She dug them up—a little jeté, an arabesque, even a couple of fouetté turns. Boots were not ballet shoes, after all.

“So, today, combat is a dance.” And now he set. “We’ll dance.”

He worked her hard, but this time she considered the bruises and twinges badges of honor. And once, she surprised him—and herself—by incorporating a pirouette with a sword strike, then a kick that got through and landed—without much impact—on his belly.

“You let your body think,” he told her. “It’s better. But now.” He punched power at her enough to have her stumble back. “What do you do?”

“I don’t—”

“Block!” He punched out again.

“Stop. I don’t know what’s not enough, what’s too much.”

“Block,” he insisted, and shot a shock wave from her toes to the crown of her head.

It wasn’t answer so much as reaction this time. She threw up her hand, and their powers met and clashed. Light flashed between them, crackling, raining sparks. It singed the air.

“Now push. You hold it. It comes from you. It is you. Push.”

It built. Flowing up through her, flowing out of her, hotter, stronger. And he met and matched until her body trembled from the effort of holding force against force.

“There’s a sword in my hand,” he called out over the clashing powers. “I mean to kill you with it. Take it away from me.”

“How? I’m pretty damn busy here.”

“Take it or die.” With his free hand he swung the sword in the air.

She set it on fire, hilt and all. The warring powers fell away as the sword clattered to the ground. Harken, who’d come in from the fields to watch, started to rush forward. Then stopped when Breen leaped over to grab Keegan’s wrist.

“Oh Jesus, oh God.” The outline of the hilt had seared into his flesh. Even as her stomach pitched, she laid hers over it.

“I’m sorry, so sorry. I—”

Before he could snatch his hand away, she gasped, went bone white. She felt the burn scorch her palm.

“Stop. Not so fast, not so deep. Look at me. Look.” He cupped her chin, gently this time, to lift her gaze to his. “Ease back now. Slowly back. The light heals, but not in a flash. It goes slowly or you risk too much, take too much.”

Staring into his eyes, she nodded. At first she only sensed the difference, then she felt it. The cooling, the relief, the release.

“Let me see,” she murmured, and turned his palm up. “It’s okay now. I set the sword on fire.”

“And a fine way to disarm an opponent that is. But it’s a good sword, so put the fire out.”

Not so different from lighting a fire in the hearth, she thought, and put it out the same way.

“I need a break.”

“You said to work you hard,” he reminded her. “We have time left before you go back.”

“I need a break,” she repeated. “Five damn minutes. I hurt you, and that’s the second time. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, in your macho, I’m-the-big-taoiseach world, but it does to me. What if I’d set you on fire? I can’t do this until I learn how to control it.”

Because she wanted that five damn minutes, she sat on the ground. Keegan crouched in front of her.

She’d done well, he thought, better than he’d believed she could. And there, he’d misjudged.

“I didn’t think you could do it, so the fault was mine as much as yours.”

“You hold back because you know how, so I end up with some bruises, but that’s all.”

“It doesn’t give me pleasure to put marks on you.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Not the point,” she added. “I can’t do this if I’m afraid of what I have. If I’m afraid I’ll do something that can’t be fixed or healed.”

“I’m not so easy to kill. But sure we can work around this.” With a shrug he sat, cross-legged. “I can train you to be more than competent with the sword, with your body.”

She offered a dour look. “Is ‘competent’ your version of ‘average’?”

“You were average at best before today. You’ve improved on that, and will improve more, as I am not what you said. Not a crap teacher. You must have these skills, but they aren’t your true weapons. That’s in you, and you know this, so you fear it. You should, for what you have, as I do, is great. If the worlds were as we wish, the light would be only for joy and beauty, for healing and help. But the worlds are not what we wish. So we use the light to protect and shield, to fight the dark, even kill.

“They would snuff us out like the light of a candle. Should we let them?”

“No. I saw—in another vision—I saw what he did. A boy, just a boy, strapped to an altar. I saw what he did. We can’t let them. But you don’t give a child a weapon and let them use it. That’s what I am with this still. I’m a child with a weapon.”

