“Nothing’s wrong. I was . . . noticing the cottage there. They’ve a fine menu. Maybe after your lesson, you’d like to have some dinner there.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “With you?”
His frown only deepened. “Well, of course, with me. Who else?”
“There’s no one else,” she said simply. “I’d love to. I could be ready by seven or seven thirty.”
“Half-seven’s good. I’ll book it, and fetch you.”
“That sounds grand, too.”
As they slipped into the woods, into the dimmer light, she began a mental inventory of her wardrobe. What should she wear? Nothing too fancy, but not jeans or trousers. Maybe Branna could help her out there, as her options were limited.
Something simple, but pretty. Heels, not boots. Her legs were damn good if she said so herself. She’d like to dazzle him, at least a little, so—
Alastar shied; Darling reared.
And the wolf stepped across the path.
Her thoughts centered on the safety of the horses, Iona didn’t think, just acted. She streamed a line of fire across the path between them.
“It won’t hurt you. I won’t let it hurt you.”
Boyle drew a knife from a sheath on his belt she hadn’t noticed. “He bloody well won’t.”
“Don’t dismount!” Iona shouted, anticipating. “She’s terrified. She’ll bolt, and it might get to her. You have to hold her, Boyle.”
“Take her reins, talk her down, and get them safe. I’ll hold it off.”
“Separating us makes us easier prey.” It’s what it wanted, hoped for—she could feel it. “Trust me, please. Please.”
And struggling to focus, she murmured, her voice quiet, steady, an incantation she learned from the books. One still untried.
The wolf lunged at the line of fire, looking for an opening. With its fierce charge the flames dimmed, lowered.
Gripping the reins in one hand, Iona lifted the other high.
“From north and south, from east and west, bring on the wind for this contest. Strike up the power, bring on the fire until the tower whirls higher and higher. Blow strong, blow fierce, blow wild and free. As I will, so mote it be.
“You think I don’t have it,” she said between her teeth. “You’re wrong.”
Above, the sky churned, and with her lifted hand she balled a fist, as if pulling the flame-edged whirlwind that formed into her fingers.
She flung out her arm, sent a raging funnel of wind through the fire.
It lifted the wolf off its feet, threw it up as it screamed in rage. And she hoped, in fear. It spun, claws lashing air as it bore him up and away.
Iona fought to control what she’d conjured, felt it building beyond her. A tree snapped, collapsed into jagged splinters.
“Take it down.” Boyle’s voice came steady in her ear. “It’s more than you need, and too much. Take it down again now, Iona, as only you can. Let it calm. Let it go.”
A line of sweat beaded down her back as she fought to do just that. The roar of the wind began to fade, the impossible swirl of it to slow.
“All the way down now, Iona.”
“I’m trying. It’s so strong.”
“It’s you who made it. It’s you who’s strong.”