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CHAPTER 1

PRESENT DAY…

F intan 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 was Taryn 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.”

“I hate it when you do that,” he grumbled. Deflecting was his specialty, and having it used against him was irritating.

“What?”

“ That. Skirt a volatile situation as easily as ya do, ya scut!”

Draven laughed, and the sound was pure magic. Low and throaty, but leaving one in no doubt his amusement was real. “You’re tryin’ to fight me so you don’t have to deal with one petite female? She doesn’t seem threatenin’ to me.”

“You’ll be after tellin’ me why, ya will. And how you know Taryn.” Fintan was annoyed this time. He may not want her for himself, but he sure as feck didn’t want to see her hook up with Draven. The thought of them together was acid searing his soul, and it burned hotter than expected. Imagining someone else touching her, hearing her laughter, and being the recipient of her affection hollowed him out. If his friend had designs on her, Fintan wanted to know.

With dark-blond brows drawn together in confusion, Draven shook his head.

“Give in now, Fintan. You’re head over heels.”

He didn’t bother to deny it, not when the truth was a rising tide he couldn’t hold back.

“I didn’t say I don't care about her,” Fintan grumbled. “Just that I don’t want to care about her.”

“She’s your ultimate demise ?”

“Aye.”

Draven clapped him on the back and grinned. “What a way to go, cher ! What a way to go!”

“Sure, and I never got a clear vision of the future with her or why,” Fintan mumbled as he scratched his chest and stared at the offending door.

“What’s all this?” A gravelly male voice asked from behind them.

He didn’t turn around. He’d known five minutes ago Trevor Blane would be joining their group. Next would be Alexander Castor, then Creed Calder. Only Jordan Brothers would be late to this pointless meeting of the Aether’s.

“Our man Fintan is stallin’ for time. He doesn’t want to face what’s on the other side of that door.” Draven smirked triumphantly when Trevor chuckled.

Fintan never wanted to plant another person a facer as badly as he did his long-time friend. He didn’t dignify Draven’s response with a reply. Instead, he charged toward the fecking door. When he raised his hand to knock, it swung open, and the one person he wished to avoid stood there with a welcoming smile on her too-grand face. Her aqua eyes shone brighter than jewels, and the breeze kicked up, as if waiting to caress her, and tossed her titian- and mocha-brown hair with its white-blonde highlights.

He scowled.

She ignored his ire.

“Fintan. Just the man I was hoping to speak with,” she said with a peek over his shoulder at the others. “Hi, Trev. Soleil’s in the greenhouse if you want to stop before breakfast. Damian is running a little late. Baby Nate was fussy.”

“Sure, and did we need a rundown of his bleedin’ problems?” Fintan grumbled. “The man could’ve texted and delayed the feckin’ meeting.”

“Don’t mind him, cher . He’s been in a bad mood since birth.” Draven pushed past him and kissed Taryn on the cheek. “Thank you for lettin’ us know.”

Her responding grin was like pure sunshine illuminating the faerie-blessed green fields of éire , and it caused Fintan’s heart to pound harder. The urge to turn and run was hard fought, and despite his misgivings, he crossed the threshold of her home.

The ancestors had something to say about it, and his body seized.

When Fintan regained consciousness, he was lying on the floor, and half the household, along with his fellow Sentinels, were peering down at him. It took a precious extra minute to realize his head was cradled in Taryn’s lap, and she was stroking his hair back from his hot forehead. The realization lit a fire under his ass, and he jumped to his feet so fast it was sure to insult her.

Taryn sighed in disappointment. Not at Fintan. He was doing what he’d always done when it came to avoiding her. No, the frustration was directed at herself. Once again, she’d let down her guard, and Fintan Sullivan had stomped all over her tender feelings. The jerk couldn’t scramble away fast enough.

For the span of a heartbeat, she met his tormented gaze.

And wasn’t that the problem? When he wasn’t eyeing her like she was about to steal the silver, he looked at her like he wanted to eat her up. His intense expression put naughty thoughts in a girl’s head and fed her dreams. It also made one wonder what kept them apart when his desire was apparent for all to see.

He still possessed a rockstar quality after all these years. His stance, seemingly casual, was commanding, and his body—oh, Goddess that fucking body!—had muscles to spare. Though not overly tall, he was built like a prizefighter with biceps putting a spinached-up Popeye to shame.

“May I speak with you in private?” she asked him.

“No!” His cheeks flushed, and he actively sought someone to rescue him. It tumbled Taryn back to when, as a famous musician, he’d required security to keep over-eager fans at bay. “I mean, I’ve no time. The, uh, the Aether…” Trailing off, he cast a desperate glance at Draven as if expecting help from his direction.

The Guardian enjoyed being contrary for the hell of it, and instead of tossing out a lifeline, he crossed his arms and raised a brow. The gesture earned him a scowl from Fintan and a laugh from Castor, who had entered the room right after Fintan dropped to the floor.

