“She made me feel less. That’s the bottom of it. She always made me feel less than what I am.”

To soothe, to cherish, Marg laid a hand on Breen’s cheek. “Now that you found more, you respect it more than you might have.”

“But I wonder if I have so many doubts about myself, about what I can do, should do, because she told me—not just in words, but in looks, in actions—that I was less. And I believed her, and settled for less.”

“You have a chance and a choice to be what you are.” Firm now, Marg put her other hand on Breen’s cheek to cup her face. “Take it, build on all that came before, reach for what comes next. If you fail, well, greatness rises from first failures. Now, mo stór.” She stepped back. “Clear your mind and cast your circle.”

As she’d been taught, Breen used the broom to sweep out negativity, making a determined effort to sweep her own out with it.

At the east point of the circle, she placed a yellow candle and incense, at the south, a red candle and a dragon’s heart stone. Then at the west a blue candle and a shell, before she placed a green candle and a small bundle of herbs at the north.

As Marg watched, Breen walked the circle three times.

“This circle of protection I cast as a shield from evil future and past. With love and light this ring I form and add my vow to do no harm.”

On her last circle, she drew up her light, loin to belly, belly to heart, heart to crown, and set the candles flaming—air, fire, water, earth.

The nerves didn’t come, not this time, as that light held strong inside her. She lifted the athame from the altar, turned east.

“I call on the gods of the rising sun who grant me power to hear my call from this place, at this hour. I am your servant. I am your child.”

She repeated the call to the south, to the west, to the north.

As she spoke, the air stirred; the candles flamed higher.

And she felt the stir, felt the flame, inside her.

She went to the altar to perform the simple spell Marg had chosen for her, one to bestow clarity.

She added the herbs, the crystals to the cauldron on the altar, poured the water from the cup over them. Tapping her wand three times on the cauldron, she lit a fire beneath it before anointing her third eye with oil.

“Rise, smoke, rise and bring the vision to my eyes. To my heart grant the sight; to my mind bring the light. Through the mists let me see. As you will, so mote it be.”

The smoke spiraled up, thin and white.

Through it, she heard an echo, dull at first, as if the fog smothered sound. As it cleared, she knew the crash of sea against rocks. And as it cleared, she saw the cliffs, the stony island, the rubble of black stones above that crashing sea.

She saw the ritual on those cliffs. The circle—painfully different from what she’d cast. A ring of black candles with bloodred flames, the ring of demons inside it. In the center stood a slab of altar, gleaming black.

Bound to it, the boy fought. His screams pierced the smoke, tore through Breen as the figure in a black cape and hood stepped to the altar.

Chanting, garbled and thick in a language she didn’t know, pounded like drumbeats.

The hooded figure lifted one hand to the sky, and it began to boil. With the other he lifted a long, curved knife. When he drew it across the boy’s throat, lightning exploded, bombs of violent light. Thunder rolled, rolled as he caught a stream of blood in a gold chalice.

She saw the face of her grandfather as he lifted the chalice high, as lightning struck it. As, bathed in its light, he drank deep.

With the vision faded, mercifully faded, Breen dropped to her knees. Only then did Marg come to her.

“You must finish. You must offer your thanks, and close the circle. I’ll help you, but you must finish. Then I’ll give you a potion—you’re so pale—and you’ll tell me.”

“It was him. It was Odran.”

“Aye, so I thought it might be.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Because it was closer, Marg sat Breen down in front of the fire in her workshop. She added a potion to wine, and found herself grateful she’d done so for both of them as Breen finished her tale.

“Lightning struck the chalice, and the flash . . . It was dark, but it still illuminated. Then Odran drank, he drank—Oh, that poor boy, Nan. He couldn’t have been more than twelve. After he drank, the demons, they . . . they devoured him. They just fell on his body and—”

She shuddered, drank more wine.

“It was horrible, beyond horrible. It had to be from years ago because Odran looked so young.”

“He is any age he wishes, at any time. I can’t tell you when, only that he would have a purpose for blood sacrifice. There is no greater crime, no greater sin.”

As she spoke, Marg paced, unable, as yet, to find her own calm.

“For this, so it is written, the gods cast him out of their realm. You said the black castle was in ruin.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. So it had to be after he took me.”

