna dumped drained pasta in a cheerful blue-and-white bowl. “And got his arse kicked by a witch barely out of the cupboard.”
“Satisfying.”
But as Fin spoke, Iona caught the quick look he shared with Branna.
“But? But what?”
“He’s come after you twice. Here, sit now, get started,” Branna ordered. “And both times he’s been sent off with his tail between his legs.”
“He underestimated her,” Boyle said as he took his seat.
“No doubt of that, and little that he’ll do so again.” Branna handed the salad set to Meara. “Dish it up. I’ll turn the bread.”
She could follow the dots, Iona thought, especially when they were so clearly marked. “You think he’ll come after me again? Specifically?”
“It’s you coming here that’s set things in motion that held for hundreds of years. There’s apples in here,” Connor discovered as he sampled the salad. “It’s nice.”
“So if he scares her off—at least—and back to America?” Meara frowned. “What does that do?”
“I’m not sure it matters now. She’s the third.” Branna brought the bread to the table, sat to have her salad. “And he knows it, as we do now. Her power has opened, and wider and faster than he—or I for that matter—had anticipated. The cork’s not going back in that bottle.”