Castor, ever the charming rogue and gallant to every female he met, offered a hand to help her stand.

Her cheeks warmed as she realized she hadn’t moved from the floor where Fintan had left her. No, like the love-starved fool she was, she sat, gawking at him and wishing things had turned out differently.

Way to go, Taryn.

With an irritated huff, Fintan knocked Castor out of the way and hauled her to her feet. His touch electrified her, and she sucked in a breath. For an unguarded second, his tortured sea-green eyes drank her in. But he recalled his abhorrence for her, and his iris color darkened as his face hardened.

“Stop wearing your feckin’ heart on yer sleeve, Taryn Stephens,” he growled in a low voice. “You’re always doin’ that, ya are, and it’s bleedin’ embarrassing for both of us.”

Her heart, like her face and body, went cold, and she shoved past him. Before she could make good her escape, Creed Calder caught her in his arms and tucked her protectively against his chest.

“Do you always have to be such an animal, Fin?” he snapped. The air grew thick with tension as the two men glared at each other.

“The only person whose behavior is embarrassing is yours, Sullivan,” Castor added sternly with a challenging look for Fintan. “She’s being nothing but kind to a dour little prick.”

Taryn was torn between crying and defending him. He didn’t deserve to be piled on, but then again, neither did she deserve his constant scorn. Their romance had been magical until the day he’d ghosted her. She’d spent years trying to forget him and those unimaginable weeks together. There were entire days she didn’t think of him once. All that changed two years ago when he entered her orbit again, uncovering the feelings she’d long believed buried.

But she did neither, cry nor defend him. He was a big boy and could fight his battles himself.

Taryn patted Creed’s chest—a mighty fine one—and drew away from his sheltering embrace.

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a grateful smile and extending it to Castor. “You’ve both been very kind. I appreciate your defense, but there’s no need to exchange blows with Fintan. You might break your knuckles on his hard head.”

Okay, so yeah, her comment was petty, but so was his.

Avoiding a backward glance at the cause of all her woes, she gave a regal nod and hurried toward the library—her sanctuary in a world gone mad.

She’d barely settled in when Fintan entered, sucking all the air from the room and her lungs.

“I’m after apologizing to ya,” he said, proverbial hat in hand.

“You’re after doing it, or you’re actually doing it?” she asked coolly. “Because they aren’t the same thing.”

“I’m doin’ it,” he replied, sullen despite the overture.

“For which incident?” Tapping her finger on her chin, she affected a contemplative air. “Ghosting me after telling me I was the one? Hiding every time I visit your cousin, Brenna? Treating me like I have the plague when I was only trying to protect your thick head from the marble floor?”

He smirked at “thick head,” and Taryn wanted to throat punch him.

Instead, she ignored his teenage humor and continued roasting his hurtful actions. “Or this latest one? Treating me like one of your overzealous groupies from your stupid boy band days?”

Fintan scowled. “It was never a boy band. Let’s make that clear.”

“Hmm, really? Five guys dancing in sync during the heyday of the boy-band era? Don’t kid yourself, Fintan. It was totally a boy band.”

“You’ll take that back, or you’ll be sufferin’ me wrath,” he warned.

Her laugh was genuine. “Your wrath? And what’s that? You’ll sing me to sleep or make predictions until I run away screaming?”

“Sure, and ya think it’s a joke, but I’ll be tellin’ ya the prediction is real, and you’re to be?—”

He gulped and dropped his gaze.

“Don’t stop now. You’re getting to the good part.” She jumped up and stalked to him, somewhat satisfied to see the wariness cross his reddening face. “What prediction, Fintan? What do your all-fired important ancestors have to say about my life that I give two shits about?” she taunted.

“Don’t mock them or the visions, Taryn,” he warned with an ill-at-ease glance skyward. “It’s not the craic.”

“No, it’s not funny, and neither is your behavior toward me. So do us both a favor and shove your apology up your ass, okay?”

His handsome face was a foot above hers, alerting her to the not-so-subtle changes time had wrought. Where once his visage bore that of youth and eagerness—perhaps excitement at a blossoming career—now, it was a chiseled monument to his complex adult life. All the engaging energy of a burgeoning artist had disappeared behind a rock-solid mask of disillusionment and surliness.

“What happened to you?” she asked softly. “To that sweet, kind guy I met who was thrilled to sing to the masses?”

“He discovered what he was,” he said, equally as soft and a helluva lot more tormented. “He has a monster waitin’ inside to wake and gobble up innocent little girls like you, love.”

“Are we speaking literally or figuratively? Because from where I’m standing, it’s figurative and something you can control.”

“It’s not.” His irises darkened further, and she could tell by the deepening color that he was hurting. An excellent barometer for a witch’s feelings was the changing shades. “It’s quite literal, and I can’t control him. At least, not around you.”