As Castor left to make the call, Ronan crossed to Dubheasa’s cell and sat down beside her. He’d have lifted her head into his lap, but he didn’t want to taint her with his father’s evilness. And by that yardstick, he should probably leave her in peace when Damian restored her soul.
As he contemplated life and death, it occurred to him that the Blane brothers should be able to revive as well as dispatch souls. Death Dealers had the ultimate power when it came to manipulating the living.
“Can you bring her back, Trevor?”
“No.” The gruffness in Blane’s voice spoke of finality.
“Sure, and why not? You’re a bleeding Death Dealer,” Ronan spat. “You hold sway over the living and the dying. Why the fuck not?”
Trevor’s look was one of helplessness. “I’m sorry, O’Connor. It’s not within my ability to do.”
“Not within your ability, or you’re after being the Authority’s fuckin’ puppet?” Ronan challenged with a glare that promised retribution. “She was your fucking friend!”
The air within the cellblock contracted and expanded as the Aether stepped through a rift in the fabric of space. Behind him, Ronan glimpsed the high table of the Authority just before the opening sealed shut.
“I can’t reach...” Castor trailed off as he returned and saw the Aether had already joined them.
“I was unreachable.” Damian didn’t approach Ronan right away, instead strolling the length of the prison, silently absorbing the empty cells and the intricate symbols above the openings. “So much death,” he murmured, trancelike. “And pain.”
Ronan attempted to recall his attention to the immediate issue. “Damian, you need to bring Dove back.”
Ignoring him, the Aether paused to stare dispassionately at Loman. “He’s not presently here, but are you sure you decimated his soul, Blane?”
“It’s done.”
“Thank you.” He nodded to the others. “I’d like you all to leave now. I need to speak with Ronan.”
A warning bell clanked in Ronan’s brain. Damian refused to look at him, and Castor shifted uneasily as he glanced between them. Whatever was about to come out of his friend’s mouth would sever Damian’s and his relationship forever.
Feeling as if he were hundreds of years old, Ronan climbed to his feet and shuffled toward him. “Damian.”
“This conversation needs privacy.”
His heart stopped in his chest at Damian’s severe tone, and he shot a panicked look in Castor’s direction. The rising unhappiness darkened his uncle’s irises to a wintery blue.
“Don’t,” Ronan cried in desperation. “Don’t tell me you won’t bring her back, man. I know ya can.”
Damian’s expression remained aloof, his gaze unfeeling.
Ronan snapped, and in a red haze, he curled his sticky hands in the Pima cotton fabric of Damian’s shirt. “You have the ability! You can pull her back from the Otherworld if you choose.”
“I don’t choose.”
Staggering back, Ronan stared at the man he’d once believed to be his friend. The frosty tone, the finality, the flinty stare… No, it wasn’t Damian, the man. The Aether, the unfeeling judge, jury, and executioner of the witch community, stood in his place.
With jerky movements, his disbelieving gaze still locked on Damian, Ronan turned his head toward Castor. “Reset time, Uncle. I’ll never ask another favor of you, but I’ll be forever in your debt. You’ve only to ask me, and I’ll be there without question.”
“He won’t go against me,” the Aether stated with an arrogant assurance Ronan could never duplicate in a million years. Expression easing marginally, Damian infused compassion into his voice. “Come with me, Ronan. I’ll take you home. The O’Malleys—”
“No!” The denial was torn from the very fiber of his soul. Backing into the cell, he sat on his arse beside Dubheasa’s hip. His wild stare locked with Reggie’s where he stood observing the entire exchange with an astonished expression.
“Jaysus! Tell me I’m havin’ a nightmare here. Tell me the lot of them aren’t after betraying me.” He clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared at the drying blood. “Please. Tell me this is a mind game of Loman’s and not reality you’re trying to shove on me,” he whispered brokenly as he sent them all a pleading look.
With a hand on Trevor’s shoulder, Simon spoke to his brother in a low tone for his ears alone, and Trevor’s apologetic gaze dropped to Dubheasa before meeting Ronan’s.
“I’m sorry, Ronan,” he said gruffly and turned on his heel to stalk away, shaking his head the entire length of the corridor. Simon followed in his wake and shoved the swinging door in what might’ve been anger at the situation.
