Page 73 of Wine & Warlocks

“You’re a humorless dryshite, boyo.” Loman shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. “Those Désorceler feckers built these compounds to keep people like you contained, Antoine. I’m shocked you’re not after rememberin’ since I found your name on their roster, I did.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid my stay was short-lived. I didn’t quite care for the accommodations.”

Loman lifted his wrist and continued as if Castor had never spoken. “See this bit of jewelry here? Yeah, and it’s a useful tool, to be sure. I can control this entire cellblock and everyone in it with a touch of a button, I can.” With a dramatic flair, he swirled his finger in the air, then dropped it to press one of the symbols.

He never made contact before his arm was halted midair. “Wha—!”

The cloaking spells fell from the Blane brothers. Each held one of Loman’s wrists in theirs, keeping him firmly secure as Castor approached. Without warning, Alex kicked out and connected with Loman’s balls, feeling no remorse for the gray hue of his skin as he fought not to throw up his guts.

“That’s because I hate you.” Ripping the bracelet from his brother’s wrist, Castor hit the sigil he knew would open the doors and powered down the entire corridor to halt the theft of abilities from those present. When he was satisfied, he turned to Ronan. “Stand down, son. We have a plan, and you’ll only screw it up in your rage.”

Ronan charged the opening,uncaring of anything but crushing his father’s skull. Blind rage consumed him, and the need to take action overwhelmed in its intensity.

But Castor had anticipated his action and threw up an invisible barrier, locking Ronan in his cell.

“Let me go,” he growled.

“Can’t do that, Ronan.”

“I’ll not tell you again, Castor. If you don’t release me, I’ll kill you instead.”

Ignoring him, his uncle nodded at the Death Dealers. “Obliterate him.”

Loman’s eyes flew wide at the realization of what was to happen. Like a wild stallion trapped in a too-small stall, he bucked and kicked, attempting to throw off the Blane brothers. Although he fought like a man possessed, he was no match for those who held him. Still, he stretched and strained as he reached for the controller in Castor’s hand. The Blanes, sweat streaming from their faces and ragged breaths sawing in and out of their lungs from the effort, dragged Loman into the closest cell and chained him to the wall.

Ronan banged up against the clear barrier again and again like an enraged bull. His only thought was to rip Loman’s heart from his chest before it stopped beating, with the arrow used to murder Dubheasa. Even if it was only physical pain, and not emotional, his father needed to feel a fraction of what Ronan was going through.

“Let me out, Castor, you fuckingsonofabitch!”

Reggie approached his cell, and the sympathy shining from his dull gaze robbed Ronan of breath. “Let me be your hands, cousin. Tell me what it is you’d have me do.”

“I need to be the one to kill him, Reg.” His voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper. “I need to be the one.”

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Reggie leaned forward. “I’ll release you to do what you must, but let the Death Dealers do their job first, Ronan. Promise me, or he’ll be back to terrorize the world again.” His cousin placed his palm flat against the barrier, level with Ronan’s. “Promise me.”

Closing his eyes, Ronan rested his head against the invisible shield, then drew back and banged it. Again and again, he smacked his forehead on the wall, screaming from his soul. When he would’ve done it a sixth time, the barrier dissolved, and he fell forward into Reggie’s waiting arms.

As they crashed to the floor, he heard his cousin’s sob. “I’m so sorry, Ronan. Please don’t hate me.”

“I’m reserving all my hate for Loman.” Rough and overused, his voice sounded as if it belonged to another. Shoving off the ground like an Olympic athlete, he ran for the cell containing his father, arrow shaft in hand.

Loman’s soul was barely hanging on by the time Ronan plunged the tip of the arrow into his cold, ruthless heart. In a fit of grief and rage, he repeated the gesture until his arm gave out and his father’s chest resembled Swiss cheese.

The others wore looks of pity or shock and, in Fintan’s case, resignation as if everything had turned out the way he expected but had hoped it wouldn’t. Unable to bear the weight of their judgment, he glanced down at his blood-soaked hands. Somehow, Ronan had thought his father’s blood would ooze black.

“He’s gone? No coming back?”

“No coming back,” Trevor assured him quietly.

“How does it work, the disintegration of his soul?”

“The way it was explained to me is that we snuff out his energy and he simply ceases to exist,” Simon replied.

Gaze locked on the trail of blood running from his arms to his elbows, Ronan nodded. “Is there ever a time you simply kill people and their souls move on?”

“Don’t even think about it, son.” Castor placed his palm flat against his back, but Ronan shrugged him off. “You’ll see her again. This isn’t the end for the two of you.”

“Get Damian.”

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