“Ronan. I was hoping you’d come looking for me.”
Ronan stared at Fintan in alarm as his cousin’s voice spilled out of the Seer’s mouth. Never had he seen a possession, and witnessing one now made his bollocks shrivel. “Reg?” His voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Reggie?”
“I’ve limited time, so listen closely. I enchanted my flat so you could enter and we could have this little chat. Pick up the fallen book.”
Quentin left him holding Fintan to retrieve it, then handed it off and exchanged places with Ronan.
“Keep it at all times. Whenever you need to contact me, give it to the Seer and have him turn to page thirty-seven. It’s a blank page for him to write his questions. I…”
The pause was so long that Ronan worried the connection was severed. “Reg?”
After half a minute, Fintan spoke again in Reggie’s hushed tones. “Loman is walking the cellblock where I’m being held. Write your questions on page thirty-seven and look for the responses on page forty-one. If there are none, I’ve been caught out.”
“Where are ya being held?”
“An island off the coast of Scotland. I don’t know the exact location. But it was a stronghold used by the Dés—fuck! Page thirty-seven,” Reggie reiterated.
Fintan’s body arched up, and his opaque eyes snapped shut.
“I think he’s gone,” Quentin said slowly with a glance toward the tome in Ronan’s hands. “The dude is brilliant.”
“Aye, he’s a crafty one, to be sure.” With a nod to Fintan, Ronan said, “Let’s get him back to the Aether. Maybe—”
The next instant, Fintan came up swinging. Ronan, unprepared for the attack, caught a fist to the jaw, which snapped his head back on his shoulders. Before Fintan had a chance to strike a second time, Quentin froze the man in place, allowing Ronan to scramble out of reach.
“Jaysus!”
“I was about to say the same thing,” Quentin replied dryly. “Okay, I’m going to release him. Be prepared.”
A resounding pop sounded in Ronan’s ears, and he startled at the loudness.
Snarling and ready to continue his fight, Fintan jumped to his feet and looked around wildly. “What did ya do to me, then?”
“Not a damned thing,” Quentin told him. “Seriously, man. Your eyes rolled back in your head, and you began channeling Reggie. It was freaky as fuck.”
The sincerity must’ve gotten through because the fight left the Seer and he gave Quentin a cautious nod. “Aye. Freaky as feck for me, too.”
Ronan took a tentative step forward. “You’ve never had that happen, then?”
“No. And I can’t say as I liked it, to be sure.” Fintan gave a full-body shiver and shook his hands out. “What was said?”
“You’re to communicate with Reggie through the book there.” Ronan nodded to the discarded tome. “Page thirty-seven for your questions, with the answers comin’ back to ya on page forty-one.”
“Me? Ach, and why not you?” Fintan’s dark, put-upon scowl almost made Ronan laugh.
“Sure, and we’ll not be knowin’ that until you write to my cousin, now will we?”
“I feckin’ despise the bleedin’ cloak-and-dagger shite, I do.” The Seer snatched the thick book from the ground and promptly dropped it again with a yelp followed by a savage curse. His palms were a deep scarlet. “The fucking thing burned me!”
“May I?” Ronan nodded to Fintan’s blistering hands. “I can heal ya if you’re of a mind.”
In his mind’s eye, Ronan visualized the bubbled skin smoothing and returning to a standard flesh color as he pulled the heat and pushed a cooling breeze across the angry marks. With each minute that passed, Fintan’s palms returned to normal.
“Thank you, O’Connor,” Fintan said gruffly. “I’ve not much call to ask for the assistance of others, but I’m appreciative, all the same.”
“You can be prepared to return the favor, yeah?”
Tentatively, Ronan reached out a hand to lift the book from the ground. Though warm to the touch, it didn’t sear his skin as it had Fintan’s. With a sharp look at Quentin, he asked, “Did you feel anythin’ when ya picked it up?”
“It got warm, but it didn’t burn me.”
“Will ya touch it now?”
Cautiously, Quentin did as he asked, shrugging when he had the tome firmly in his grasp. “Warm still, but no searing heat.”
“It’s feckin’ blood magic, it is.” Fintan strode to the shelf the book had originally fallen from. “Ronan, pick up the athame and prick your finger. I’ll need three nice-sized drops in a glass.”
After he’d done as the Seer commanded, Ronan faced him. “What’s next?”
“Do the same to your cousin.”
Quentin didn’t appear thrilled. “I don’t participate in blood magic.”
“You’ll be participatin’ in this one if ya want me fecking help,” Fintan snapped. His pale eyes turned the churning shades of the angry sea during a hurricane. “I’m not fond of the bleedin’ process either, but your schemin’ cousin has given us no choice.”
“Tell me what you’re attempting, and perhaps I’ll participate.”
Ronan noted the steely tone and Quentin’s equally hardened expression. With all his standard teasing aside, Quentin Buchanan looked like a vengeful god. An immovable, stubborn-as-hell deity who would rather smite the lot of them than give a single drop of his life’s blood. Knowing how precious it could be and exactly how easily one’s own blood could be used against them, Ronan was sympathetic to his cousin’s plight. But they also had a job to do.
“Look, and can we take all this back to the inn and have Castor contribute to your spell instead?” Ronan asked Fintan.
“There’s danger in delayin’ and in the moving of tools we intend to use. It’s best to complete the spell here, where the original was cast.” After a deep sigh, Fintan faced Quentin. “Sure, and I understand your reticence, I do. But the only way I’ll be able to access that book is to use blood magic from two of Reggie’s relatives. You and Ronan.”
“The process,” Quentin barked.
