Page 1 of The Aether

PROLOGUE

The sun was setting on his life, yet the brightness of the morning light was hard to stomach. Over five hundred years he’d lived. Roughly a hundred and fifty more than he’d cared to.

He halted before the tombstone where his beloved’s name and death date were etched.

Vivian Dethridge née Stephens

Beloved Wife of Damian

b. February 24, 1981 — d. December 29, 2181

Because of his gifts, she’d lived a century longer than any average human. But it still wasn’t enough, and he missed her like hell. All these lonely years, he’d been forced to continue without her. And it had been a miserable existence. With a glance at the stones for his remaining family, he sighed. But not as fucking miserable as outliving his children and his children’s children.

All but one.

“Papa?”

He’d never hear her voice without imagining her as a youngster. As his wild Beastie, never doing as she was told, always running into the thick of things with no regard for danger.

“Almost ready, Sabrina,” he replied. His voice was gravelly, giving hint to his deeper emotions. Yet she could feel them because of what she was, the power she wielded. In a short time, she’d be more powerful still. All that was his would transfer to her so he could be reborn—with Vivian.

A crack rent the air, and a retina-searing golden light slashed across the fabric of the veil, opening a portal from the Otherworld to theirs.

The Goddess had arrived.

With one last glance at the headstone, he turned away, belatedly catching movement out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t need to look to know the letters of his name were forming next to Vivian’s, along with today’s written date. His death was foretold long ago when he once worked for the Authority and had the balls to confront the Fates. When his misfit band of Sentinels, who defied him at every turn, finally stood as a single unit behind him, ready to burn the entire magical community to the ground if that was what it took to rescue him from his crimes.

Damian smiled at the memory.

Goddess, he loved those fuckers, the men and women who’d become his best friends. He’d see some of them today. Not as who they were, but as who they’d been reborn to be.

Perhaps it was a good day to die after all.

But it was an even better day to be reborn.

CHAPTER1

SUMMER 2011

“Are you planning to attend the gala tonight?”

Damian Dethridge glanced up from his cards to study his distant cousin and longtime friend, Alastair Thorne. “Why? Do you need a date?”

An amused smile curled Alastair’s mouth, but he never looked up from his hand. Damian knew from experience for anyone to beat him at poker, they needed every bit of concentration to block him from reading their thoughts. He always tried to play fair, but when an opponent was particularly excited by what they’d been dealt, their strong emotion transferred. This was also true in life.

As he watched Alastair, Damian felt a sense of kinship mixed with melancholy. Golden-blond hair, perfectly sculpted features, and a strong jaw made Alastair classically handsome. With his pristine suits and unrelenting etiquette, he presented like old Hollywood royalty. The warlock version of Cary Grant and the exact image of the man Damian called his father—Alastair’s great-grandfather, Nathanial Thorne.

Nate and his wife, Evie, had provided Damian a home when he was only eight years old and gave him, a young orphaned boy, the love and life lessons he desperately needed. He owed the Thornes a debt he could never repay.

Perhaps that’s what fueled their friendship. Alastair’s humor was similar enough to Nate’s to keep Damian entertained.

“To answer your question, Al,no.”

At one hundred and ninety-one years of age, balls, galas, and the like had ceased to entertain him. Most days, Damian preferred to remain at his ancestral home, Ravenswood, where he could avoid the dregs of society and read to improve his mind. Although, it did seem that over the last few decades, novels had become no more than deadly dull drivel. There wasn’t anything unique. No story idea that hadn’t been rewritten and expounded on ad nauseam. No talent was able to touch the greats—Wilde, Fitzgerald, Dickens, Austen, and the like.

Perhaps he should author a book. He certainly couldn’t do worse than what passed for literary works these days, and it might help to pass the time.

Alastair brought him back from his side trip when he topped off their drinks.

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