Unable to bear looking at his betrayers, Ronan stared at the empty doorway and blinked. The sky outside was bright and bold with not one bleedin’ cloud in sight. He frowned, confused that the day should be so lovely when it was colorless and dark inside.
“Restore his Guardian abilities, Dethridge. Do it now. Let him save her himself,” Reggie demanded.
“No.”
“No?” Disbelief rocked his cousin, and Reggie shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Ronan couldn’t either, and the finality in the single-syllable word punched him low in the gut.
“I didn’t stutter, Mr. White,” Damian bit out. “And I suggest you rethink the plan you’re concocting in that clever brain of yours. You’ll never get close enough to kill me and acquire my abilities.”
Color leeched from Reggie’s countenance, and he gulped.
“The only reason I’m allowing you to live is because I sense your impulse to help Ronan.” Obsidian eyes flashed red as the air around them took on a distinctive chill. “Never again entertain the notion of ending my life. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. If you insist on remaining, do so outside the exit door.”
It spoke well of Reggie that he was reluctant to leave him, but Ronan didn’t want him fighting a battle he couldn’t win. “Look, and it’s all right for you to go, Reg. I’m not leaving her.”
“It’s my fault. If I hadn’t conjured the crossbow… It’s all my fault.”
The crushing guilt weighing on his cousin was too much for Ronan at the moment. “Aye. You’re a fool if you thought my da wouldn’t anticipate your reaction. But I’ll right your wrong like I always do.” He dropped his head as he listened to Reggie’s retreating footsteps.
“Ronan. Let me take you home, and we can discuss this at length.” Damian’s compassionate tone grated, and Ronan shied away from what he knew to be false to seek the truth.
Dubheasa. Eyes still open. Still lifeless. And she wasn’t waking up.
“Go away.”
“I’m not leaving you here,” his uncle declared. If he was inclined to believe it, Ronan could almost imagine he heard caring in Castor’s voice when he shouted, “Goddammit, Damian, this isn’t right!”
“It’s the way it has to be, Alex.”
“I know, but—”
“Go the fuck away already.” Sick and tired of the back and forth, Ronan pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
In a rush, Castor entered the cell and squatted next to him. “Ronan, son—”
Ronan struck.
His punch contained all the anguish and fury building inside him. A lifetime of hurt and abuse. Grief of a lost love. And that driving blow sent Castor into the cinder-block wall behind him. The sound of his head impacting the stone would’ve normally sickened Ronan, but not this time. One had to care, and he didn’t. Not anymore.
“Go!” he yelled, and in a burst of inspiration, he crawled over to tear the arrow from Patrick O’Malley’s chest and held it up. “And never come back, or I’ll carve your fucking heart out with this, yeah?”
“Leave us, Alex,” Damian ordered softly.
“I can’t—”
“Please, do as I say. And have someone see to your injuries. It sounded like you cracked your skull along with the bones of your nose.”
Pushing himself upright, Castor swayed on his feet. After stabilizing himself with a hand against the wall, he swiped his arm across his face and grimaced at the quantity of blood his shirt had soaked up.
Not breaking eye contact with Ronan, Damian turned his head to address Castor. “I’ll take care of this. Get yourself checked out by Draven.”
From his peripheral, Ronan saw the flash of light. “Now it’s your fecking turn to leave, ya bastard. I’ll clean up my own bleedin’ messes. I’ve been doing it my entire life.”
“I’d like to explain.”
The salty sting of tears burned behind Ronan’s lids as he closed them and shook his head. “I’m not willing to hear anything you have to say unless it’s that you intend to revive Dove.”
“I can’t.”
“Then go by way of the others. You’re not wanted here.”
“For fuck’s sake, Ronan! Listen to me!”
The sting of the Aether’s frustration could be felt along Ronan’s skin all the way from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. But he was no stranger to physical pain, or that of the heart, for that matter.
“Jaysus! I don’t fucking care what your excuses are, Aether.” Standing, he stalked toward him. “You bleedin’ well knew the outcome! You knew!” He threw the useless arrow to the ground and stared in disgust at his newest enemy. “You fucking knew, and ya didn’t say a goddamned thing. Just let her walk into a trap like a lamb to slaughter, yeah?”
Guilt. The lone expression on Damian Dethridge’s perfectly constructed visage.
“Yeah, ya fucking knew. And you should kill me, ya bastard, because you can be sure I’ll kill you if I ever get the chance.”