Page 15 of The Seer

Five days had passed, and the bleedin’ necklace was burning a hole in Fintan’s pants pocket. He’d ignored the order to give it to the Aether, knowing his ancestors were using Taryn as a mouthpiece. But he couldn’t ignore them for long. Odd, though, how in the time since he’d been carrying it on his person, they’d yet to summon him. He’d assumed they’d be as ruthless as usual, causing him untold pain whenever he dared to question their edict.

Still, caution urged him not to wear it as instructed by Uncle Peter. Too many things felt off about the entire incident, and until he had a handle on what the amulet could do, he wasn’t taking any chances.

First, the urgency bothered him.

Why the sudden push to ignore his destiny?

Second, was the secrecy.

Why, when presented with the opportunity to tell him about the history, didn’t his uncle take it?

As Fintan strummed his guitar and gazed out over the peaceful gardens of the Sullivan estate, he considered all the possibilities of the jewelry. As hard as he’d tried, he failed to dig up fuck all on Bloodstone or the bleedin’ necklace. No one in his immediate circle had heard of it. He feared contacting Taryn was his only option.

His frustration was great in every way that counted.

Awareness rippled through him as the house alerted him to a visitor’s presence. But had the magical notification not happened, he’d have known who was on the other side of the twelve-foot hawthorn-wood door. Pressing his forehead to the hard surface, he fought the desire to run or bash his brains in until forgetfulness came. Instead, he swung the door wide as Taryn reached for the knocker.

“Oh! Uh, hi,” she stammered.

Her confusion was understandable. Fintan never answered the door if he knew she was visiting. In the past, he would inform Brenna or Eoin of her approach and disappear into the bowels of the estate, never to be seen again until she departed.

He stepped aside to allow her entry and looked his fill as she gestured to his guitar.

“You still play?” she asked in that breathy way that shot straight to his cock.

“Did ya think I wouldn’t?” he asked dryly.

Her cheeks flushed becomingly, and he soaked in the sight, filing the memory for a later date.

“The world as a whole wondered when you disappeared from the music scene,” she said.

“The world or you?”

“Both.”

Though she knew the way to Brenna’s wing, she followed him down the hallway and into the sunroom.

Fintan didn’t object as he once might’ve.

“Surely you read all the reports?” Taryn asked. “There were rumors you’d died in a fiery crash or lost your vocal cords to some dreaded disease, like cancer.”

“But you didn’t believe them,” he stated matter-of-factly.

After she perched on the loveseat, he sprawled in the chair opposite and propped his guitar on his thigh. Resting his head against the cushion, he observed her. In the brief time they’d dated, he loved watching her animated face as she gabbed on about whatever interested her.

“Ya had to know what I was back then, yeah?” he asked.

“I recognized you were a fellow witch, but I hadn’t heard the term Siren before.” She shrugged and met his curious regard. “I did wonder, though. There were anti-witch factions still at large, and I worried about you being caught in their trap.”

“I’d have saved you the worry if I’d have known about it,” he assured her.

Her lips twisted in a bitter smile, and the sight caused Fintan’s gut to clench. His “ghosting” had hurt her far more than he’d realized. Hurt them both.

“Having learned of a Siren’s ability to lure magic from others, I’m curious. Is that why you stopped singing? Are males of your kind known as Sirens, too?”

He considered her question as he fiddled with the tuning pegs. “No to the first, and yes to the second. I stopped because of Uncle Peter and this feckin’ Seer nonsense. When he died, I was the one cursed with his gift. Can ya imagine me onstage, droppin’ to the ground when a vision struck?” Fintan snorted with wry amusement, recalling his career with more than a little sadness. At odds with his need for privacy was the enjoyment he’d received performing.

“And yeah”—he locked eyes with her—“the males, rare though they be, are Sirens, too. They’re far less dangerous than the females of our species until they turn evil.”

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