Page 2 of The Seer

“She turned out to be a helluva head council member, didn’t she?”Damian said.

The question was rhetorical; the only answer could be “yes.” Taryn, heavily involved in rebuilding the new Legacy council, became the magical community’s fiercest advocate. Under her tutelage, members young and old had learned to set aside their prejudices and embrace their fears, working through potential problems before they could escalate. And somewhere in her free time, she lent her voice to Fintan’s, and the two created achingly beautiful music. Their three diamond and two multi-platinum albums were a testament to how much the world loved the duo.

The Siren prince grinned, casting one last glance at the Seer’s headstone before sauntering away. But not before saying, “Don’t think I’m after forgiving you for taking the easy way out, Dethridge.”

Damian expelled a soft huff of amusement. Bloodstone wasn’t fooling him. They’d often discussed reincarnation over a glass of brandy while playing a game of chess. The Siren prince’s incarnation as Fintan had been his most talked-about.

“Try not to burn the place down,” Damian called back.

Fintan Sullivan.

The Seer.

The person always quick to answer a summons and provide future intel when needed. When Damian had first met him, he’d been reserved, grumpy, and suffering unbearable pain, tortured at every turn by his “ancestors” all in the name of preserving an organization that should’ve been dismantled a century ago. He’d had his revenge in the end.

CHAPTER1

PRESENT DAY…

Fintan Sullivan hated his gift. He always had. Having the sight was a fecking bastard, and he’d prefer not to see the future if he didn’t have to. Mainly, it was why he avoided anything and anyone unrelated to his employment with the Authority. He didn’t want to know if the guy next to him on the street was about to drop dead of a heart attack or if the woman behind the counter at the shop was cheating on her hard-working husband. He tended to keep to his family’s grounds unless required for some magical deed or another.

But when the Aether called, you answered.

As the balance between good and evil in the world, Damian Dethridge was a law unto himself, acting as judge and jury for those who stepped out of line. No one wanted to be on the man’s bad side. Also, he was Fintan’s boss.

He sighed heavily as he double-checked the building's number and walked up the path to the Victorian house with the black wrought-iron fence. Already, he despised the place. Its overall vibe screamed old. Not as ancient as some of the homes he’d seen in Europe or even his own family’s Irish estate, but creaky enough that a few spirits likely lingered in the American mausoleum in front of him.

His ultimate demise lay on the other side of that wooden door with its stained glass.

And her name wasTaryn Stephens.

The visions had told him as much. Not just today but nearly every day since he’d met her twenty-four years ago. A nightmarish premonition stuck on repeat. But suffering wasn’t new to the Irish.

“Feckin’ second sight,” he muttered.

She also happened to be Damian’s sister-in-law.

From behind him, the slapping of soles against the walkway caught Fintan’s notice. He glanced over his shoulder and frowned when he saw the Guardian, Draven Masters.

“Draven? Sure, and what are you doing here, man?”

“When the Aether calls, you come running,cher.”

Fintan snorted. “Yeah, and didn’t I have the same thought just minutes ago?”

“Why are you standin’ out here? Shouldn’t you be in there?” Draven possessed a raspy, leftover-old-Louisiana accent, the only true hint of a heritage he never spoke of. His past was tucked in a lockbox and only he held the key. Although Fintan had caught glimpses, he didn’t know the gritty details leading up to the Guardian’s defection from the Authority. But he could guess. Things at that fecking place were in turmoil and had been from the moment a rogue member went after Damian’s beloved daughter, Sabrina.

“Fate, visions, and my ultimate demise,” Fintan replied dryly.

One side of Draven’s mouth kicked up, and humor lit his warm, whiskey eyes. “Sounds like a woman.”

“It is.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“What the feck are ya meanin'?” Fintan demanded, not truly irate but stalling for time. If it required getting into a heated debate rather than walking through that bleeding stained-glass door, he’d do it. His people preferred fighting to exploring their inner feelings, and he was onboard with it. He abhorred heightened emotions.

“You’ll not get a rise out of me,cher. I’ve been summoned.”

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