Page 42 of The Seer

“Why only the men in your family? Have your ancestors said?”

“No.” Fintan was ashamed he never thought to inquire.

Noah sat forward. “If you were to die, would it go away?”

“Aye, I believe so.”

“You once told me you inherited your power from Peter. Who did he inherit it from?”

Racking his brain, Fintan thought back. No clear answer came to him. Why hadn’t he asked? He rose and crossed to the bookshelf. Without needing to search, he went straight to the book he was looking for, tugging it down to open the Sullivans’ ceremony room. Noah was close on his heels.

Pillar candles rested atop sconces screwed into stone-constructed walls and flared to life. They created dancing shadows, lending to an eerie atmosphere, reminiscent of a dungeon. But Fintan didn’t mind. Nothing here would harm him or his, not even the ancestors. It was one of two safe rooms where he could hide from any pain they chose to inflict. Except for rustic shelves on the far wall, a floor-to-ceiling scrying mirror, an old sailor’s chest at the altar’s base, and a pentagram on the floor, the room was barren.

“Nice place ya got here,” Noah said dryly. “Where are the bodies buried?”

Other than a chuckle, Fintan didn’t respond. He went straight for the grimoire. Although his cousins had access to its spells, they rarely needed them. The Sullivans’ gifts lay elsewhere. The book, along with the Seer ability, was intended for the estate’s caretaker—him.

Showing deference to the ancient spellbook, he stroked his fingers along the wooden embellishment on the leather cover.

“It resembles driftwood,” Noah said with a quirk of his lips.

“True enough, but it’s from the Goddess’s tree of life, like your brother’s.”

“I’ve never seen the Dethridge grimoire. My father stole me away one night, supposedly to save me.”

Fintan glanced up, surprised to hear his friend confess to part of his past when he was reticent before. “Yeah, and you were keepin’ that one close to the vest, man.”

Noah laughed, releasing the melancholy attempting to take hold. How Fintan sensed the moodiness, he could only guess. Perhaps, like Damian, Noah had the ability to alter the atmosphere with his stronger emotions.

“Show me the family tree,” he ordered the thick tome.

The grimoire’s heart—a rich, dark amethyst over three hundred carats of the highest quality—lit from within, displaying its many facets, and the leatherbound cover flipped open. Parchment pages originally crafted from animal skin flipped with blinding speed, stopping midway to reveal a list of names.

“Not what I bleedin’ asked for, but grand, all the same,” he muttered.

Noah’s grin flashed, and he bent forward to read the list.

Peter’s name appeared above Fintan’s, but it was the penciled-in nameafterhis that surprised him.

Micha.

No last name or indication of relationship.

“Who’s Micha?” Noah asked sharply, sensing Fintan’s unease.

“I don’t know, but I’m beginnin’ to suspect I have my long-lost brother skulkin’ around.” Striding to the mirror, he said, “Show me Micha Sullivan.”

Smoke obscured the glass, and the candles flickered in warning. The only instances Fintan encountered resistance while scrying were Aether-related.

“What the fuck?” He shook his head and glanced at Noah. “I’m not sure how the ley lines will react to you when I draw from them. I’m after creatin’ a powerful spell, so the decision is yours to stay or leave the room.”

“I’ll stay, and if it interrupts your spell, I’ll step out.”

“Aye.”

“By candle’s reflection, spells undone,

Reveal the place of Micha Sullivan.

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