He reached out, ran a hand over her bright red curls. “You do what you do, Breen.”
She went down to do what she did, with Bollocks curled on the bed behind her. She’d do the blog first, she decided, just a brief one. And would wait to post it until Marco spoke with Sally.
How to begin? she wondered. She couldn’t write, not on the blog, about the taoiseach of Talamh, or Marco jumping through the portal with her.
She simply sat a moment, let it sink in that she was back, well and truly back. She’d enjoyed her solitude in the cottage over the summer, and finding herself by living on her own for the first time in her life.
But as she sat now, hearing Marco in the kitchen, singing as he did whatever he did to those prime tomatoes, she found his presence like a warm blanket on a chilly morning.
Simple comfort, like the dog napping behind her, or knowing outside the garden doors the flowers bloomed.
So she wrote about returning to Ireland. For the first time on the blog, she wrote about finding her grandmother, learning of the loss of her father. And how the grief of that balanced with the joy of finding family and friends.
How finding them helped her find herself.
Satisfied, she set that aside, and opened herself to the story.
She dived in, let it surround her.
CHAPTER THREE
When she finally surfaced, she found herself a little stunned. She’d worked well in the apartment in Philadelphia when she’d gone back at the end of the summer. But not like here, she admitted. Maybe it came from the initial burst of energy from being back where she’d really started this part of her journey, but she’d poured out ten pages.
Now, out of the writing haze, she caught the scent of Marco’s red sauce, noted the change of light as dusk crept closer.
And saw Bollocks had left his post.
She shut down, stepped out. She saw Marco sitting at the dining room table, his brow furrowed as he read on his laptop. Bollocks rose from his spot in front of the kitchen hearth to lean against her legs.
“Sally?”
“All good. He’s glad I came with you.” He looked up then, straight into her eyes. “What’s in here, Breen, it’s not good. It’s not good. Holy shitballs, you almost got yourself killed. Twice.”
“But I didn’t. And he doesn’t want me dead, Marco. What he wants is worse.” She walked into the kitchen to fill the dog’s food bowl. “I’m stronger than I was, and I’ll get stronger yet.”
“How are you going to fight him?”
“I don’t know the answers right now.” She chose a bottle of wine. “But I think it may come down to power against power.”
“He’s a freaking god. He’s Loki, girl, without the fun parts.”
“I’ve got his blood in me, and more. I have more. You’re not asking if I’m afraid.”
“You’re not stupid, you’re not crazy, so I know you are. Can’t Keegan take him down? Okay.” Rising, pacing, Marco waved a hand in the air. “I get he would if he could. I’ve got a better picture of him, of everybody over there now. I haven’t finished it all, but I’ve got a better picture. Your picture, anyway.”
“My father died trying to stop him.”
“I know, baby. I know. But that crazy witch lady with the two-headed snakes.” He shuddered before he took the wine Breen held out. “I’m with Indiana Jones on snakes.”
“Fool me once.” She toasted, drank. “She won’t catch me off guard again.”
He gave her a long look. “You’re not as scared as you were last night.”
“Maybe I had to come back to lose some of it. Not all because not stupid, not crazy. And I know I’m going to be really scared again. But what I’ve learned, what I will learn? The more I learn, the more I feel.
“I was afraid to try to write, but you pushed me until I did. And I’m good at it. I’m going to get better, but I’m good at it. And it gives me joy. I’m going to get better at the craft. I’ve gotten pretty good, and I’ll get better. It gives me joy.”
He walked into the kitchen, stirred his sauce. “Writing doesn’t put you in a death sleep.”
“Have you read about my vision—the boy on the altar, what Odran and his demons did to that boy?”
“Made me sick. Made me sick because it wasn’t like a movie where it’s all pretend. It was real.”
“How can I just walk away from that when I might be what stops it from ever happening again?”
“I don’t know, but the thing is, lighting some candles? That’s wild stuff, girl, but it’s not the sort of thing that handles all this.”
“Fire is often the first skill learned.”
She set down her wine, held out a hand. And brought the red flame over it. “It can burn hot.” In her other hand, she brought the blue fire. “Or it can burn cold.”
She sent them aloft, then brought them together with a clap like thunder before they sizzled, sparked, died.
“Air can stir.” She circled a finger. “A warm breeze.” Then held up her other hand, circled it. “Or icy wind.”
Both blew through her hair, tossed Marco’s braids before she vanished them as she walked to the doors and outside. There she laid a hand on the pot of flowers. “Earth brings life.” Buds not yet open bloomed under her hand. “Or takes it.”
And the ground trembled.
“Water comes soft for the earth to drink.” She lifted her arm, drew down. Held out a palm that cupped the rain she’d taken from the clouds. “Or lashes.”
She shot a hand toward the bay, whipped it into a waterspout.
And smoothed it out again.
“These four elements are connected in me with a fifth. The magicks those who came before me gave me. I learned, Marco. My father had what I have, except the human. But he tried, for her, to be human when he was on this side. And I think because he lost so much of his heart, because he was so torn, Odran found a way to exploit that. And killed him. I have the one thing Dad didn’t. I don’t know what it means, how to use it, if I’ll need to use it, but I have more.”
“Okay, okay. I need more wine. I need to fill this glass right up.”
He made it back to the kitchen, but his hands shook so hard he couldn’t lift the bottle.
Breen went to him, put a hand over his. “Don’t be afraid of me. I think it would break me if you were afraid of me.”
“Not. Pour that for me, will you? Not afraid. Awed. That’s a good word for it. Awed.” He gulped down the wine she poured. “You glowed. I mean like you were all lit up inside. I read about some of the stuff you learned to do, but seeing you do it …”
He wrapped an arm around her. It still trembled, but he held her against him. “Didn’t I always say you were special? It’s just going to take me awhile to get to that sort-of-used-to-it part of all this.”
“All you need. How about I do something totally normal and make a salad to go with your pasta?”
“That’d be good. I’m going to put the laptop away. I’ll read the rest later. I think I’m pretty full up on that for now. I’ll put some music on.”
Normal, she thought as she peeled and chopped. Would it be normal if she slipped some rosemary and crystals under Marco’s pillow to ensure he had a peaceful night’s sleep?
Her normal, she decided, so she’d see to that.
They’d have dinner and talk of normal things. And she’d go up for his harp—slide the charm under his pillow—then show him what she remembered. Maybe she’d bring down his guitar, too.
When he came in to boil the water for the noodles, it felt normal— their normal, she thought. With Marco checking her work on the salad, then walking her through some recipe for a dressing before he slid the spaghetti into the pot.