She hadn’t expected the pain.
It felt as if her skin was being peeled back and her insides were being removed excruciatingly slow with a pair of tweezers. Agonizing and time-consuming was the magic-removal process, and if she never experienced it again, it wouldn’t hurt her damned feelings.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Ronan struggle with acceptance. Her terrible discomfort was mild in comparison to the torture he was going through as he watched her writhe on the altar. Alastair had physically restrained him a time or ten.
Just as she thought she couldn’t endure another second, relief came in a wash of cool breeze. Almost too cool, and she shivered from the chilly morning air. From nowhere, Damian produced a heavy wool blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“You’ll feel incredibly cold for a while, and perhaps a little desolate,” he explained kindly. “It will be as if you’re missing a piece of yourself. In another hour, you’ll come to terms with the oddness of the sensation, and you’ll be as you were prior to receiving the O’Malley magic after the prophesy was fulfilled.”
“I’ll be grand,” she promised. “Thank you.”
His perturbed gaze darted toward Ronan and returned to her. “Be careful, Dubheasa. Ronan believes I know what’s to come, and to a degree, I do. The future, however, is fluid, and any small misstep can alter a timeline. It might be difficult to repair that gaffe.”
She nodded her understanding and thanked him when he assisted her off the stone altar.
Ronan rushed to her and swept her into a tight hug. “How are you feeling, love? Are you all right?”
“Other than being suffocated by a giant oaf of a man?”
Cupping her face, he kissed her hard and fast. “You’re a right gas.”
“You’re next, lover boy,” Damian informed him. “Get comfortable.”
“I’ve been through this with you before, and it wouldn’t hurt you to be gentle this time,” Ronan muttered.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Alastair quipped.
“There are times I hate you both.” Glaring, Ronan lay back on the slab and wiggled to get comfortable as the others laughed.
“Do you need me to hold your hand?” Dubheasa asked with a wicked grin as she leaned in and stroked his brow.
“You’re after vexing me, woman, and I’ll not have it,” he growled as he wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her closer. “It’s time you learn who’s to be the boss of this relationship.”
With a disbelieving snort, she cradled his face, dropping her blanket in the process. “I already know who the boss is, and so do you. But I’ll be sure to remind you whenever you’re after forgetting.”
Her sassy comeback made him laugh, and as he pushed the sweat-soaked hair back from her chilled face, he gave her the gift of warmth with his touch. “Aye. I’ll need reminding from time to time.” Gaze locked on hers, he brushed his knuckles along her cheekbone. “I love you,” he told her in a low voice.
The kiss she bestowed on him was the sweetest they’d shared yet, and her heart felt full to overflowing.
“Try not to scream like a baby,” she said tartly.
He groaned and shooed her away. “Go on with you, shrew.”
After bending to retrieve the blanket, she backed to the spot where he and Alastair had stood during her binding, never breaking eye contact with Ronan.
Two minutes after the Aether began the process for Ronan, his body arched upward as his mouth opened in a silent scream, and Dubheasa struggled against the urge to run to him and ease his suffering.
Having gone through such a painful process, it was difficult to stand by and not do something.
“I understand your desire to go to him, but don’t,” Alastair said from beside her. “If he flails out, you could be injured.”
“It’s awful to watch.”
“It is, indeed.”
“Why is there no numbing spell to ease the discomfort?” she asked desperately.
“Actually, Damian has experimented with them in the past, but it delays the extraction, and the removal of magic takes twice as long.”
Somewhat appeased, she gave in to her curiosity. “Why is there pain to begin with?”
“Our magic is woven into our DNA. Essentially, we’re born with it.”
“But I wasn’t.”
His brows drew together in a deep frown of concentration, as if he searched for a way to explain. Finally, he said, “Technically, you were. When you descend from a magical family, the potential is always there. Yours was suppressed due to a curse, but when it was lifted, you likely experienced an infusion of power.” He smiled down at her. “If I had to guess, it was eye-opening. The world became brighter, and the auras of those around you were no longer muted and muddy. Your senses became sharper, no?”
