Page 59 of Whiskey & Witches

Standing and drawing his shirt over his head, he hissed in pain. The fucking cut hurt like a mother. It felt as if it was burning through his spine and seeping into his bloodstream.

“Shit.”

He twisted to face his friend. “I don’t like your tone, man. Sure, and that sounds like we have a problem.”

“We do.” Damian whipped out his phone and took a picture of Ronan’s back, then showed the image to him. “See that network of black lines?”

Dread started to build in Ronan’s chest, nearly suffocating him. “Here, I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Not in the least,” Damian replied, his mouth set in a grim line. “Apparently Moira cursed the knife she used. It’s going to take a little more than a simple healing spell to remove the poison from your system.”

“Bleedin’ bitch!”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself. Wait there.” Damian walked a circle around Seamus’s still form, and with every step, the grass beneath his feet leached of color and shriveled, creating a ten-inch-wide border.

“Neat party trick,” Ronan quipped.

“Isn’t it, though.” Damian didn’t spare him a glance as he called on the element of fire and created an eighteen-inch ball of flame between outstretched hands. “Shield your eyes; this will be bright.”

After Ronan averted his head, he heard a loud whoosh and a pop. Turning back, he saw Damian staring coldly at the blazing body from outside the circle he’d created.

“Right, if I haven’t already said this, remind me not to get on your bad side, yeah?”

Damian’s smile never reached his eyes. “I think you’re clever enough to know that already, O’Connor.” He shifted away from the fire and gestured to the knife by Ronan’s feet. “Throw it in. It has the blood of powerful witches, yours included. You don’t want that in the wrong hands.”

Bending wasn’t comfortable, and with each movement, Ronan’s body made known its agony. He could only assume it was the work of Moira’s curse. He’d rip her heart out with his bare hands if he had to, but that was one monster he intended to stop. After he tossed the knife in the fire, he swayed on his feet. “Sure, and I don’t want to seem like a newbornwean, but I don’t think I can make it back to your home on my own steam.” So saying, his knees went out from under him.

Strong arms broke his fall, and he frowned across at Damian. A wry smile played on the Aether’s lips, and he nodded to someone behind Ronan. A glance up showed a grim-faced Carrick O’Malley.

“You helped my son, O’Connor. The least I can do is see you healed.”

“You’d be best served leaving me to rot, O’Malley, but I thank you all the same.”

Darkness descended.

CHAPTER23

The instant Roisin and Aeden returned to the estate, Carrick had wrapped them in his arms and held on for dear life. His fecking sanity about deserted him when Damian ordered him to stay behind, and seeing Aeden with blood staining his neck, shirt, and hands, Carrick couldn’t believe he’d almost lost his son a second time.

“Will you go make sure Seamus is dead?” Roisin had asked after briefly relaying what had happened. There was a frantic quality to her. As if she didn’t trust the truth she’d seen.

He looked to Vivian and Sabrina. Not for permission, but for assurance they’d be safe without him. The mini-Aether’s knowing obsidian eyes gave him the guarantee he needed. When he would’ve run for the door, the girl stopped him with a tug of his sleeve.

She leaned in as if imparting a great secret. “Teleport.”

Frowning down at her, he felt the tingling start in his cells, the heat building to almost burning. In a flash of cobalt light, he was standing by a cove of trees behind Ronan, facing an unsurprised Aether in front of a bonfire.

Carrick was in time to witness Ronan sway on his feet after tossing a knife into the blaze, and he rushed to catch the oversized plonker before the man imitated a felled tree.

Ronan wasn’t wrong when he’d said Carrick would be best served letting him rot, but his sense of justice wouldn’t let him ignore the man’s pain, nor what he’d done to save Roisin and Aeden.

“I’ve got ya, man. S’okay.”

That eerie silver gaze measured Carrick’s sincerity for the span of two slow heartbeats, then Ronan nodded as his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Fecker’s heavy,” Carrick muttered as his legs almost buckled under the dead weight. “Sure, and a hand here wouldn’t be remiss, Dethridge.”

“Your dormant magic is waiting for you to use it, Mr. O’Malley.” He crossed to them. “Even children know this game. Watch.”

---