Page 77 of Discovered Magic
Wilder saw their lives flash before his eyes in that one reckless move.
But Damian didn’t bat a lash as the Traveler pressed the wicked blade to his jugular.
“And what will killing me prove,” he asked with admirable calm.
“Not a goddamned thing, but it will make me feel better for the five minutes before I regret my actions.”
“And would you?” he asked curiously. “Regret it?”
With a weary sigh, Castor dropped his arm. “Read my mind, Dethridge. See what you need to so you know I’m right.”
“Not necessary.” He cocked his head. “You’re Irish by birth?”
“Yes. I was born Anton O’Connor?—”
“O’Connor,” he said flatly. The surname was synonymous with scoundrels and thieves. “Your family isn’t well-liked, and yours is not a name I’d be spreading around, Mr. Castor.”
“I’m aware. It’s also why you gave me a chance when I was a starving kid.”
“Please stop revealing the future. I don’t care to have my mind wiped like your Abbie.”
“What?” Castor was apoplectic
Wilder could no longer be silent. “Look, I can explain later. Can we focus here? While you two are having a pissing contest, she’s out there somewhere fighting for her life—maybe even lost in the desert after wandering the wrong way.”
But Castor wouldn’t be redirected. “Who the fuck wiped her mind? I thought it was from her injuries?”
“Why haven’t you warded this room before telling us that?” Jonas asked with a nervous glance at the windows. “Are you trying to get us all killed here, Damian?”
“Evie did, before I ever entered.”
Draven uncapped the decanter and downed a quarter of the bottle.
“Are you mad?” Damian’s appalled expression was laughable, had Wilder felt at all humorous. “You don’t drink a fine 1850s vintage as though you’re swilling rotgut. Are you a bloody animal?”
“Jesus,” Wilder muttered. “I can see where Alastair learned it.”
“Alastair.” Obsidian eyes locked on him. “Why does the man’s name continually pop up in conversation?”
“He’s our best friend,” Castor replied, grabbing the decanter from Draven and taking a swig. “He’s obsessed with manners and drinking booze like a gentleman.”
“Clearly, we didn’t rub off on you,” Damian replied dryly.
“Clearly, ya prissy arses,” he replied, laying his Irish on thick.
The Aether’s laughter was oddly beautiful to a listener’s ears, and Wilder would go so far as to say seductive. His voice’s soothing cadence, combined with his stunning looks, pretty social niceties, and undeniable power, would be a honeytrap for the unsuspecting. Hell, after hearing it, he was questioning his own sexuality.
Damian shot him an amused glance, reminding him of his ability to read minds.
“I’m devoted to Abbie, so you’re out of luck,” he said. “Speaking of?—”
“You’re a dog with a bone, Thorne.”
“You know it. And if you entered a warded room, you intended to help us, all along. So let’s get to it.”
25
Wilder Thorne might have been fifteen years Damian’s junior, but he carried himself like a much older man. Perhaps it was the grief he’d suffered from believing Abigail Monroe had passed away during their mountain climbing expedition. Or perhaps he possessed an old soul. But either way, Wilder was joyless, and Damian hoped to change it.