Thinking back, she nodded slowly. “Yes. It happened just like that. A surge of heat throughout my body, as if my very cells had caught fire.”
“Precisely. And they did. It’s why the removal left you chilled.”
“So it’s not the damp air, but the fire gone out?”
“A combination of both, I imagine,” he said. Opening his mouth, he was cut off by Ronan’s muffled scream.
When she would’ve rushed forward, Alastair stopped her with a hand on her arm.
She released a savage curse under her breath and brushed him off. “I’ll do better.”
“Why don’t you take a walk around the perimeter of the stones? It might help.”
“I don’t want to leave him.”
“Your young man’s abilities are hundreds of times stronger than yours and their removal, a thousand times worse. He isn’t aware of your presence, my dear.”
His encouraging look and another agonized cry from Ronan convinced her Alastair’s suggestion was a good one.
“Ms. O’Malley?”
She cast a questioning glance over her shoulder.
“Please stay within the garden walls,” Alastair said. “Damian has warded this area against attack, but you can never be too careful.”
Nodding, she drew the wool blanket tighter around her and strolled away. Not usually one for prayers, she sent a silent one up to Anu, asking for her to watch over Ronan.
* * *
Tombstones dotted the garden, each with its own separate climbing rosebush with blood-red blooms the size of both Dubheasa’s hands put together. Cautiously, she brushed her fingertips across a velvety petal of the one closest to her.
Smiling at the sensation, she read the name on the headstone in front of a cracked and vine-covered tomb.
Isolde de Thorne.
Damian’s mother.
“She’s not there, you know,” a young voice said from behind her.
Dubheasa half turned and met the dark eyes of Damian’s daughter, Sabrina. “So I’ve been told.” She cocked her head and smiled. “Would you care to tell me about her?”
With no further encouragement needed, the young girl regaled her with stories of the Enchantress and the epic battle when she’d returned to possess Baz’s wife, Mackenzie Thorne-Drake.
“That sounds dreadful!” Dubheasa exclaimed. “And you say you were cast into the Otherworld when your da fought her?”
“Yes. Watch. I can conjure lightning, too.” Holding out her small hand, Sabrina closed her eyes.
The atmosphere grew heavy, and blue light, like mini lightning bolts, crackled over the center of her palm. She made a fist and opened her eyes to stare at Dubheasa. A soft red glow was visible for an instant before it faded out, restoring her pupils to normal.
“That’s called channeling electricity,” Sabrina informed her proudly. “I’ve been practicing with Papa.”
“Sure, and I admit to being suitably impressed.”
“Ronan calls me ‘wee wild beastie,’ and you can, too, if you want.”
Dubheasa laughed. “He might get salty if I borrowed your nickname to use, don’t you think?”
“He never gets mad.” With a sharp look toward the altar, Sabrina sighed. “Or he didn’t.”
Kneeling in front of her, she met the child’s too-serious gaze. “Are you afraid he will in the future, sweetie?”
“Papa gets cross if I say.” Withdrawing a necklace from the pocket of her coat, she gave it to Dubheasa. “This is for you, Ms. Dovie.”
The pendant was lovely in its simplicity. A perfectly oval ruby gemstone, roughly the width of a small egg, was set in platinum metal and surrounded by a plethora of Pavé-style diamonds. The piece had an ageless quality to it, and an odd vibration flowed through to her hand.
“Yeah, and this looks too valuable for you to give to a stranger. I think you should ask your mam or da before giving away family heirlooms.”
“It’s not a hair-loom.”
“Heirloom. It means it’s old and meant to be treasured.”
A slight frown marred her elfin-like face, but an instant later, she shrugged carelessly. “Isis said to give it to you, and when the time comes, you’ll know what to do with it.”
“But—” The question died on Dubheasa’s lips as the child disappeared. With a sigh, she slipped it over her head. When Damian was finished with Ronan, she’d ask him what he knew.