Page 69 of The Aether

With a heavy blink, Sabrina shook her head. “Grandma Isolde said it to you. But it’s true, isn’t it?”

“To a degree, I suppose it is.” He grudgingly nodded, not wanting her to imitate his mother in any way. It wasn’t that he hadn’t adored her, but two centuries later, he still felt the raw sting from her decisions.

“Then Mr. Masters can have his magic sealed. He’s a good man,” Sabrina replied with a stubborn angle of her chin.

As he weighed her words with what he knew of the Guardian, Damian came to the conclusion that his daughter would always do what she believed best, regardless of his counsel. He only hoped the Authority and the Fates didn’t see it as her overstepping. Perhaps their vision of the future didn’t include a young girl running about willy-nilly, gifting supreme power without their consent.

“We should seek permission, Beastie.”

“Isis said it’s okay, Papa.”

“When exactly did she say that?” he demanded.

“Here.” She tapped her temple. “Just now.”

Throwing up his hands, Damian left them to pour a brandy. In one gulp, he downed it, swallowed against the burn, and prepared another. This one he sipped as he contemplated his Oracle offspring and her direct connection to the deities.

“Okay.” He faced child and Guardian. “Do what you will, Beastie. But make sure Draven is on board with whatever you and Isis have planned.” He touched a fingertip to her nose. “It wouldn’t hurt if you gave your mother and I a heads up now and again.”

She grinned and reached for Draven’s hand. “You need to sit down for this, Mr. Masters. It hurts a little bit.”

Damian snorted. “She means lie down, and it’s going to hurt like the very devil.”

CHAPTER24

“Did your daughter put bad gris-gris on me, Aether?” Draven asked as he pressed his sleeve to his forehead to mop up his sweat. “I swear, I feel like the two of you burned the devil from my damned soul.”

Damian smiled his commiseration and opened his mouth to respond, but Ronan replied for him.

“Aye, and she likely did.” Ronan handed Draven a glass of iced water and a pint. “Hydrate, man. Ya may be after something a might stronger, but I’ll be advisin’ against it, to be sure. If ya mix whiskey with that buzz you’re feeling, you’ll be too pissed to function.”

“If I wasn’t already friends with Fintan, I’d require a translator.” After consuming the water, Draven set the glass aside and picked up the pint. “Thanks for your kindness, O’Connor.”

Ronan grinned as he strode away.

“How did he know?” Draven asked, nodding toward the retreating Irishman.

“He’s had his abilities removed and restored so many times, he’s an old hand at it.”

Glass paused halfway to his mouth, the Guardian slowly turned to look at him. “Ya think maybe that’s why people are inclined to take you out? It’s been a while, but what I remember of the Authority, they don’t like others playin’ fast and loose with magic.”

“Doubtful. It’s always been in the line of service to bring down evildoers.”

Alastair Thorne arrived, coffee mug in hand. With a toast for them, he settled down at the far end of the dining room table and conjured a newspaper. Pausing to fold the top down, his gaze searched the table. “No scones? What’s the point of stopping by for breakfast if you don’t supply the necessities?”

Typical Alastair. Filling his stomach always came first.

“Conjure your own, you bloody mooch,” Damian retorted. “Can’t you see I’m playing nursemaid here?”

Masters snorted into his Guinness. “Your life is far too exciting for the likes of me, friend.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“Why are you out of sorts, Dethridge?” Alastair asked as he sipped his coffee. “And what’s with all the firepower hanging about?”

“You don’t want to know. It’s a nightmare in the making.”

“So Castor wasn’t being dramatic when he called me to say Morcant intends to wreak havoc?”

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