“We have his blood—from the ground, from the blade,” Fin said. “That adds his power to it, it adds the dark, and the dark we’ll use against him.”
“Cloak the workshop, Connor.” Branna measured salt into the bowl. “Iona, the candles if you will. This time we’ll do it all together as we’re all here, and within a circle.
“Within and without,” she began, “without and within, and here the devil’s end we’ll spin.” Taking up a length of copper, she twisted it into the shape of a man. “In shadows he hides, in shadows we’ll bide and trap his true form inside. There to flame and burn to ash in the spell we cast.”
She set the copper figure on the silver tray with vials, a long crystal sphere, and her oldest athame.
&n
bsp; “We cast the circle.”
Meara had seen the ritual dozens of times, but it always brought a tingle to her skin. The way a wave of the hand would set the wide ring of white candles to flame, and how the air seemed to hush and still within their ring.
Then stir.
The three and Fin stood at the four points of the compass, and each called on the elements, the god and goddesses, their guides.
And the fire Iona conjured burned white, a foot off the floor with the silver bowl suspended over it.
Herbs and crystals, blessed water poured from Branna’s hand—stirred by the air Connor called. Black earth squeezed from Fin’s fist dampened by tears shed by a witch.
And blood.
“From a heart brave and true.” With her ritual knife Iona scored Boyle’s palm. “To mix with mine as one from two.”
And scored her own, pressed her hand to his.
“Life and light, burning bright,” she said as she let the mixed blood slide into the bowl.
Connor took Meara’s hand, kissed her palm. “From a heart loyal and strong.” He scored her palm, his. “Join with mine to right the wrong. Life and light, burning bright.”
Branna turned to Fin, started to take his hand, but he drew it back, and pulled down the shoulder of his shirt.
“Take it from the mark.”
When she shook her head, he gripped her knife hand by the wrist. “From the mark.”
“As you say.”
She laid the blade on the pentagram, his curse and heritage.
“Blood that runs from this mark, mix with mine. White and dark.” When she laid her cut hand on his shoulder, flesh to flesh, blood to blood, the candle flames shot high, and the air trembled.
“Dark and white, power and might, light and life burning bright.”
The blood ran in a thin river down her hand, into the bowl. The potion boiled, churned, spewing smoke.
“In the name of Sorcha, all who came before, all who came after, we join our power to make this fight. We cast thee out of shadow and into light.”
She tossed the copper figure into the bubbling potion, where it flashed—orange and gold and red flame, a roar like a whirlwind, a thousand voices calling through it.
Then a silence so profound it trembled.
Branna looked into the bowl, breathed out. “It’s right. This is right. This can end him.”
“Should I release the fire?” Iona asked her.
“We’ll leave it to simmer, one hour, then off the flame overnight to cure. And on Samhain, we choke him with it.”