The man wasn’t budging when it came to knowing what he was getting into, and Ronan couldn’t blame him. If he wasn’t fearful that Reg might not make it out of his prison alive and of not stopping Loman, he wouldn’t so readily have offered up his own blood.
“’Tis simple, really. After Ronan pricks your finger and your blood combines, I’ll consume it, so it will be minglin’ with mine.” Fintan never broke eye contact with Quentin. “It should trick the feckin’ book into allowing me to handle it, short term, until your blood is out of my system.”
“You’ll drink it? That’s it?”
“Aye.”
“Goddammit, I hate this.” Quentin ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair and laced his hands behind his head as he began to pace.
Both Ronan and Fintan allowed him the time he needed to come to the right decision.
Finally, Quentin stopped in front of Ronan and held out his hand, shooting a warning look at Fintan. “If this backfires and affects my family in any way, I’ll crucify the lot of you. Understand?”
For the first time, Ronan saw Fintan’s expression soften. “Your children will never have anything to fear from me, Quentin Buchanan.”
“Children? I only have a daughter—ah.” Quentin smiled wryly. “Well, at least you told me I’ll make it out of this particular battle in one piece.”
With a half smile as acknowledgment, Fintan turned and met Ronan’s watchful gaze. “Begin.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes after they’d finished the quick blood-letting ritual and confirmed Fintan could handle the enchanted book, Quentin washed the athame clean, salted it, and returned it to Ronan to hide on Reggie’s shelf. Ronan was careful to tuck it behind a collection of Shakespeare’s works, knowing if Loman or his minions ever managed to break in, it might be the last place he’d think to look for any ceremonial tools. One could never be too cautious with his da.
They arrived at the Black Cat Inn just as Dubheasa was joining Trevor and her siblings.
Her voice was breathy and sweet when she said, “Hi.”
Jaysus! How the hell could she take him out at the knees with one sexy-sounding word? How did one warm smile make him want to grovel at her feet and promise her the moon and stars if she’d smile like that at him for the rest of their lives? Crossing to her, he tenderly traced the line of her mouth with his fingertips.
“Hello, Dove,” he replied huskily.
Dubheasa licked her lips and shivered, assuring him he wasn’t the only one so greatly affected. Her response reminded him of their dinner date and how she’d readily agreed to become his lover. Wanting nothing more than to steal her away for a repeat performance of their first time, Ronan barely held himself in check. With her, he could forget about warring families and monstrous parents. And if he could, he’d spend the next year in bed with her, only leaving it for necessities. He’d explore every square inch of her porcelain skin… taste her…
Someone cleared their throat, but Ronan continued to drown in Dubheasa’s incredible eyes.
“What did you find out about Reggie, O’Connor?” Eoin asked.
Ignoring Eoin, Ronan brushed his lips across Dubheasa’s, capturing her soundless moan.
“O’Connor!”
Dubheasa blinked, releasing Ronan from under her spell. Scowling, he faced Cian. “Ya can’t wait a bleedin’ second for me to greet me mate with a simple kiss?”
Cian’s lips twitched as the rest of their group chuckled. “I was afraid you were after shagging her where you stood.”
“Feck off.”
But her brother had read Ronan’s intent correctly. His restraint had frayed, and he’d been one second from teleporting her to his room.
Eoin shared an amused look with Cian. “Sure, and I’ll ask again. What did you find out about Reggie?”
“He’s being held by Loman on an island somewhere in Scotland,” Quentin answered for Ronan, not bothering to lift his head from whatever held his attention on the screen of his phone. “Fintan has the means to communicate with him.”
“What island?” Alastair nearly came out of his seat, but Damian placed a restraining hand on his arm.
The sharp bite of Alastair’s question caught Quentin’s attention as quickly as it had Ronan’s. “He didn’t say. Only that he was being held in a prison that was once a stronghold for someone other than Loman. It sounded like Reggie intended to say the Désorceler Society, but I can’t be sure.” He held up his smartphone. “I’ve been searching Google Earth, looking for any sign of a private island.”
“What’s the Désorceler Society?” Brenna asked.
“It was a group dedicated to eradicating witches, Thorne witches specifically,” Alastair replied, and his tone was decidedly grim.
Ronan hadn’t made the connection earlier when Reggie contacted them, but now that Quentin had mentioned the name of the disbanded organization, it somehow seemed to fit. “My da told me the tale of working with them. I’m not certain it was voluntarily, but it might’ve been, all the same. Never a day passed when he didn’t curse the name of their leaders. He had a powerful fierce hatred for them all.”
Alastair and Damian shared a worried look, but it was Castor who spoke. “If it’s the island the three of us believe it is, the place is a fortress. No one comes or goes without being seen.”
“The cells are a primary concern,” Alastair added. “They were designed to rip away a witch’s gifts and power a central magical grid to feed into another source. Usually someone without abilities.”
“If Loman has working knowledge of that prison, we’re fucked.” Castor scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands. “Christ, what a mess!” Addressing Ronan directly, he said, “If your cousin is there, the chances of him getting out alive are slim to none.”
Though they’d never been close, Ronan’s chest tightened at the thought of Reggie meeting such a fate at Loman’s hands. Dubheasa clasped Ronan’s fingers and squeezed, and the gesture eased the constriction and allowed him a steadying breath.
“We have to at least try.”
Castor addressed Alastair, his expression bordering on worried. “Are you up to revisiting the place, Al?”
“I thought I’d seen the last of it, but I don’t see where we have a choice, do we? Still, we need a location before we attempt any heroic acts.”