“Jaysus!” When Ronan entered the hall with a man looking just like his father, Ruairí about had heart failure. His first thought was to shout a warning to the O’Malleys then try to neutralize the threat. But before that thought took firm hold, the small differences between Loman and this stranger with Ronan became apparent. For one, the genuine laughter wasn’t liberally laced with cruelty. For the second, the eyes were different. Just marginally softer, bluer in color.
“Who’s this, then?” he asked warily.
“This is our Uncle Alexander.” Ronan gave a hard laugh, and his tight expression said he was as suspicious of all this as Ruairí.
“The fuck you say!”
“Our uncle?” The Loman clone asked with a raised brow. “How many of my brother’s offspring reside in this place?”
“Sure, and you make us sound like those flyin’ cockroaches from Florida.” Ruairí eyed the man with distaste.
“Palmetto bugs, and if the wings fit…”
The American accent threw him coming from someone who looked so eerily like his hated uncle. “Are you about insulting every person you meet, man? If so, you can take yourself away from the O’Malleys’ inn.”
As Alexander opened his mouth to reply, he caught sight of someone behind Ruairí’s shoulder, and the haughty expression vanished from his face.
Ruairí already knew who was there. He’d felt the prickle of her nearness, and any man who saw Bridget tended to go all soft around the edges. He shifted to block Alexander’s view. “She’s not for the likes of you,” he growled.
A cocky grin flashed as wicked amusement lit the other man’s icy eyes. “You don’t know who or what I am, boy, but I can promise, you don’t want to try your teeth on me.”
“She’s spoken for, and I’ll not have you stirrin’ up trouble with your cauldron of tricks, yeah?”
Alexander eyed him and gave a nod of grudging respect. “You’re nothing like your father.”
“Loman’s not my father, and thank Christ for that. My own was rotten enough, he was.”
“I suppose introductions are in order.”
The arrogance of the fecker! Opening his mouth to tell the man where he could go, Ruairí was forestalled by Ronan.
“Alexander Castor, this is my cousin Ruairí O’Connor.”
“You must be Shane’s son.”
“Aye,” Ruairí bit off. “Though I’ve not called him father in thirty years. Not since he allowed his brother to knock me out cold.”
Some of the swagger left Castor, and real regret shone in his eyes. “I’m sorry. Had I been there—”
“You’d like to do nothing, just like my da. Seems no one cared to challenge Loman in his own castle.” He shrugged it off as Bridget joined them, not caring to dirty her with the truth of his miserable childhood. “We’ve things to discuss, us three. Do you mind if we use the drawing room, mo ghrá, or do you have something planned for the space?”
She studied him with curious eyes before leaning into his side and turning her attention to the newcomer. Bridget smiled her greeting, the coolly casual one she reserved for anyone not in her immediate circle, and Ruairí was pleased to see her maintain a professional barrier in the face of such a jaw-droppingly fit man. “The drawing room is free for your use. I’ve got to head to Lucky’s to prepare for the night shift, but I’ll let the others know to leave you be.”
A feeling of unease settled between his shoulders, and he suddenly didn’t want her out of his sight. “Will you stay close tonight, Bridg? Let one of the others man the bar.”
In typical Bridget fashion, she took umbrage. “I’ll not be shunning my chores, Ruairí O’Connor, and scarlet is your mam that you’d think I would.”
“Christ, she’s stunning,” Castor exclaimed as she stalked away.
“And a right pain in my arse most days,” Ruairí muttered. “Looks like I’ll be pourin’ drinks at the pub tonight if you’ll be needing me.”
The other men laughed as he hurried after Bridget.
He caught up with her at the bottom of the staircase, and she gave him an arch look.
“I thought you had a meeting with the man upstairs and Ronan.”
“Someone’s squatting on my grave, and the chill has reached my bones. ’Tis a feeling from boyhood, a warning of sorts. I’ll not be letting you out of my sight tonight.”
Her expression softened. “Ruairí, go do what you must. I’ve been taking care of my family and myself for more years than I care to count. I’ll be grand.”
“No.”
Brows almost to her hairline and mouth opened in a shocked O, she stared at him like she was seeing a stranger. And perhaps she was. Ruairí wasn’t the type to be insistent and was mellow most days, but when it came to her safety, he wasn’t having it.
She surprised him when she didn’t argue. Again, her eyes warmed to a lighter green and a tender smile curled her full lips. “All right. You’ll be my bodyguard for the night.”
The tension drained out of him, and he drew her into a grateful hug. “Thank you, mo ghrá. The wee hairs on the back of my neck have been tinglin’ since Moira showed her hand in the alley. I can’t seem to shake this feeling of doom plaguing me.”
“I’ve had those feelings. I like to think they are warnings from the Goddess. She looks out for her own.”
“Aye.”
Alex watched from the railing above. Seemed the O’Connors had produced one decent fruit from the batch of rotten apples. He liked the young man’s pluck and determination. Spirit like his deserved reward.
Perhaps that was why his son had called him. Having recognized the remarkable resemblance between Ronan and him, Quentin needed the puzzle solved. Of course, the boy would cut off his left arm rather than admit to needing him, but Quentin was smart enough to know when he required backup. With a family to protect, he wouldn’t embroil himself in someone else’s war without assurances he could win.
That’s where Alex came in. He was known to wage wars single-handedly with no care for his own safety. When you had nothing to lose, it was easy to put your life on the line. For his son, he’d do it, too.
“He doesn’t deserve the life he’s been handed,” Ronan said quietly from beside him. “He’s the best of us.”
“I was thinking along similar lines.” Alex faced him. “But I suspect you sell yourself short, Ronan.”
“No. I’m little better than the others, and I’ll save my own arse first. Never forget it, yeah?”
