Page 22 of Beer & Broomsticks
Surprisingly, Ronan liked New York. The size of the city had given him a sense of comfort. The ability to get lost in a crowd, even at his towering height. His accent had been telling, though, and it wouldn’t do to stay in one place longer than necessary.
Just as the feeling of being observed became too much and Ronan was ready to bolt, the back door opened.
“Jaysus, man! I’ve been out here a lifetime, and I’ve developed a case of paranoia.” He shot a glance to his left where the sensation of magic was strongest. “Let me in the feckin’ door, so I’m not a sitting duck, yeah?”
Ruairí smiled and shook his head. “Only you and I knew you’d be here, Cousin. You’ve got to learn to relax, ya do.”
“Withmyfather runnin’ around? You’ve got a screw missing now, don’t ya?”
The two men shook hands, and with one last look around, Ronan followed him inside. But the second the door began to shut, someone or something unseen shoved in behind them. Acting on instinct, Ronan blocked Ruairí’s body with his, prepared to take the brunt of the attack.
One that didn’t happen.
The entryway door was closed with a soft click, and the air crackled an instant before a dark-haired, god-like creature revealed himself. The man sported shoulder-length hair, muscles for days, and a shite-eating grin that said he believed cloaking himself and scaring the bejeezus out of others was some craic.
“Who the feck are you?” Ronan growled, advancing a few steps with balled fists. “Did Loman send ya?”
“Loman?”
“My father.”
The man tilted his handsome head slightly as if considering, his smile never wavering. “Never met the man. I’m Quentin Buchanan, a guest of the O’Malleys.” He paused a heartbeat and narrowed his eyes before adding, “And son-in-law to Alastair Thorne.”
There wasn’t a magical person on the planet who hadn’t heard the name or who didn’t know the story behind the legendary man. Alastair Thorne was favored by the Goddess Isis and was as wily as the day was long. Few went up against him and lived to tell the story. If the man in front of him was married to Thorne’s daughter, then he was a worthy opponent—or ally, depending on what side of the war one happened to be on. But Alastair also happened to be cousin to Hoyt Thorne, the guy Ronan had wronged a lifetime ago.
“Sure, and I’ve heard of the man. Who hasn’t?” Ronan said with a casual ease he didn’t feel. “Were you the peeper in the garden, then? Making sure I didn’t stage a strike against my own cousin?”
“Blood is an accident of birth. It doesn’t make you trustworthy, friend.”
“Yeah, I know that’s the truth of it. Can we have a pint and quit the pecker-measuring contest? I’ll gladly concede to you, and I’ve things to impart that might save a wee bit of heartache for the O’Malleys.”
Quentin laughed, and the booming sound was so contagious Ronan found himself fighting back a grin. Since all his concentration had been for Quentin, he’d forgotten Ruairí, and when his cousin slapped him on the back, he jumped and whirled, ready to strike.
“I’m getting too feckin’ old for this shite,” he muttered.
“Alastair continually says the same thing.” There was genuine humor in Quentin’s tone, as if he enjoyed irking his father-in-law, and perhaps he did. A devil danced on the man’s shoulder, and he had an ever-present twinkle in his eye to go along with his engaging grin.
“Yeah, well the man has my sympathies with you as an in-law. I’ve no doubt ya bedevil him daily,” Ronan retorted with a dismissive snort.
“I live to please, man.”
Life in the O’Connor household had required snap judgments and decisions. Ronan was quick to sum up the potential threat, but he found he liked Quentin. It was impossible not to. Yes, the resplendent glow radiating off the guy was mesmerizing, and he didn’t imagine there was anyone on the planet, witch or non-witch alike, who wasn’t charmed by the man or warmed by his magical aura. It made Quentin dangerous. The deceptively easygoing vibe was a ruse. Yet, Ronan couldn’t fault him for the gifts he’d been born with, though he was highly envious.
His own power had disappeared when he healed Aeden then had been infected by Moira’s blood curse. The Aether had saved him, but at the cost of Ronan losing whatever magic he possessed. Gradually, small abilities had returned. Things like conjuring necessary food, the art of glamouring to disguise himself, and teleporting. Nothing more meaningful.
All disheartening, yet much deserved for his part in trying to retain the O’Malley magic to begin with. Sure, he’d only wanted it to keep Loman and the remaining O’Connor clan in check, but he’d done some shady and questionable actions to manage it.
Once, he might’ve been as powerful as Quentin, able to go toe-to-toe if the need arose. But now, Ronan didn’t possess the necessary abilities to keep the other man from wiping the floor with his face.
“Like I said, I’ve news for the O’Malleys, I—”
“Ronan!”
He turned just as a small body barreled into him and hugged him about the waist. Recognizing the child as Aeden, he patted him on the head, detangled himself, and squatted eye level. “Well, sure, and you’ve grown since I saw you last.”
“I’ve been building me muscles so I can be like you when I’m grown.”
Ronan’s heart hiccuped in his chest. Somehow, this boy had managed to melt the colder side of him and had captured a softer part of his heart Ronan hadn’t known existed. Dutifully, he squeezed the presented bicep. “Aye. I’ve no doubt you’ll grow to be bigger. More like this beast of a man here.” He gestured to Quentin with a thumb over his shoulder and grinned at the boy. “Is that your aim, then? To be as big as a mountain?”
