“I believe I’ve narrowed it down.” Dubheasa opened her laptop and gave everyone gathered a cursory glance. “I’ve taken the list Alastair gave me, and I’ve worked out a pattern based on dates and locations where the known witches went missing.”
“And does the path of abducted witches lead to Scotland, cher?” Draven asked as he pulled a flask from beneath his leather duster.
“Aye, it does. In a roundabout way.” She turned the laptop to face their group. “I’ve placed pins along the route. But there’s a discrepancy a few weeks back, in America and again in Ireland, close to the Sullivan estate.”
“No. Those timelines actually match,” Eoin replied. He glanced at Brenna. “That should be about the time Loman thought to take on your Aunt Odessa, yeah?”
She leaned closer to see the first of the two pins. “Yes. That’s close to Odessa’s house. She said Moira and Loman paid her a visit. I imagine those dates would match.” Looking reluctant, she offered to call her aunt.
“No need,” Damian told her. “It’s too much of a coincidence for it to be anything else.”
“Would any of those poor bastards on the island still be alive?” Trevor asked. “Weeks of having their magic drained in any fashion would weaken them to the extreme.”
Alastair’s expression was so grim it turned Dubheasa’s stomach. She could already guess what he intended to say. When he spoke, he confirmed her thoughts. “Some will have perished in the process. It’s torturous.”
“Is that what happened to you, then? Was your magic drained?” Not quite certain where she found the courage to ask Alastair Thorne so personal a question, Dubheasa waited nervously for his answer. If he had come through such an experience, there could be hope for others.
“Not quite. The men who ran the place had other plans for me. I was moved frequently, so no one could get a bead on my location and form a rescue. The idea was to make everyone assume I’d died.” When he continued, the bleakness in his eyes chilled Dubheasa. “I was held for a number of years, but only six months of my incarceration were spent on the island. A huge portion of my time as a prisoner was at a monastery in the Himalayas.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Mr. Thorne.” Her heart ached for him. Though his eyes were frosty in the retelling, the brief look of desolation that crossed his face spoke of his helplessness.
“Thank you, child. But it was a long time ago. The biggest concern is rescuing anyone still alive.”
Tapping the last pin on the onscreen map, Dubheasa cleared her throat and got back to the point she wanted to make. “And this is our best clue as to the location of the island. That person was reported missing two days ago. Do any of you notice the pattern here?”
“Aye. It forms a wide arch around the coastline. Starting there and ending here.” Ronan pointed. “Sure, and if I had to guess, the island is close to the middle of the C.”
Beaming at him for his clever mind, she nodded. “It’s as if he tried to avoid abducting anyone too close by, not wanting to give himself away, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ronan’s smile was savage. “But he didn’t count on your skills, love.”
“We haven’t found the place yet, but look.” She typed in a code, and the weather patterns for the last few months overlaid the map. “Notice the fog? It’s not typical for Scotland during that season. Yet every time it rolls in, it’s within hours of an abduction, and only in the area of the coast.”
Castor laughed. “To hide his comings and goings. Looks like my brother isn’t as brilliant as he’d like to think. Is he?”
“Oh, I don’t know. To my knowledge, Loman O’Connor doesn’t make fatal mistakes,” Damian said slowly as he narrowed his eyes and studied the screen. “Will you do me a favor, Ms. O’Malley? Reveal the weather patterns for this area on the opposite coastline, between Ireland and Scotland. I’d like to see if they match what you’ve come up with.”
“What are you thinking, Dethridge?” Alastair asked.
“That perhaps Loman is smarter than we’ve given him credit for.” Damian lifted his tea and drained the cup, then set it down with deliberate care as if the group wasn’t waiting with bated breath for him to reveal his thought process. Finally, he said, “If it were me, I’d throw a red herring into the mix. It’s possible his fortress is on the other side of Scotland, well away from any notable activity.”
It hadn’t occurred to Dubheasa to check disturbances on the opposite side of the country. Once she found the original pattern, she’d reached the same conclusion as Ronan. Now, she was kicking herself for not putting more effort into the project.
Turning the laptop around, she began the process of discovery. First, she checked for private or hidden islands rumored to be in the area the Aether had indicated. Then she overlaid the weather as she’d done for the first map. The timing of the rain and fog was suspect in that each occurrence was always within minutes of the weather pattern in her first compilation.
“Here.” She shifted the screen so Damian could see it.
“Only in that particular spot, and so fleeting you’d not notice it if you weren’t specifically looking.” He gave her an approving smile. “Well done, Ms. O’Malley.”
To the others, he said, “In the morning, we’ll split into two groups. One will check out the original area Ms. O’Malley mapped out, and one will investigate the other location.” Damian met Ronan’s eyes. “I believe you, Quentin, and the Seer should attempt to contact Reggie, in the meantime.”
* * *
After their group had agreed on a time for their late-morning mission and disbanded, Ronan, along with Fintan, Dubheasa, Castor, and Quentin, adjourned to the sitting room.
“What’s our best course of action here?” Quentin asked his father. “Do we use the O’Malley ceremony room, or should we just try to dial into Reggie from here?”
Castor sent a speculative glance in Fintan’s direction. “I think the person we should ask is the Seer.”
As Fintan opened Reggie’s book and reviewed each page preceding the one they’d been instructed to use, Ronan watched him carefully, searching for any sign that creating a communication line was a bad idea.
