Page 14 of Highballs & Hexes

Patrick’s behaviortoward his adult children was loving, if gruff, and Fi recognized he was a man used to caring for his needs last, without any assistance. Her heart ached for him. What must it be like to be your own refuge, with no true understanding of how to lean on another?

While she’d waited for him to dress, Fi conversed with Bridget and, in doing so, learned some of what Patrick had endured at Loman’s hands. Of how he’d died and his Guardian daughter brought him back from the Otherworld upon her escape. Fi’s brother had told her something similar.

Her chest had tightened to hear of Patrick’s trials, and her reaction to his pain was stronger than any she’d felt for another not related to her. A large part of her wanted to hold him and never let go, but the realistic side of her understood he’d strongly object to anyone smothering him with caring and good intentions.

As she listened to him discuss his options with Cian, she instinctively knew he was the one destined to find Tadhg. Her knight in shining armor, as it were. When he glanced up, their gazes locked, causing her belly to flutter like mad, as if a hundred butterflies were beating against the walls of her abdomen and attempting to escape. Did he feel it, too? This bizarre connection? This drawing? For an overlong moment, his focus lingered on her mouth, but a shutter of sorts fell over him, and he looked away, almost dismissively. Almost as if he were rejecting the possibility of more.

Why?

Did he not feel deserving? Did he not believeshewas? Old insecurities struck, and Fi sipped her tea to calm her jittery nerves, forcing her attention back to the conversation between father and son. As she listened, she compared the men. Cian bore a striking resemblance to Patrick, and there was no doubt he possessed his father’s take-charge attitude. Yet only the elder O’Malley appeared resistant to anyone else’s assistance. This was made plain when he grumbled about the list of Council names his son produced as potential allies in the hunt for Tadhg.

“And you think the man’s in Dublin, then?” Bridget asked.

“Aye. Just days ago, he was spotted by no less than three others. My hope is he’s still there.” Patrick finished his drink and rose. “I’d best be going. Son, if you’re able to discover Tadhg’s whereabouts, text me the information, yeah?”

“Sure, and I will.”

“Thanks.” Shifting toward her, Patrick held out a hand. “If you’re going with me, Fionola Bohannon, you’d best hold on. My teleportation skills don’t work as they should these days.”

“Do you have a picture of where we’re going? I can use my magic to get us there.”

He scrolled through his phone, and once he found what he was looking for, he handed it to her. With a nod, she wrapped an arm around his trim waist and gazed up at him. If her heart beat a little faster than it should, she ignored it.

“Ready?”

This close to him, she could see the banked fire in his eyes, and a thrill shot through her as he focused on her mouth.

“Ready,” he said in his deep, reverberating voice. Or maybe it merely felt deep because his chest was pressed to hers. Either way, the sexy timbre was one her ears appreciated.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the picture he’d shown her, but as her cells began to warm, something went wrong. The image in her mind blanked, and Fi had the discombobulated sensation oftumbling through space. Her arms tightened around Patrick as she tried to recall the inn’s kitchen and anchor them. But it was no use.

The homey walls of Black Cat Inn were nowhere to be seen. In their place was gray stone, and the two of them currently stood in what appeared to be the glass-and-cinder-block cell she’d seen the other day.

“Jaysus!”

CHAPTER 7

“Where are we?” she asked. Fi’s voice was little better than a croaking toad, and to her own ears, it sounded as if it belonged to someone else.

A savage curse erupted from Patrick, and he ran for the opening, only to be met with three-inch metal bars clanking into place. She rushed to join him, unsure what she intended to do other than find a way out and back home.

“No!”As she reached for the bars, he flung out an arm and blocked her path.

“Are you mad? We have to get out of here! We have to?—”

“Touch those bars, and you’ll fry the skin off your feckin’ arms, woman!”

He was as surly as a lion with a sore tooth, and Fi didn’t blame him one bit. Between Tadhg’s and Bridget’s retellings, she’d been able to piece together most of Patrick’s backstory. They’d explained to her how when he'd been held captive by Loman, he’d plunged his arms through the bars in an attempt to choke the fecker, only to suffer severe burns. But he hadn’t let go, and his arms resembled crisp bacon strips when it was all over. The story seemed fantastical, but how else did Patrick know the bars were supercharged?

Infusing steel in her tone, she said, “Sure, and you still haven’t answered me, Patrick O’Malley.Where the feck are we?”

For the briefest instant, his mouth curled, as if he found her humorous, but his faint smile was replaced by a grimace. Looking everywhere but at her, he shook his head.

“Patrick, please.”

She hated the tremor in her voice, but her emotional state was inching toward panic. If another child disappeared on Mam and Da, they’d not recover.

“’Tis but a dream, it is,” he murmured, seeming confused.

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