Page 11

CHAPTER 11

N oah was flabbergasted.

The dark-haired sprite was the spitting image of his brother in child form. But where Damian was reserved, this girl was anything but, and her engaging grin was difficult to dismiss.

Uncle Noah.

He’d had no idea she even existed, and the urge to question if Damian had more children was plaguing him. But he wouldn’t because he wanted nothing to do with the Aether or the Dethridge legacy.

“I have a brother, too,” the girl said. “But you’re not evil, Uncle Noah. Neither is Papa. Grandpa Damarius was wrong.”

Her words were a knife to his fecking heart. How did she know? And how many times had he wanted his father to see the good in him? Wanted a portion of the love the man held for Damian? There were many occasions when Noah had stumbled upon his father, drink in hand and staring at a portrait of himself with his wife and firstborn. The longing in his eyes had made Noah’s stomach tighten and his heart ache. He’d only required a small token of his father’s affection, and yet, he’d never received it or a kind word of any sort. More often than not, it was a boot to his backside that his father provided.

Paralyzed and helpless from the wall of emotions crashing over him, Noah was unable to answer the girl. Her obsidian eyes turned to large pools of sadness the longer she watched him, and his desire to squat down to hug her was strong. But he’d learned early to hold back or face his father’s wrath, and that lesson didn’t simply disappear.

“I’m Sabrina, but you can call me Beastie, like Papa,” she said, holding out her hand for him to shake, clearly undeterred by his reticence.

Sabrina. A beautiful name for so lovely a child. It fit her, though he suspected Beastie was more appropriate.

He cleared his throat and took her tiny hand in his. “Noah Riley.”

“I know. I’m an Oracle.” She wasn’t smug or arrogant, simply stating a fact, and Noah found his lips curling in response.

“That’s a tough job for one so young.”

“I can handle it. Papa is teaching me how to be a good Aether. I’m supposed to weigh everything I see and make an informed decision.” She glanced at her exasperated father. “Isn’t that right, Papa?”

“Yes. However, I also advised you to use caution, and you’ve ignored that important rule,” Damian replied dryly.

A small kernel of something resembling respect popped within Noah as he watched father interact with daughter. Damian’s parenting skills appeared to be vastly different from their da’s.

“Uncle Noah needs us, Papa,” she said simply. “He’s been alone too long.”

Another pang struck Noah’s heart, but rather than embrace her as he wanted, he withdrew his hand.

“By choice,” he told her with a tight smile. “You’ll find when you live as long as your father and me, putting up walls is necessary.”

Gah! That little tidbit had slipped out, revealing vulnerability to his potential enemy—his brother.

“I’m not your enemy, Noah,” Damian said. “You’ll discover I can be a great friend if you let me.”

“I’ve enough friends, thanks.” But he avoided his brother’s considering gaze.

“Don’t worry. He’ll come around, Papa.” Sabrina grinned up at him and clasped his hand again. “You just need love, Uncle Noah. We have plenty of that in our home.”

“I live in Ireland, girl. Yeah, and I’ve no need to visit your home.”

Although his voice was gruff, it didn’t faze her, and she tightened her hand. What had she seen for him? He curbed the desire to ask. But if she was truly an Oracle, he had no problem seeking answers about Fi.

“Do you know where my girlfriend is, ya wee Beastie?”

She laughed.

Frowning, Noah checked the others’ responses before looking down at her. “Sure, and what’s the craic?”

“You called me ‘wee Beastie’ just like Ronan. He’s a special Guardian for Baby Nate and me.”

“And what am I? Chopped liver?” Dubheasa asked with a laughing glance toward her mate.

“What can I say, Dove? The wee Beastie loves me best,” Ronan quipped.

“Pfft.”

Noah had been around many who displayed close familial ties and friendships, but other than Fi, he’d not experienced a true connection. He’d been a fool to ignore what she’d offered, and all because he’d been terrified she was the one person who could break down his protective walls.

Yet standing in front of him, refusing to let go of him, was another pint-sized female with a similar openness, taking a battering ram to those same walls. Both were making progress in their demolition efforts.

“Fi isn’t your girlfriend, Uncle Noah.”

