Page 27 of Beer & Broomsticks
Knees weak, Ronan closed the distance to stare into the face that was almost a mirror image of Loman. The eyes were different, less cold, perhaps a little bluer, but still arrogant. His build was a little leaner, too. Loman had spent many years honing his fighting skills, all in an attempt to frighten and manage the others around him with that fear.
The white-blond hair was the same thickness. The hairline, too. But that’s where the similarity ended. This man wore his longer, almost identical to Quentin’s, and not short like Loman.
“Are you related to him? My father, Loman O’Connor?”
The stranger’s eyes turned frightening as the blue leeched away, replaced by an icy silver gray. Anger radiated off him and could be felt with each breath the man expelled.
Ronan quickly put distance between them. “What’s this, then? Who are you?”
“You’re Loman’s son?” The tone was the same as his father’s, the accent was not.
“Aye, not by choice. And if the fucker fell into a volcano tomorrow, I’d not be sheddin’ a single tear as the lava swallowed him.”
The frost left the other man’s eyes, and after summing up Ronan one last time, he held out his hand. “Alexander Castor.”
Confused, Ronan looked between father and son. “Not Buchanan?”
“I was adopted.” Quentin took up a spot on the bed, copying Ronan’s earlier pose. “By people who wanted me.”
Castor shot him an exasperated look, but otherwise ignored the barb.
“How is it you look the spittin’ image of my father?” Ronan demanded.
“Twins are quite frequent in the magical world.” Castor shrugged as if it were nothing. “The cells are ofttimes too powerful for one embryo, so they split.”
“You’re Loman O’Connor’s twin? You’re tellin’ me there are two of you bastards in the world?”
Behind him, Quentin snorted. “Disturbing, isn’t it?” he said dryly.
“Immensely.” That single word was probably the shortest dialogue in Ronan’s history, and yet, it said it all.
“I think this calls for a longer conversation,” Castor said. “And plenty of alcohol.”
“Fuck me, you’re tellin’ it true.” Ronan ran a shaky hand through his white-blond hair, belatedly realizing he probably looked more like the man in front of him than his own father with the way he wore it. “Are you an O’Connor?”
“No. I’ll never acknowledge the name. If you were smart, you’d change yours, too.”
“Don’t think I didn’t consider it, man.”
“No hug for your Uncle Alex, Cousin?” Quentin asked with a cackle.
“Sure, and I’d appreciate if ya didn’t call me that. With the exception of Ruairí, the only ones using that address are wankers and mad cows.” He paused and shot Quentin a curious look. “Which one are you?”
After casually flipping him off, Quentin stood and stretched with a faux yawn. “I’m going to take Frankie, Piper, and Aeden somewhere safe while you two become acquainted. Maybe if you use what little brains the two of you possess, you can find a way to defeat dear old Uncle Loman.”
“Don’t call him that,” Castor snapped. “Never call him that. He’s not your dear anything. If I can this time around, I’ll bury him six feet under and save us all the headache.”
A small part of Ronan relaxed upon hearing Castor’s curt reply. Until that very second, he wasn’t convinced the two brothers were at odds. But it wasn’t as if Loman inspired loyalty. Ronan was also thrown by how casual and dismissive Quentin was of his father. He’d have liked to be that way with Loman, but the man would’ve killed him before he allowed that type ofdisrespectfulbanter, as he’d see it.
“Are the two of you not close?”
“He’s just the sperm donor my mother used to conceive,” Quentin said in a hard tone on his way out the door.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Castor assured Ronan with a weary sigh. “He hates me for what he perceived as abandonment. The truth is I left him so he stood a chance at survival.”
“I wish Loman had done that for me.” Ronan shared a commiserating look with his new uncle. “Maybe in time, Quentin will see it through wiser eyes.”
“Perhaps. Shall we find where they keep the booze in this place and go have a much-needed drink?”
