Page 67 of Resurrecting the Witch
No one would be able to protect Haven Pass. Even banded together, I held all the magick in my veins.
I had been so selfish, I fully realized in that moment.
I heard Anya chuckle in my head, telling me “I told you so, girl” in the way only she could manage.
I was brought back to the present, feeling Orla’s bony finger caress my cheek. Her touch lit a fire in me that I thought had been extinguished after hunting down every last member of the Jacobs’s coven and slaughtering them.
“Are you ready to come home with me and share that beautiful magick, you Ó Cuinn filth? You shouldn’t be so selfish and keep it to yourself. I knew your gran, you know. Did she ever tell you about me? How she had been such a greedy thing with her own magick, refusing to aid us in our war? Even though her coven had enough magick to let the sídhe prosper for centuries and completely wipe out any threat.”
Orla circled before stopping in front of me, forcing my frozen gaze into her own. “She is the reason you are going to come with me today. You will be my new perfect captive and, as a bonus, a way to keep Patrick in line and join me again like he should have when I woke his ass up from the grave. Your pathetic family always have a way of ruining everything I try to do. First Bryg and her bastard mates, then you hoarding magick on this island like you have any right.
“Even your disaster of a mother knew you were a selfish bitch and helped me until she served her purpose and became useless like every other member of your dead family.”
My magick swirled back to life in my heart, the beat of it returning suddenly and pushing it out into the rest of my body.
“You will give me your magick, little witch, if it is the last thing you do.”
“Poor choice of words,” I croaked out. Orla’s black eyes went wide as pure green magick shot out of the palms of my hands facing her chest. She shot back against the cave wall, but I didn’t stop.
The surrounding world was gone from me and the only thing I knew was this pure, sweet power. The dirt and grass swirled in my mind. I felt the soil cloying under my skin, begging to grow whatever I needed. It didn’t overtake me like it had since my family was killed. Instead, I was commanding it. Every time it started to shift away from me, a new pulse of energy helped keep me in check. Grounding me in the present and feeding my magick the necessary roots to tether it to me.
Hands.
I realized that was what I felt, almost like they were holding me back.
Or holding me together as the magick threatened to tear me apart.
Anytime it felt like it was getting out of my control another hand landed on my flesh, bringing me back to the present and concentrating into the power.
I poured more and more of the energy through my arms and stretched it out of my palms, burning away Orla’s flesh as her mouth went wide in a soundless scream. Her skin turned bright red before ripping away from her completely. Then bits of her flesh flew to hit the cave wall behind her, painting a pretty crimson picture of what happened when you threatened my family.
Next her bones, which I ground to dust, willing a wind to take them toward the splattered parts of her body.
Soon, there was nothing left of Orla except the painting of blood and bone dust on the wall, along with the sinew littering the cave floor where she had stood moments before.
I withdrew my magick, taking a deep breath, but didn’t come fully back into myself. I felt hands squeezing me everywhere, several pairs, big and small, grabbing my legs, my arms, even the back of my neck.
“Feck me, Patrick, your mate is a badass.” I heard an Irish voice I didn’t recognize mutter.
“I’m drained just touchin’ the lass,” Rory said.
“She’s about to pass out,” Lennox told the rest of them.
In the next second, my vision went black.
Again.
Chapter 22
One year ago today I’d woken up in my own grave and had to dig myself out.
I never imagined this new life would have led me to this island in the Pacific, let alone to finding my true mate.
“I said sit on my feckin’ face, Cliona.” I grabbed the sides of her full hips hard enough to leave bruises, ensuring she’d remember what happened when she disobeyed me.
“I am,” she whined.
She wasn’t.