“I won’t quibble over semantics,” he said with a half shrug, wishing he could punch himself in the face for letting everyone know how he felt about Fi. Taking the proverbial bull by the horns, he added, “She will be when I find her again, all the same.”

The extremely skeptical look from a child, like the one Sabrina was gracing him with, was disturbing. No one wanted to be called out on their shite.

“Fine. What is it you think ya know, wee Beastie?” he growled.

She cast her father a sly glance before shrugging. “I’m not allowed to tell.”

Damian laughed, damn him!

“And here I was beginning to like ya,” Noah muttered.

Sabrina’s tinkling laughter was as pure as church bells and highly contagious, though he refused to give into it.

No one else had the same problem.

Patrick and Fi spent the rest of the day together, sharing the highlights from their lives. Their stories were outrageous and the laughter plentiful, despite the situation. She silently admired his casual pose, with one leg outstretched and a sinewy forearm draped over the raised knee of the other. His eyes leaned more toward emerald today, and Fi could only assume his mood wasn’t as dark as when he’d shown up on her doorstep. It could be argued he’d found meeting her family less preferable to incarceration, but she wouldn’t go there.

When he bit into an apple with his straight white teeth, the juice settled on his lower lip, begging her to lean forward and lick it off. She checked the urge and glanced down at their lunch. Once again, it had appeared when she was dozing, and she could only assume there was a camera in the room, monitoring their movements, although she could detect no sign of it.

“Tell me about your parents,” he encouraged. “Why does your dad drink so much?”

“We’re Irish, or have you forgotten?”

He grinned. “Sure, and we all love a pint or two, but your da was well into his cups.”

Fi sighed. “We lost my little brother, Jimmy, when he was just ten. It made Mam overprotective and Da an alcoholic.”

“I’m sorry, love.”

The truth was, although all witches possessed abilities and, to some extent, healing magic, the Goddess had her reasons for taking a soul early. Of course, the Bohannons hadn’t been privy to that reason, and they missed young Jimmy something fierce.

“It’s why I’m determined to escape here and find Tadhg,” she told him. “They deserve better than to lose any more children.”

Patrick’s expression bordered on tender. “You’ll make good your escape.”

“It’s difficult to do when the bars will cook our arses if touched.” She sighed her frustration. “If only we could get an idea of who’s behind this, we could formulate a plan.”

With a frown and a considering glance around the room, he stood. He approached the cell door, stopping a few feet away, then tossed the apple core against the bars. Although the air around them sizzled and snapped, the fruit remains were intact with no charing or marks of any kind.

“Does that seem strange to you?” she asked when his frown darkened.

“Aye. We should be smelling something akin to burnt apple right about now.”

He returned and selected a fork, then repeated the process of throwing an object at the metal bars. Once again, the atmosphere around them sizzled and snapped. This time a shimmer of green ran the length of the room from floor to ceiling.

“What the fuck?” Fi cried. “Was it like this the first time?”

“None of the times,” he replied with a thoughtful scowl. “I’m going to touch the bars, and I’ll be obliged to you if you heal any burns.”

“Patrick, no!” She jumped up and grabbed his forearm as he stretched forward. “We haven’t tried using our magic yet.” Yeah, and it made no sense why they hadn’t. Were they under a magical suggestion not to? An idea struck her. “Let’s conjure items or try to teleport first. If either works, we can formulate a plan from there.”

With a single nod, he said, “Call up a pint. I could use the drink.”

She grinned and held up her hands, palms facing upward. Closing her eyes, she envisioned the glass forming, and warmth danced along her skin. The weight of the mug was heavy and grew heavier still when she imagined it filled with beer.

“Fuck me, it worked.” Patrick sounded bewildered, as if he’d expected it not to. He accepted the pint and promptly shouted his surprise when the glass shattered and the liquid soaked him.

“What the hell happened? Did you intentionally break it, then?” she asked with an edge to her tone. Her frustration was great.

“Do you think I want to be soaked to the bone and reeking of beer?” he growled back.

“You try to conjure one,” she demanded.

He did with the same result, ending up twice as wet as he’d started.

Fi shook her head, baffled by the entire situation. “How can we conjure something, but it goes bust the moment we do?”

“It’s a feckin' mystery, it is.” And he didn’t sound thrilled to solve it.