“After, aye.” Marg sat again, then took Breen’s hand as she studied her face. “Your color’s better. I’m proud of you, Breen, for finishing after so brutal a vision. This was not the spell we wrote.”

“I know. I don’t know where it came from.”

“From you. You asked for vision, asked to see. There’s a purpose in this as well. It may not be clear, but there’s a purpose. I’ll ask Sedric to tell Keegan you won’t be training today.”

“No. Believe me, I’d rather have a root canal, but if I skip today, he’ll just make it twice as hard on me tomorrow.”

With a smile, Marg squeezed her hand. “There. You’ve come to know him, so that’s some clarity as well. But he’d take my word you’re unwell.”

“I can still see . . .” She breathed it out. “Getting knocked down will give me something else to think about. I’d rather get it over with than worry about what he’d pile on me tomorrow. He brought out swords yesterday. They won’t draw blood, but they sure as hell bruise. I’ll go.”

She rose. “I don’t suppose we could do a spell so I have the skill to knock him on his ass for a change.”

“Best not tamper with that. Would you like me to come with you?”

“It’s humiliating enough without an audience, thanks.” She bent over, kissed Marg’s cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“You have the tea for restful sleep.”

“Yeah.”

“Drink some before bed, and what do you place under your pillow?”

“Rosemary and amethyst or black tourmaline.”

“You learn well.”

She wished she could learn to fight nearly as well, Breen thought as she started her walk to the farm. Actually, she didn’t, and that was probably at least part of the problem.

She could easily go the rest of her life without wanting to punch somebody, much less whack at them with a sword.

Except . . .

She thought of the boy, struggling, screaming.

Wouldn’t she have tried to protect him, by whatever means?

She looked over the fields as Bollocks raced up the road, then back again. Everything so green, so lush, so peaceful, with the blue water of the bay curving in.

It actually hurt, physically hurt, she realized, to know such evil existed when the world offered such simple beauty.

The poor boy. Had he come from this world, hers, another? Impossible to know. But she knew he’d been terrified and still he’d tried to fight. Right up until the end, he’d tried.

She could hardly do less.

She saw the hawk before she saw Morena. Amish glided down to land on one of the stone pillars flanking the farm gate. Bollocks—growing so fast!—raced up to plant his forepaws on the pillar and bark.

“He’s far too dignified to play with you,” Morena called out. Her hair, free of her usual braid, waved sunnily to the small of her back.

She beat Breen to the gate, crouched down to rub the dog, who plopped down to show his belly. “But I’m not.” Amusing them both, she gave Bollocks a quick wrestle before looking up at Breen. “Ready to take on Keegan, are you then?”

“I’m never ready for it.”

“Ah now, Harken tells me you’re improving.”

“How would he know?”

“Sure and he’s watched a time or two, from a discreet distance.”

“God. Mortifying.” But she opened the gate.

“I’ll see for myself.”

“No, it’s bad enough. He knocks me down regularly, and adds insult to injury. Apparently, I’ve got feet buried in a bog, the balance of a one-legged drunk, and the hands of a three-fingered tinker.”

“All the more reason you need someone cheering you on.” Morena tossed an arm around Breen’s shoulders. She smelled of the garden—sweet, spicy, earthy all at once.

“I’ll wager you’re better than you think.”

“You’d lose that bet. Oh, Christ, he’s got the damn swords out. My arm was like rubber after yesterday.”

“Rubber’s the thing that bounces, isn’t it? You’ll bounce then. And there’s himself, looking all fierce and steely eyed.”

Keegan turned his head, grinned at her. “And here’s herself, come to torture my brother again.”

“He doesn’t seem to mind it.” She hefted a sword with a style Breen envied. “You’ve bespelled them.”

“I have, of course. I don’t want to hack something off her, do I?”

Morena ran the blade over her palm, nodded. “But you don’t mind her feeling the sting.”

“Feel nothing, learn nothing. Harken’s in the stables. One of the horses is off her feed.”

“I’ll look in on him later.” She handed back the sword. “I mean to watch for a bit.”

“See you keep clear.”

He turned to Breen, tossed her the sword. It hit the ground as she jumped back.