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He rolled his eyes as he stood and walked to me to take the tool. “I’m only doing this because you asked.”

He kneeled between the two columns and dug the trowel into the ground with slow, methodical strokes. My eyes widened as I saw how little effort he used to sink the tool into the hard ground. Excitement rose as he formed a small hole. I couldn’t tell how deep the hole went before I heard a slight clang of metal on metal. After a few more shovels of dirt, Mac pulled a metal box from the ground.

Was that recognition that flashed through his eyes? He brought the box to me, placing it in my hands as he stood above me. I ran my fingers across the rusted lid, where there appeared to have once been a decoration that was now a sea of orange, crumbling metal. “Does that look like a heart to you?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

His blank face was unreadable as he sat beside me. The heat of his body radiated through my arm, causing a shiver to run through me. I wanted to forget about the box I was holding and instead melt into the man sitting next to me. I lifted the lid, hoping the contents had fared better than their container. Inside lay a leather-bound portfolio emblazoned with a lynx that matched my pendant. How did something from the coven end up here?

I eased the cover open and gasped. In the top right corner was an ailm. A heading read: Descendants of Rauri O’Cillian, Ceann cine, 1856.

“This is impossible. The O’Cillians are a myth,” I breathed.

“But are they?”asked my mother’s voice. I blinked it away as I focused on the pages in my lap.

Mac shook his head. “It doesn’t look like they are.”

“What is ceann cine?” I asked.

“The ceann cine was the elected chieftain of an Irish clan,” replied Mac as he read over my shoulder.

How did he know that? I was immediately distracted from my thoughts as his chest brushed against my arm, causing lightning bolts of desire to shoot through my core.

My breath hitched and I returned to our conversation. “Rauri had six sons and three daughters.” I traced the lines on the document. “The first son, Kieran O’Cillian, married Aine Ni’Mhara on Beltaine 1175. They had four sons. Cormac. Winter 1176. Lorcan. Spring 1178. Aiden. Summer 1180. Conall. Autumn 1182.” I recognized the names of the vampires my coven long regarded as a fanciful myth—monsters who had walked our world for too long. Monsters who in the history of this area were warlocks.

“This is odd,” I said as my eyes returned to the names of the remaining children of Rauri O’Cillian.

“What is that?”

“His daughters: Niamh, Aoife, and Róisín. Those are the names of the three witches who founded the Coven of the Blood. And four of his sons: Tadhg, Eoin, Cathal, and Fergus. Those are the names of the four original hunters. But there is no information for them, only his youngest son, Finn. This doesn’t seem to be concerned with the firstborn,” I said, turning the page. “This lineage is following the last-born sons.” I started to count.

“Don’t bother,” said Mac.

My eyes snapped up to him. “Why not? This is what I need. I need to understand!”

“Kieran had an older brother, so you are looking at the seventh son of the seventh son. In 1850, that was Donovan O’Cillian.”

I closed the portfolio on my lap, narrowed my eyes, and turned my head to look at him. “Would you like to tell me how you know all that?”

He pressed his sensual lips into a thin line. “It is an old Irish tradition. The seventh son of the seventh son, known as the Cure, always holds the answer to alleviating an ailment.”

Aurora

My eyes opened wide. “What does a Cure have to do with a bunch of vampires?”

Mac shook his head. “I don’t know. The vampiric curse cannot be broken. The only cure is death, so what would this man be able to tell us?” He glanced at the wall, avoiding my gaze.

The flames no longer danced in his eyes when he looked back at me. I searched his face for any other hint of emotion when realization dawned on me. I knit my brows together, searching his too-perfect face, taking in how it resembled chiseled marble sculpted to perfection. His body, too, showed absolute symmetry and beauty—an unattainable flawlessness reserved for one creature alone.

My voice lowered. “Why did you follow me down that tunnel?”

He bit his lip. “I told you; I knew you would likely be hurt.”

I thought back to his hands when I was first waking up, when the cold feeling of death seeped into my skin. How my ring burned on my finger as though it was consuming something when he spoke to me, and the extreme calm his voice evoked in me before my ring sprung to life. The burn of magic being consumed—his compulsive magic trying to take over my thoughts. I froze as the realization crashed over me. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

His face twisted in confusion. “One of who?”

“A vampire. That’s how you knew this was a sacred space for their family.” My heart thudded as I silently prayed he would deny my accusation.