Page 22 of Wine & Warlocks

Cian nodded. “Piper was feeling off this morning and asked for Bridget and Roisin to attend her. Ruairí is keeping an eye on Aeden, and we’re to fill him in after.”

“If you need to step out, Cian, we’ll understand,” Damian said as he poured himself a cup of tea. “I know all too well how stressful the birth of your first child can be.”

“Fecking hell!” Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to Cian to ask his wife if she was in early labor, but he paled and jumped to his feet the instant the Aether finished speaking, and ran for the door.

“Should we delay this, then?” Dubheasa asked with a concerned glance at Cian’s retreating back. “Surely one day won’t matter.”

Ronan was set to tell her differently. His father wasn’t likely to wait for babies to be born or the sun to be shining on a beautiful day. The man would strike when everyone least expected it, and they needed to be prepared.

Damian beat him to the punch. “It will, I’m afraid,” he replied grimly. “Members of the magical community have gone missing, according to the Witches’ Council. Trevor has consulted with the Authority, and they believe Loman is responsible. They won’t officially intervene. However, the Council has stated thattheywill and would prefer this mess to be cleaned up, like, yesterday. We can use whatever resources we need to accomplish it.”

Anything else he would’ve said was lost in the commotion of newcomers. Alexander Castor, Quentin Buchanan, and Alastair Thorne all arrived together. Since Loman’s first attack on their home, the wards had been altered earlier to allow those members of the magical community who were friends of the O’Malleys to come and go at will. Anyone they didn’t know would need to request permission to enter.

Trevor’s phone buzzed. After a quick glance at the screen, he said, “Can you lower the wards enough for Draven to enter?”

Two minutes later, the other Guardian entered the room, and the fecker was as powerful as any Ronan had ever seen. Light practically pulsated off the man, making him a walking light bulb to anyone able to see magic.

“Good Christ, tone it down, Draven,” Castor ordered, holding up a hand to shield his eyes. “You’ll blind us all.”

When the man masked his magic, Ronan got his first glimpse of him.

Draven Masters wasn’t attractive in the way a standard witch or warlock was, but instead was more rugged. Almost saddle-worn in appearance. The look was set off by the aged black leather duster he wore over his torso-hugging white t-shirt and ripped-at-the-knees jeans. His shoes, however, were in direct contrast with his worn clothing. New and pricey, they didn’t fit his overall vibe.

Draven’s left hand was in constant motion, and a poker chip traveled across his knuckles, only to disappear at his pinky, then reappear at his thumb to start the routine all over again. The gesture seemed more absent-minded and habitual than deliberate. His eyes were flat, as if he’d seen too much in life and it had left him cold. Oddly, there were deep laugh lines at the corner of his eyes, as if once upon a time, he’d laughed often. The man was an interesting individual for all his seriousness. His age was impossible to discern.

After Ronan and Draven sized each other up, the man shrugged, turning his attention to Dubheasa. His casual catalog and dismissal of her person set Ronan’s teeth on edge, and had Draven not treated the others to the same measuring look and subsequent shrug, he might’ve challenged him. But the man was systematically weighing the magical worth of everyone there. He was in for a surprise, to be sure. Although, most members of their team didn’t possess close to the power of a Guardian, they had more heart and determination than any Ronan had ever seen.

“You’d be wise to place your bet on any person here, Masters.” Ronan gestured to their group as a whole. “They’ve been up against Loman and came out winners every time.”

“It’s not a win if the man is still runnin’ free, friend.” Draven had a raspy Cajun accent that spoke of the old South, and Ronan was left to wonder how old the man truly was.

Trevor held out a hand to Draven. “Thank’s for coming. We could use the help.”

With a wary glance at the Aether, Draven returned Trevor’s greeting. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but it was Fintan who convinced me I should hear y’all out. His message was cryptic as always, though, so why don’t you fill me in,cher?”

Damian didn’t offer to shake hands, merely nodding to an empty place setting. “Please, have a seat, Masters, and we’ll tell you what we know.”

CHAPTER10

As cryptic and no-nonsense as Draven Masters was, Dubheasa liked him. He portrayed an I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude, but if one were to look deeper into his whiskey-colored eyes, they would see wariness and glimpse the pain he kept in check. Whether it was physical or emotional, she couldn’t say, but the man had experienced the worst life had to offer and came out on top.

It didn’t take long for Damian to get him up to speed, and the Guardian showed no reaction, content to keep his thoughts on the situation to himself. Only when Fintan Sullivan appeared with Brenna and Eoin did Draven show emotion. One side of his mouth curled upward, and warmth lit his eyes. A clear indication the two men were good friends.

The expression was so fleeting, Dubheasa thought she’d imagined it until Draven slapped Fintan on the back. “It’s about time you showed up,cher. We were holdin’ up the party, waitin’ for your arrival.”

“Doubtful,” Fintan growled in what Dubheasa had come to realize was his preferred way of speech. It turned out that Fintan was Brenna’s first cousin once removed, with his mother being sister to Brenna’s grandmother. They bore a striking resemblance to one another, with multicolored hair and sharp features, but where Brenna’s eyes were more aquamarine, Fintan’s were a light sea-foam green. Those pale eyes lent to the eeriness of his gift as a Seer, and whenever he turned them on Dubheasa, she felt a shiver, as if the man could see down to her soul—and likely he could.

As the first male born to the Sullivan line in over a century, Fintan had become the caretaker of the Sullivans’ Irish estate, also known as their main stronghold, and he had taken up the mantle when the Seer before him passed away. In his desire to remain hidden and only interfere should he be directed to by his deceased ancestors, he’d refused contact with any of the living Sullivan family. Brenna had shown up on his doorstep over a month ago and changed all that. Or rather, technically,herdoorstep, since Brenna’s grandmother had willed her the estate upon her death.

Fintan spared Dubheasa a look, then turned his attention to Ronan. Pure delight danced in his eyes as his gaze bounced between them. “Ronan Fucking O’Connor has made progress, he has.”

Heat crept into her cheeks. “Not in the way you would think.”

With a shrug and a wide grin, he said, “So you’re still running from your fate, then. Good for you, girl. Pave your own way, I say.”

She couldn’t help but smile in return. Fintan always wore a fierce scowl—until he didn’t. And when his humor shone through, it was impossible not to join in.

“But don’t you already know the outcome?” she said saucily. “Couldn’t you just give me a hint?”

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