Page 1 of Highballs & Hexes

CHAPTER 1

Patrick O’Malley released a savage curse as he rolled to a sitting position. It had been a solid year since he returned from the Otherworld, reborn as it were, after a grisly death at the hands of his greatest enemy.

Loman O’Connor.

Thank the Goddess that scaldy gobshite was no more.

Patrick would’ve grinned if it wouldn’t have hurt so badly.

Which brought him back to his current predicament. One year later, and his body hadn’t healed properly. Nor had his magic completely returned. Both oddities in and of themselves.

And wasn’t that the rub? He’d gone through life without anything remotely like abilities, only to experience the brief euphoria of the epic power his ancestors took for granted before it was stolen by those fecking O’Connors a second time. Yes, he could perform a few basics, like conjuring food and teleporting when need be, but that was about the extent of it.

Glancing around the cheerful room of the Black Cat Inn, he grimaced. His daughter Bridget had created a clean, comfortable atmosphere for visitors, but all Patrick saw were memories of the home he’d shared with his faithless wife, Rose. They seemed to be the only memories that actually stuck of late.

The best thing to come of his marriage was his five children. But they were all grown now, and he’d missed almost the entirety of their lives. And didn’t that sadden him?

A knock at the door roused him from his maudlin thoughts.

“Da?” Bridget called out. “Will you be coming down soon, or do you want me to conjure a tray for ya?”

It appeared his eldest was trying to make up for lost time in the only way she knew how—caring for him, as she did everyone.

“I’m grand, Bridg, me love,” he hollered back. “I’ll be down in a bit, yeah?”

“Sure, and I’ll have your breakfast ready.”

Patrick met his tired forest-green eyes in the dresser mirror. Once, when he’d been happy, they’d shone like the emeralds in a queen’s tiara. But that had been many betrayals ago, and he wasn’t the optimistic fool any longer. No, things like hope were for the young. All he had were memories he’d prefer to forget.

He sighed.

Soon enough he’d need to tell Bridget he was leaving again. He had more of Loman’s victims to search out and help emotionally heal if he could. Or so the Goddess Anu had told him was his mission. And wasn’t it a good thing? Because if he didn’t keep busy, he’d lose what was left of his bleeding mind. The fecking thing was no better than Swiss cheese on a good day, with its big gaping holes. He’d always hated that shite, with its sharp flavor, leaning towards bitter—not unlike him.

Burning started along the skin of his forearms, and he released another vicious curse. It had been ever the same since the day he cooked his limbs and face in his attempt to save his youngest daughter, Dubheasa, from Loman. Despite the fact he was thoroughly healed in the physical sense, the neurotransmitters in his brain preferred to misfire when the mood took them and cause him to relive the agony of that day. Worse than the burning sensation was the occasional piercingphantom pain from the godforsaken crossbow bolt Loman had buried in his chest.

Black rage clouded Patrick’s vision before he could get a handle on the emotion. His anger issues were at an all-time high these days, and it didn’t take much for him to snap.

If he could stand the sight of the man, he’d call Ronan O’Connor and ask the Guardian for help. But he couldn’t and wouldn’t. Ronan resembled his father, Loman, and Patrick had difficulty accepting he wasn’t a snake in their midst. Only for Dubheasa would he be civil. She loved the fecker. Hersupposedfated mate.

Only, Patrick knew there was no such thing. Hadn’t Rose proven that?

With a massive eye roll and another grimace, he climbed to his feet.

“Get it together, Paddy,” he told himself. “You’ve a bleedin’ job to do.”

Shuffling across the room, he lifted a small journal and flipped to the bookmarked page. Yesterday, with the weight of failure heavy on his soul, he’d lined out another name. The victim’s sister said the man had vanished less than two days ago. No goodbye. Not a single indication he’d intended to leave other than a couple of paranoid episodes. And sure, wasn’t the family reliving the puir bastard’s disappearance from last year when Loman had used him for his magical fuel?

His wasn’t the only one. Those disappearances seemed to be happening with more and more frequency. A select few ex-prisoners had found it too difficult to integrate back into their old lives. Their families could never understand the trauma they’d suffered, and discussing it with anyone who hadn’t lived it... Well, it was simply too hard to form the words.

Frustrated he’d been too late to make a difference, Patrick blew out a breath and scrubbed his palms up and down hisface, absently noting he needed a shave. After conjuring a cup of strong black coffee, he guzzled half of it, barely caring about the burn to the roof of his mouth and tongue. Neither was anywhere close to what he’d gone through with his arms and face after sticking his hands through the electrified bars to strangle Loman. His only regret was that he hadn’t succeeded. Maybe Dubheasa wouldn’t have died in such a horrid way if he could’ve held on longer. Granted, she’d possessed the key to leave the Otherworld, and she’d taken him with her when she escaped, but he’d have saved her the pain of a grisly death if possible.

Another knock sounded.

“Jaysus, Bridget!” he snapped. “I told ya I’d be?—”

The wooden door swung back on its hinges, and Ronan crossed the threshold, expression grim. “Paddy?—”

“What the feck doyouwant, O’Connor?”

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