Fintan spoke without bothering to look up. “Here is grand. I don’t think a protection spell is necessary, but if it would please the lot of ya, we can do it all the same.”
“I’d rather we not have everyone traipsing about where they don’t need to,” Dubheasa said. “But I’ll concede to a majority vote.”
Ronan understood her reticence when it came to allowing others to dabble in her family’s sacred space. He’d been mighty protective of his own in the past. Not that he truly had anywhere to call his home anymore. Since Loman first returned to Ireland looking for the Sword of Goibhniu, Ronan had been hopscotching around the country and the United Kingdom in an effort to outrun his father. When he was afforded the gifts of a Guardian, he’d been able to stop running. Most recently, he’d resided in the guesthouse on the Dethridge estate to be available to protect Sabrina. And still, he preferred his privacy when he could get it.
Castor rose and crossed to the sideboard. Having previously stayed at the Black Cat Inn, he knew exactly where to go for fortification. After he helped himself to a drink, he said, “Let’s get started, shall we?”
“You should check page forty-one to see if Reggie sent you a message first,” Quentin suggested.
Fintan flipped a few pages and shook his head. “Not yet, and here goes nothing, yeah?” With a healthy sigh, he held his hand flat above the page, and words began to form.
Ronan read over his shoulder. “Be sure to ask how many mercenaries my da has workin’ for him.”
“And how many witches are being held,” Dubheasa added. “We’ll need to have a healer when we stage a rescue.”
Castor frowned and opened his mouth, but Ronan cut him off with a minuscule shake of his head.
“I don’t know that there’ll be anyone left to rescue, Dove,” he said gently. “If my da hasn’t drained them dry by now, they may be casualties in the longer game.”
She stared at him as if uncomprehending his meaning.
“He means we may have to bomb the island,” Quentin said.
“But all those innocent people!”
Her horrified expression cut Ronan to the quick, but they had a job to do—stop Loman O’Connor. Permanently.
Castor squatted in front of her where she sat, his stare solemn. “We’ll save who we can, but you have to be prepared, Ms. O’Malley. Not everyone is getting out of this alive. Part of our own team might not make it.”
Her wide-eyed gaze snapped to Ronan. “Fintan said the only way to save my life was to bind my power, not add to it. What if we hired nonmagicial mercenaries?”
“My da would wipe out the lot of them,” Ronan said flatly.
“Then what about a temporary binding of all our powers? He can’t steal what we don’t have.”
“And have us be powerless against him? Are ya mad, woman?”
Surging to her feet, she nearly knocked Castor on his arse to get to Ronan. In three long-legged strides, she was in front of him, ready to do battle. And damned if she wasn’t a fierce sight! Passions high and green eyes snapping, she seemed prepared to tear his head from his shoulders.
Ronan fought a grin as he held up his hands in surrender. “Now, Dove, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
“And what way was it supposed to be soundin’? Because from my side of the conversation, it sounded like you were after being an eejit!”
There was a laughing snort behind him, and while normally Ronan would’ve given the snorter what for, he ignored Quentin to placate Dubheasa. “Sure, and I’ll be admittin’ you’re right, love. I was definitely an eejit.” As some of her anger dissipated, Ronan wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her flush against him. “It’s after apologizing, I am.”
“P-whipped,” Quentin coughed into his hand.
Again, Ronan disregarded his cousin. “Please say you forgive me, Dove.”
For one delicious moment, she softened against him, but in the next instant, she leaned back, her palms planted firmly against his chest. “What’s this, then? Are you using your special brand of influence to sway me?”
“If that’s code for the two of you making out, I’m going to need eye bleach,” Quentin quipped.
With a warning glare over his shoulder, Ronan addressed him. “If you don’t shut the feck up, I’ll be littering the field down the lane with what’s left of your remains.”
“Can’t. You need my ability to stop time.”
“Anythin’ you can do, I’m wagering your da can do better.”
Castor grinned. “It does my heart good to see you boys getting along so well, but we need to return to the main issue.” To Dubheasa, he said, “Your boyfriend’s balls might shrivel up at the idea of angering you, but he wasn’t wrong to say you’re nuts if you think to go up against my brother without any magical backup.”
She stiffened within the circle of Ronan’s arms. “So I can’t face him with magic, according to Fintan, but you’re telling me I can’t face him without it. What’s it to be, then?”
“You don’t confront him at all.” Castor was deadly serious, and Ronan silently but wholeheartedly agreed with his uncle’s declaration. He didn’t want her anywhere near his father.
“We still haven’t found Loman’s lair, Dubheasa,” Quentin added. “So all this is a moot point.”
She spun back around in Ronan’s arms and gazed up into his face, searching for what, Ronan didn’t know. He hated how unsettled she appeared, and he desperately wanted to soothe her mind.
“He’s right, love. There’s no sense worrying until we have our sights on the island.”
“Ronan—”
He placed a fingertip over her parted lips. “Please, Dove. I’m not interested in fighting with you when we don’t know what our next move is.” He replaced his finger with his mouth, giving her a light, lingering kiss. Lowering his voice for her ears alone, he said, “And I’ll never use my influence on you. Your thoughts are your own. Always.”
Before she could respond, Fintan spoke up. “Look, and Loman’s prisoner count could be higher than Dubheasa has marked on that map of hers.”