Page 44 of Whiskey & Witches

From his spotbeneath an ancient oak tree, Ronan stared at the Aether’s grand house. Gothic in nature, it radiated a very hands-off vibe. The square turrets added to the castle-like impression and made one believe an army of soldiers could appear at any given moment to defend the inhabitants. The only welcoming features were the sprawling steps that led up to large double doors, with their large urns filled with flowers, and the well-manicured lawn.

“Why are you watching the house?”

A young voice almost scared him out of his skin. The Aether would have the best protection imaginable and a strong sense of presence, and Ronan hadn’t expected anyone but Damian to find him hanging about. Years ago, he had been granted permission to come here if needed. He’d only been working up the courage to approach the house to confess his sins to his friend and ask for a potential solution.

Still, who would’ve thought a small child would be wandering the grounds?

“And who are you, wee beastie?” he asked with a warm smile as he willed his heartbeat to return to normal.

“Beastie,” she replied promptly. “Or that’s what Papa calls me.”

One look at those large obsidian eyes, and he knew exactly who her father was. “I didn’t know your da had a faerie child roamin’ the grounds.”

She giggled, and Ronan lost his heart.

Her eyes twinkled up at him, and she did that enchanting little dance young children do when they put their hands behind their back and rock their shoulders. “You talk funny.”

“Do I, now?” He purposely thickened his accent. “Sure, and maybe it’s you, ya wee wild beastie, who be the one talkin’ funny.”

Again, she giggled, and he chuckled at the sound. Damn, but she was precious.

In the blink of an eye, she became serious. “I’m sorry your papa was mean to you, Ronan.”

The blood in his veins turned to ice, and his heart thudded painfully. “How do you know my name? And how do you know about my father?”

“I’m the Oracle. Or I will be,” she said with a small shrug of one shoulder.

An Oracle. A chill swept him. Sure, everyone knew what they were—all-seeing witches with the power to predict the future and recall a person’s past—but he’d never met one. They were legendary, like King Arthur’s Merlin. It stood to reason Damian Dethridge’s bloodline would produce a witch of her caliber. Ronan wondered if the girl had the powers of an Aether, like her da and her gran before her.

“I do,” she said simply.

He didn’t bother to hide his confusion. “You do what?”

“Have power like Papa’s and like my grandmother used to.”

For a moment, Ronan froze in horror, but he forced himself to take a deep breath and relax. The child wasn’t a threat. “Did ya just read my mind, wee wild beastie?” he asked with a casualness he didn’t feel.

The girl tilted her head and watched him for five long heartbeats before she laughed. “I did, but I can’t right now. You’re good at hiding your thoughts. But don’t worry, Ronan. I won’t tell your secrets.” She gave him a sly look. “Or I won’t if you promise not to tell Papa I was out here.”

“So not only are you the Oracle, you’re a bloody con artist to boot,” he retorted.

Her unrestrained laughter held pure joy, and Ronan found himself laughing with her.

As she watched him, her delight faded, and sadness filled her eyes. “I’m sorry your papa was mean to you,” she said again.

“It was a long time ago, sweet. I’m a mighty warlock now. He can’t hurt me.” Or at least he couldn’t while he maintained the O’Malley magic. But every day, Ronan felt that power slipping through his fingers and his abilities faltering a little bit more.

“You can’t stop the prophecy, you know. But you can save the Golden Son when he sacrifices for the One.”

Her solemn words tore at his heart. She knew his future, and all he had to do was ask, yet part of him didn’t want to know.

Once again, she tilted her head as she watched him. “The Fates have a plan, and you can fight it, or you can accept it. Accepting is better.”

“And that plan, is it that I should be powerless?” He sounded as if he had a frog trapped in his throat, but his own fear was beginning to strangle him. If he lost what magic he had, his father could return.

“You don’t truly want the answer to that, my friend,” Damian Dethridge said from behind him. “And little girls with big mouths eventually find themselves in a boatload of hot water.”

Ronan’s pulse had been pounding so loudly in his ears, he’d missed the Aether’s approach. He didn’t turn right away, instead keeping his focus on Damian’s daughter. Any sign—a nod or a shake of her head—would do. But her gaze locked on her father, and her face filled with chagrin.

---