Page 46 of Highballs & Hexes

A single nod was all she received.

“I’ll rent a room if that’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Bridget averted her face. “The Black Cat is full, and I’ve no rooms to let.”

“I see.”

Patrick’s family wanted her gone, and if it took a lie to do it, that’s what they’d do.

“When he wakes, tell him I asked about him, yeah?” She ignored the pleading in her voice. What did it matter what the others believed? If her desperation made a difference, she’d beg.

Mouth tight, Bridget nodded once and gestured toward the stairs.

Trudging down them and out the door was harder than imaginable. Yet Fi couldn’t bring herself to leave altogether. Skirting the house, she traversed the alley to the back garden. Once there, she breathed deeply of the clean air, filling her lungs and holding it until she was forced to exhale again.

It wasn’t peace that filled her, but something did. Maybe it was a purpose. If there wasn’t a bed in the house, fine, but she wasn’t leaving until he was whole again. She was a witch with basic skills and the ability to amp up her body heat if needed. What was a little damp air compared to what Patrick was suffering on her behalf?

She staggered.

The realization was a dagger to the heart. He’d injured himself because she left him. She’d pushed and picked at him until he unraveled. Why? Why couldn’t she accept him the way he was, bent mind and all? Was the hooded figure’s appearance purposeful? To scare her away from peering down the hallway, or was it a cry for help?

She’d rejected Patrick’s truth. Rejected him. Was it worth taking the light from his beautiful jeweled eyes? It didn’t feel like it. Not now. Not knowing he was up there, suffering in pain and unaware those who loved him most were waiting for him to recover.

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I was such a miserable cow to ya.”

Why was it that it took him hurting himself for her to see the truth? Maybe because she’d hours to think after he’d revealed himself and not seconds like in the cell. But at some point, in all her musings, it had occurred to her that he wasn’t a monster. Mentally unstable, yes, but not evil in the way Loman had been.

She needed to truly listen to him this time if he woke and chose to explain. Discover his reasons for doing what he did, so maybe she could forgive him and receive his forgiveness in return.

Sinking down on the bench, she began her vigil.

Patrick woke to a shadow-filled room—theone he hated at the Black Cat. He struggled to recall how he’d gotten here, but the last thing he remembered was Noah holding Fionola.

Fi.

He released a savage curse and rolled to a sitting position, mentally noting his body no longer ached as it had in recent months. And didn’t that make sense? He wasn’t expending all his energy to maintain an island fortress while he was sleeping.

“Take it easy,” Ronan advised from a nearby club chair. With a yawn and a scratch of his chest, the man dropped his long legs on either side of the ottoman and straightened from a slouched position. “You’ve only just had your head put back together, Humpty Dumpty, and the Aether advised avoiding walls in the near future.”

Patrick snorted. “That wasn’t a well-thought-out plan, to be sure.”

“What were you trying to accomplish with the brain-bashing?”

“An early demise? Seems I can’t do anything right these days.”

Ronan didn’t chuckle as Patrick assumed he might. Instead, the man appeared troubled as he flipped on the lamp next to him. “Your family was worried for ya. Bridget was beside herself and scaring off the regulars in the pub with her black scowls and barbs. It’ll be a month of Sundays before they venture back.”

“She always was high-strung.”

Ronan’s grin flashed. “We’re all afraid of her, but if you tell anyone I said so, I’ll be calling ya a feckin’ liar, I will.”

“Who would I be telling? I’m after fearing her myself when she’s in a mood.”

“You seem different,” Ronan noted after a minute.

“Maybe a couple of blows to the head was what I needed as a reset. Not dissimilar to one of those old dinosaur computers.”

“Lucky the Aether had a clear schedule this week, or you’d be wearing a helmet and licking bakery windows until your dying day.”

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