Free Dark Witch by Nora Roberts

lashed out, fingers going to claws, and scored their grooves in the back of her hand.
    Damned to you and all your blood. I will crush you in my fists, wring what you are out into a silver cup. And drink.
    “My blood will send you to hell.” She struck out with her bleeding hand, driving her power through it.
    But the fog collapsed so she struck only air. The red stone pulsed, pulsed, then vanished.
    “My blood will send you to hell,” she repeated.
    And in the dream he seemed to stare at Iona, into her eyes. Into her spirit.
    “It is not for me, in this time, in this place. But for you in yours. Remember.”
    And cradling her wounded hand, called to her horse.
    She mounted. She turned once to look at the stone, the flowers, the home she’d once known.
    “On my oath, on my love, we will not fail though it takes a thousand lifetimes.” She laid her hand on her belly, on the gentle bulge. “There is already another coming.”
    She rode away, through the woods, toward the castle where she and her family were housed.
    Iona woke trembling. Her right hand throbbing with pain, she groped for the light with her left. In its flash she saw the raw gashes, the run of blood. On a shocked cry, she scrambled up, dashed toward the bath, snatching a towel as she lurched toward the sink.
    Before she could wrap the wound, it began to change. She watched in fascinated horror as the gashes in her skin closed, the blood dried, then faded, like the pain. Within seconds she examined her unmarked hand.
    A dream, but not, she thought. A vision? One where she’d been an observer, and somehow a participant.
    She’d
felt
the pain—and the rage, the grief. She’d felt the power, more than she’d ever experienced, more than she’d ever known.
    Teagan’s power?
    Lifting her gaze, Iona studied herself in the mirror, called back the images from the dream. But it
had
been her face . . . hadn’t it? Her build, her coloring.
    But not, she thought now, her voice. Not even her language, though she’d understood every word. Old Gaelic, she assumed.
    She needed to know more, to learn more. To find a way to understand how events that had happened hundreds of years before could draw her in so absolutely that she actually felt genuine pain.
    Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water on her face, caught the time on her watch. Still shy of four A.M ., but she was done with sleep. Her body clock would adjust eventually, and for now she might as well just go with it. Maybe she’d read until sunrise.
    She walked back into the bedroom, started to lift the tea tray she’d ended up sleeping with. And she saw on the lovely white sheets three drops of red. Of blood. Hers, she realized.
    The dream—vision—experience—hadn’t just given her pain. She’d bled in it.
    What kind of power could drag her into her own dreams and cause her to bleed from an ancestor’s wound?
    Leaving the tray where it was, she sat on the side of the bed, brushed her fingers over her throat.
    What if those claws had struck there, slashed her jugular? Would she have died? Could dreams kill?
    No, she didn’t want books, she decided. She wanted answers, and she knew who had them.
    By six, fueled with coffee, she headed out once again past the fountains and flowers and green lawns to the thick woods. This time the light held soft and luminous to drip palely through branches as the wide path narrowed. And this time she saw the signposts for the falconry school, the stables.
    Later that morning, she promised herself, she’d visit both, then top it off with a hike to Cong. But she wouldn’t be put off with a stack of books and a bit of tabletop magick.
    The dream stayed with her so closely she caught herself checking her hand for claw marks.
    A long, high note had her head snapping up, her gaze shooting skyward. The hawk soared across the pale blue, a gorgeous golden brown sweep that circled, then swooped. She swore she heard the wind of its wings as it danced through the