SO CLOSE , BUT DISTANT as Saturn. It sustained him, far more than ginger biscuits, to see her face, hear her voice, catch her scent, just hers, among the others wafting through her workshop.
He’d tried everything he knew to kill his love for her. He reminded himself she’d turned from him, cast him aside. He’d taken other women, tried to fill the abyss she’d left in him with their bodies, their voices, their beauty.
He’d left his own home, often for months at a go, just to put himself away from her. Traveling, rambling, to places near and far, foreign and familiar.
He’d made his fortune, and a good, solid one, with work, with time, with wit and grit. He’d built a fine home for himself, and had seen to it his parents had all they needed, though they’d moved to New York City to be near his mother’s sister. Or, he often thought, to be away of any talk or thought of magicks and curses. For that he couldn’t blame them.
No one could say he’d wasted his life or his skills—magickal or otherwise. But nothing he’d done had eroded even a fraction of that love.
He’d considered a potion, a spell, but he knew love magick, to bring it or remove it—held consequences far beyond the single person who wished for it, or wished it gone.
He would not, could not, use his gift to ease his heart.
Was it worse or better, he often wondered, knowing she loved him as well, she suffered as well? Some days, he admitted, he found some solace in that. Other days it buggered the living hell out of him.
But for now neither of them had a choice. They must be together, work together, join together for the single purpose of destroying Cabhan, for defeating him, for ending him.
So he worked with her, through argument and agreement, in her lovely workshop over endless cups of tea—and finally a bit of whiskey in it—poring over the books, writing out a new spell neither of them was satisfied with, and again, going over every step of the two previous battles.
And neither of them devised anything new, found another answer.
She was the canniest witch he knew—and all too often the strictest in her ethics. And beautiful with it. Not just the face and form, all that glorious hair, those warm gray eyes. What she was, the power and presence of it, added more, and her unstinting devotion to her craft, to her gift—to family—more still.
He was doomed to love her.
So he worked with her, then paid for the candles—full price, he thought with amusement, for the gods knew Branna O’Dwyer was a practical witch, and left her to drive home through the steady rain.
He checked on Maggie first, pleased with her progress. He gave the sweet-natured mare half an apple and some of his time and attention. He visited the rest of the horses, giving them time as well. He had pride in what he’d built here, in what he and Boyle had built here and at the rental stables. Pride, too, in the falconry school nearby.
Connor ran it like a dream, Fin thought.
If not for Cabhan, he could leave tomorrow for India or Africa, for America or Istanbul, and know Boyle and Connor would take care of all they’d built.
Once Cabhan was done, he’d do just that. Pick a spot on the map, and go. Get away, see something new. Anything but here for a bit, for here was all he loved far too deeply.
He gave the little stable dog Bugs a treat, then on impulse picked him up, took him along to the house. Fin imagined they’d both enjoy the company.
He liked his quiet and alone as much as Branna did hers—or nearly. But the nights were so bleeding long in December, and the chill and dark so unrelenting. He couldn’t pop up to Boyle’s above the garage as he’d often done in the past, and he expected Boyle and his Iona would end up at Branna’s even though she tried to discourage it.
They would guard her, as he could not.
That alone stirred rage and frustration he had to shove back down.
He set the dog down inside the house, flicked a hand to the fire to have
He’d tried everything he knew to kill his love for her. He reminded himself she’d turned from him, cast him aside. He’d taken other women, tried to fill the abyss she’d left in him with their bodies, their voices, their beauty.
He’d left his own home, often for months at a go, just to put himself away from her. Traveling, rambling, to places near and far, foreign and familiar.
He’d made his fortune, and a good, solid one, with work, with time, with wit and grit. He’d built a fine home for himself, and had seen to it his parents had all they needed, though they’d moved to New York City to be near his mother’s sister. Or, he often thought, to be away of any talk or thought of magicks and curses. For that he couldn’t blame them.
No one could say he’d wasted his life or his skills—magickal or otherwise. But nothing he’d done had eroded even a fraction of that love.
He’d considered a potion, a spell, but he knew love magick, to bring it or remove it—held consequences far beyond the single person who wished for it, or wished it gone.
He would not, could not, use his gift to ease his heart.
Was it worse or better, he often wondered, knowing she loved him as well, she suffered as well? Some days, he admitted, he found some solace in that. Other days it buggered the living hell out of him.
But for now neither of them had a choice. They must be together, work together, join together for the single purpose of destroying Cabhan, for defeating him, for ending him.
So he worked with her, through argument and agreement, in her lovely workshop over endless cups of tea—and finally a bit of whiskey in it—poring over the books, writing out a new spell neither of them was satisfied with, and again, going over every step of the two previous battles.
And neither of them devised anything new, found another answer.
She was the canniest witch he knew—and all too often the strictest in her ethics. And beautiful with it. Not just the face and form, all that glorious hair, those warm gray eyes. What she was, the power and presence of it, added more, and her unstinting devotion to her craft, to her gift—to family—more still.
He was doomed to love her.
So he worked with her, then paid for the candles—full price, he thought with amusement, for the gods knew Branna O’Dwyer was a practical witch, and left her to drive home through the steady rain.
He checked on Maggie first, pleased with her progress. He gave the sweet-natured mare half an apple and some of his time and attention. He visited the rest of the horses, giving them time as well. He had pride in what he’d built here, in what he and Boyle had built here and at the rental stables. Pride, too, in the falconry school nearby.
Connor ran it like a dream, Fin thought.
If not for Cabhan, he could leave tomorrow for India or Africa, for America or Istanbul, and know Boyle and Connor would take care of all they’d built.
Once Cabhan was done, he’d do just that. Pick a spot on the map, and go. Get away, see something new. Anything but here for a bit, for here was all he loved far too deeply.
He gave the little stable dog Bugs a treat, then on impulse picked him up, took him along to the house. Fin imagined they’d both enjoy the company.
He liked his quiet and alone as much as Branna did hers—or nearly. But the nights were so bleeding long in December, and the chill and dark so unrelenting. He couldn’t pop up to Boyle’s above the garage as he’d often done in the past, and he expected Boyle and his Iona would end up at Branna’s even though she tried to discourage it.
They would guard her, as he could not.
That alone stirred rage and frustration he had to shove back down.
He set the dog down inside the house, flicked a hand to the fire to have
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