Fin spared him a long, dry look. “My talents are many but don’t stretch far enough to read Ogham. But it tells us the cave’s been used, and as the script was high on the walls, and with magickal symbols here and there as well, very likely for dark purposes long before Cabhan’s time.”
“Some places are inherent for the dark, or for the light,” Branna speculated.
“What I felt there was all of the dark, like... a rooting place for it. The shadows moved like living things. And on the altar, as I was close enough to see, there were bones in a dish along with the cup of blood. Three black candles, and a book with a hide cover. Carved on it is the mark.” He touched his shoulder. “This mark.”
“So it goes back, the mark, before Teagan threw the stone and scarred Cabhan. Before Sorcha cursed him.” Iona angled her head. “A symbol of the demon in him? Or of his own dark places? I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
“No need.” Fin picked up his spoon again. “Near the book was a bell, again silver, with a wolf standing on its hind legs as a handle.”
“Bell, book, and candle, bones and blood. The symbol of Cabhan’s mark, the symbol of the wolf.” Branna considered. “So he had these things, symbols of what he became. Old things?”
“Very old, all but the candles. And they... made from human tallow mixed with blood.”
“Can it get more disgusting?” Meara wondered.
Connor gave her a pat. “I expect it can.”
“His tools,” Branna speculated, “perhaps passed down from father to son, or mother to son or daughter. Passed down to him, and then used for the dark. Though we can’t say if his sire didn’t dabble in such, or why he would’ve chosen the cave for his own.”
“He might’ve been a guardian,” Meara suggested. “Someone with power who guarded the demon or whatever it is, and kept it imprisoned.”
“True enough,” Branna agreed. “Whether or not Cabhan came from light or dark, or something between them, he made his choice.”
“There’s more,” Fin told her. “A wax figure of a woman, bound hand and foot with black cloth, kneeling as in supplication.”
“Sorcha.” Branna shook her head. “His obsession with her started long ago. But he could never bind her or bring her to her knees.”
“Nearly eight hundred years is a long time to hold an obsession or a grudge,” Iona pointed out. “I’d say it’s been madness that started long ago.”
“I’d agree.”
“And more,” Fin said again. “The figure had blood smeared on its belly, between its legs.”
Carefully, Branna set her spoon down. “She lost a child, early that winter. She miscarried, and was never fully well again. She had some terrible illness she couldn’t heal. Tearing pains in the belly.”
“He killed her child?” Even with centuries of distance, Iona’s eyes filled. “Inside her? Could he do that?”
“I don’t know.” Shaken, Branna rose, got wine for herself and brought the bottle to the table. “If she didn’t guard against it, in just the right way? If he found some way to... She had three children to tend to, and her husband off with the men of their clan. Cabhan hounding her. She may have given him some vulnerable spot to use, had a moment when she wasn’t fully vigilant.”
“We will be.” Fin touched a hand to hers. “We’ll give him nothing, and we’ll take all. This is yet more he must answer for.”
“She was grieving. You can hear her tears in her book when she wrote of the loss. Yes,” Branna said quietly. “He must answer for this, and for all.”
17
SHEINCREASEDHEREFFORTS. ITCOULDN’TBERUSHED—no, working with a lethal mix couldn’t be hurried. But Branna spent every minute she could on concocting the poison.
Whoever from her circle spent time in her workshop took on a task—magickal or otherwise. She herself rarely went out, beyond a walk through her winter gardens to clear her head of formulas and spells and poisons.
Even on those brief walks, Branna obsessed whether five drops of tincture from the angel’s trumpet were too much or four too little. Should the crushed berries be freshly used, or allowed to steep in their juices?
“It matters,” she muttered, half to herself as she meticulously lined up the jars for the day’s attempt. “One drop off, and we start again.”
“You said the four drops didn’t work yesterday, so do the five,” Connor suggested.
“And if it should be six?” Frustrated, she stared at the jars as if she could will them to tell her the secret. “Or is the other recipe I found the true one, the one that calls for five death cap mushrooms, taken from under an oak?”
“The more poison the better, if you’re asking me.”