“Bugger that.” He snapped it out. “You’ve let too many tell you you’re not able or ready. That’s a flaw in you.” He rose, then gripped her hand and hauled her up. “But we can work around this worry and fear for now.”

“How?”

“Another enemy. An opponent you won’t fret about harming.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Wait.”

He held out his hands then drew them up, drew them down. Again and again. In the wind he called, his hair blew. Breen felt the ground beneath her feet shake.

“So here I stir the earth and air. Five drops of water they will share. Now this image I form from one who sought to harm. Come, fire, flash to bind the spell until the wraith returns to hell.”

He shot out his fingers, and yes, fire flashed. Smoke followed. And when it cleared a man stood, sword in hand.

“Where did he come from? You can’t just make a person.”

“It’s a wraith. Real enough, but not living. I gave him the face of an enemy to . . . inspire you.”

“An enemy? I don’t . . . It’s the one who attacked me at my father’s grave. You killed him.”

“Do you have ears? He’s an image, a wraith, not a living thing. But he can move, as he did. He can fight. He’ll fade at sunset if you don’t destroy him first, but he’ll make a worthy training tool for you, I’m thinking.

“Do you fear hurting him?”

“No. But—”

“Then fight.”

Keegan snapped his fingers. The wraith leaped.

It killed her three times before she so much as began to find any defense.

Then it got an arm around her, wings spread, lifted her off the ground. She forgot it wasn’t real and, in her ripe fear, struck out. Her power hit the wraith like an axe. As it turned to smoke, she fell, breathless, onto the grass.

“There you have it.” Keegan hauled her back up again. “Again.”

With a flick of Keegan’s fingers, the wraith formed again.

“How did you do that? You didn’t use a spell.”

“It’s already conjured. Again.”

“I want you to teach me how to do that.”

“Later.”

In response, she sliced a hand through the air, turned the wraith back to smoke. “Now.”

Keegan’s eyebrows shot up. “Well now, there’s some spine there. Kill it twice more—in combat—and you’ll have the edge. I’ll show you how to close the spell.”

“And tomorrow, you’ll show me how to bring a wraith.”

“Fair enough.”

He watched her fight. She’d never be brilliant with a sword, but she’d do well enough. Aye, well enough there. And now that she held back nothing, she showed a confidence she’d lacked, a grace that suited her. She was very nearly formidable in her odd and interesting way.

The focus, the control, well, they’d work on it, wouldn’t they? And for Talamh, for the Fey, and in honor of her father, he’d take her to formidable and beyond.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

For three days Breen worked from dawn till moonsrise, starting her writing day earlier and earlier to give her more time in Talamh.

Staying at her grandmother’s might have been an easier choice, but she opted for the harder, for the time away and alone. For time in both worlds.

Her father had made that choice, too, and now she knew just how wrenching that had been for him. He’d given up so much for her, and still he’d honored his duties to the Fey.

She wouldn’t do less. She wouldn’t be less.

And if she kept rosemary and an additional charm bag under her pillow to avoid the dreams and visions, she considered it simple practicality.

Without some decent sleep, she couldn’t do the work she’d chosen.

So she was dead asleep at eleven forty-five when her phone rang. She fumbled for it, thought: Marco.

“Yeah, hi.”

“Breen Kelly?”

Not Marco. Now, heart hammering, she fumbled for the light. Someone was hurt; something was wrong.

“Yes.”

“This is Carlee Maybrook with the Sylvan Literary Agency. I hope I’m not disturbing your evening.”

“No. No. Hello.” She didn’t have a clue what to say next. “It’s nice of you to call.”

“I just got out of a meeting, and wanted to contact you right away. I, and the Sylvan Agency, would very much like to represent you.”

“Sorry, what?” Her stomach flipped; her skin began to tingle. “You would?”

“I loved Bollocks’s Magic Adventures, and I’m confident I can place it with the right publisher. I’m hoping you’ll tell me you’ve got more coming. You’ve got a series, Breen, and the target age group for this book loves series.”

She heard about every other word through the buzzing in her ears as Bollocks, woken by her voice, got up, stretched, then walked over to plant his paws on the side of the bed and stare lovingly.