Ronan reminded him of a small child trying out his bravado. He wasn’t boastful or arrogant in a way that mattered, but he didn’t want anyone to expect better of him. Quentin had gone through a similar stage before meeting Holly. Perhaps a woman would eventually be the making of the man in front of him.
“I won’t forget. I think it’s time we had a drink and you told me about your father. Last I heard, he was in a Council cell and they were preparing him for execution.”
Ronan cut a sharp look his way. “The execution is news to me. It’s a crying shame they didn’t carry through with it, all the same.”
“Isn’t it, though.”
Halting Ronan before he would’ve descended the stairs, Alex shook his head. “We no longer go anywhere without altering our appearance. Also, we stick to crowded areas. If we go to the pub, we pretend to be the hired help, enter through the back door, and blend with the locals.”
Comprehension dawned in his nephew’s intelligent eyes. “To make it harder to track us with his blood. By blending, we’ll be more difficult to pick out of the crowd.”
“Exactly. He’ll get a general location but not be able to scry and spy on us. Especially if we put Granny Thorne’s cloaking spell to good use.” He grinned. “I stole that one from Alastair, but if you tell him, I’ll deny it and blame it on Quentin.”
“Now I see more of the resemblance to my da,” Ronan said dryly.
Alex’s shudder wasn’t faked. “Perish the thought.”
After they glamoured and were firmly ensconced in the pub, and after the cloaking spell was modified to muffle their conversation, Alex got to the point. “Let me take a stab at the problem. O’Connors and O’Malleys have been fighting for the better part of two and a half centuries. You and your boyscout cousin Ruairí have decided you don’t want to play on Team Evil anymore, and without anything more than determination and grit, you’ve decided to take on one of the craziest sonofabitches alive. That about sum it up?”
“Aye.”
“Which means this is going to come down to the blasted prophecy. How many of the three conditions have come to pass? Are the O’Malleys close to getting their magic back?”
“Two of the three. Cian’s frozen heart was pricked by a mighty Thorne, Aeden was the golden Son who sacrificed for the Aether’s daughter, also known as the One. All that’s left is for the Enemy at the Gate to be welcomed by the Keeper of the Sword.”
Alex didn’t let his surprise show regarding the involvement of Damian and Sabrina Dethridge. As a close friend of the Aether, he’d have thought Damian would’ve told him what had happened, but it wasn’t the first time the guy had kept disturbing news and events to himself. The man was an island and welcomed few to moor anywhere close to shore.
Giving thought to what Ronan said, Alex looked at the couple flirting behind the bar as they served the patrons. “You believe it’s those two?”
“Damian Dethridge gave me food for thought, but Ruairí has a plan. He’s convinced himself Bridget would view him as the Enemy at the Gate, and she’s the rightful Keeper of the Sword.”
“Interesting.” Alex sipped his beer as he ran various scenarios through his head. He fully intended to have a conversation with Damian, but first, he’d like to discover who really possessed the Sword of Goibhniu after all this time.
“You know, it’s disturbing to see the wheels turning in your head. It’s too similar to Loman when he’s thinking about his next move.” Ronan rubbed his hands together as if to ward off a chill. “Gives me the willies, it does.”
“I can imagine so. There’s only one difference between Loman and myself, and it’s important you remember it. His heart is black. Mine, well, it’s more of a murky gray with shades of pink for those I care about.”
“Would you say you’re the more powerful of you both?”
Alex had to give due consideration to the question. As children, Loman seemed like the stronger of the two of them. He knew no fear because he cared for nothing or no one but himself. Alex, on the other hand, was taunted for being “soft” until the day he learned to pretend. He’d grown into a consummate actor. His faux disdain of all things O’Malley would’ve earned him a Tony Award had he taken his act to the stage. When Loman hurt others, Alex sneered and turned his back as if his stomach wasn’t roiling from his need to vomit. He had silently vowed to himself that one day he’d stop Loman and make up for the pain his brother had caused.
At twelve, he’d run away, only looking back to make sure no one was on his tail. It was the day he’d met Damian Dethridge and a young Alastair Thorne. Those two upstanding men had saved his life by creating a new identity for him, and teaching him right from wrong. They’d helped him hone his skills to become the formidable warlock he was today.
Loman had gone from bad to worse. The psychopath inside had developed a thirst for power, and he eventually became the right hand of Victor Salinger, Alastair’s nemesis and the second in command of an organization known as Désorcelers, a group of non-witches determined to erase anyone with magic. The irony was that those fuckers had needed people with Loman’s abilities to take on their enemy. When Victor was cast into the Netherworld and his band of merry men disbanded, the Witches’ Council saw to it that Loman was incarcerated with his powers bound.
“We both have different talents,” Alex finally said. “I’d like to think I’m more powerful, but if my brother has escaped his jailers, then he’s found a way to kill those who bound his magic in the first place and get back what he lost.”
A sickly look spread over Ronan’s countenance, and his hand shook as he lifted his pint. “When Cian and Carrick solved their respective parts of the puzzle, their magic was restored and all of us felt the drain. Did you?”
Alex frowned. “When did this take place?”
“Over the last few months.”
“No drain, but then I severed ties with my kin long ago. Damian gave me a magical boost to defend myself should I need it at the time. Perhaps it counters the lost O’Malley magic.”
“Sure, and that’s something, then.”
Reaching out, Alex gripped Ronan’s wrist. “I’m here now, son. We’re on the same team, you and me. And I’ll do what I can to divert Loman’s wrath and leave you a clear field to see the ball reaches the goal.”
His analogy made Ronan chuckle. “Were you a coach in your last life?”
“No, but I’ve been watching a lot of Ted Lasso lately. It’s inspiring.”
The two of them shared a laugh and clinked glasses.
A resounding bang confused them for the split second before the world exploded around them.