Page 47 of Whiskey & Witches

“I don’t know how or why my family originally learned of prophecy, but we’ve always known about it. Prior to seven years ago, it seemed like a myth. Like it might never come to pass. Then Aeden O’Malley was born.”

“The Golden Son.”

“Aye. But the plotting began long before that. A just-in-case plan, if you will.”

“Who is the mastermind?”

“Initially, my father, but he went and got on the wrong side of the right person. As you know, he’s rotting in a Council jail cell. The only place that would make me happier is in a grave on the far side of the world.”

“But you took over for him.” It wasn’t a question. Damian had either read Ronan’s mind, or he surmised that Ronan was the only one of their clan clever enough to carry it out.

“I did. Not because I gave a shite about the sword or the magic, but because without it, I could potentially be weak.” And Ronan hated to be perceived as anything but fearless and embodying strength. “Also because I thought I could do damage control.”

“Damage control?” Damian stilled, and his face lost all expression, and Ronan got the impression the man was waiting for him to misstep with his next words.

“Yeah. If left on their own, Moira and Seamus would simply wipe out the O’Malleys and be done with it. Sure, and I figured if I assumed command, they’d have to listen to me, and the collateral damage would be nil.”

“But they didn’t.”

“Nah. It’s like wrangling cats if I’m honest. They get it in their mind to do a thing without thinkin’ of the consequences. They’re bleeding fools.”

“What did they do?”

“Moira convinced Seamus I wanted him to take out the Byrne sisters. I got there too late to stop it.”

“What happened?”

“I was across the pond on business, and Moira, that silver-tongued snake in the grass, convinced Seamus to remove the women’s powers and make their deaths, along with Aeden’s, look like an accident. She’d assumed by removing the one boy who could make the prophecy come true and the woman who had the potential to birth another blondwean, that the O’Connors would keep the O’Malley magic forever.”

Damian sighed heavily. “That’s not how prophecies work.”

“Here, and I know that now, after speakin’ with Roisin O’Malley, but none of us knew it then.”

“You’re not innocent in all of this, O’Connor.” He smiled wryly when Ronan would’ve prevaricated. “I wasn’t born yesterday, my friend.”

Ronan snorted and swallowed more of his drink. “I’m not. The beginning of my part of the plan was to send Moira to seduce Cian O’Malley. I thought if she could break his heart, he’d swear off love. But in my foolishness, I made him the Frozen.”

“Ah.” Damian smiled, and in his eyes was genuine amusement. “He met and fell for Piper Thorne.”

“Aye.”

“Had you not worked out the mighty Thorne was one of my family at that point?”

“Prior to her arrival, no.”

Damian nodded. “And let me guess. She met with some unfortunate incidents while in your country.” At Ronan’s nod, he asked, “Your doing?”

The casual question was anything but, and the anger brewing beneath the Aether’s surface could be felt. Damian Dethridge was a man to whom family was all-important. And it wasn’t widely known, but he was a Thorne both by blood and adoption. Over two hundred years ago, when he was still a small boy, his distant cousin Nathanial Thorne saved his life and brought him home to America to live, providing protection until the boy became a man and could take care of himself as well as his legacy as the mediator of good and evil.

“Of a sort,” Ronan acknowledged, prepared for whatever punishment the Aether cared to mete out. “Piper is the daughter of an ex-lover. I’d tried to protect her, but Moira and Seamus had other ideas. I blame myself. I should’ve known better than to trust either of them to take care of the problem without attempting to murder the girl.”

Damian abruptly rose and strode to the French doors to stare out at the landscape of his home. He seemed preoccupied with something in the distance, but then he stilled and shut his eyes.

Unsure whether to move or speak, Ronan remained where he was and kept quiet.

“Naiveté was your crime, O’Connor. You aren’t to blame for that.”

“So why do I feel such guilt?” he asked roughly.

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