Page 44 of Beer & Broomsticks
“If I may be the voice of reason…” Alexander stepped forward and removed the weapon from her hands to toss it on the bed. The blatant disregard he showed for the object that started a two-hundred-and-fifty-plus-year feud was laughable—ifRuairí had felt like laughing, which he didn’t. Not even a little. “It isn’t safe for my nephew out there, Ms. O’Malley.”
“And I should care, why?” she snapped.
Alexander’s gaze bored into her, waiting for her to understand the significance. When she remained defiantly mute, he sighed. “You love him,” he said simply. “You might be angry with him at the moment, but think of the regret you’d feel if he were to go back to his house, alone and lacking the necessary abilities to fight Loman, and get hurt or worse.”
She cast Ruairí a sullen look. “You can stay, but don’t think I love you, because I don’t. I’ve no desire to have your death on my conscience.” Stopping by the bed, she touched the hilt of the sword. “Is this really the one?”
“Aye,” Ruairí said quietly.
Her cool gaze met his, and he was disheartened to see they were once more a murky green, not a hint of the emerald to be seen. “If you stay here, I don’t want to see you again. You can conjure your own food here in your room.”
“Bridg—”
She held up a hand. “I knew you were playin’ a game because I’d overheard you tell your uncle. But to keep this from me, from my family, when it could’ve restored our magic and protected us from Loman? That’s beyond low, Ruairí.”
“I always intended to give it back to you. You have to believe me, Bridg.” His voice cracked from the strong emotion he was experiencing. Helplessness combined with hopelessness.
“I don’t care for excuses or for your fool reasons. You put my family in more danger with this little stunt of yours, ya did. That I can’t forgive.” When her voice broke over her last words, she compressed her mouth and lifted the sword from the bed.
“I won’t ask you, then.” Ruairí was sure he could hear his heart crack in two. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”
She nodded once and exited the room.
“She’ll forgive you, son.” Alexander gripped his shoulder and gave him a light squeeze. “She loves you.”
“But she doesn’t want to. And she’s always looked for an excuse to reject me. I’ve provided it time and again.”
“Do you ever ask yourself why?” Ronan’s question was softly spoken, designed to make Ruairí think hard about the cause of his fuck-ups.
“I’m sure you’ll tell me, now won’t ya?”
“You don’t think you deserve happiness, Cousin. You’re into self-sabotage.”
“Oh, and you’re one to be lecturing me about me choices when you’re shaggin’ married women,” Ruairí snapped.
“One. One married woman, a lifetime ago, and I loved her,” Ronan snapped back.
Because he’d known the why of it, Ruairí felt like shite for picking the scab covering his cousin’s lacerated heart. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Alexander watched them silently for a time before he finally said, “My brother doesn’t stand a chance when the two of you fellas are united. Remember that, won’t you?”
* * *
Bridget saton the edge of her bed, staring at the Sword of Goibhniu on the dresser across the room. That scrap of metal had caused so much strife over the years, it deserved to be melted down and buried at the center of the earth. If she was an earth witch with any power, she’d likely do it, too.
How could Ruairí have lied to her about something so important? Made it another of his games? He’d said he intended to give the sword to her eventually, but had he?
Oh, how he must’ve gotten a good chuckle at the fact the bleedin’ thing was under her very roof while she was ready to search the globe so she could be the one to restore her family’s magic. How laughable!
The irony was now that it was back in O’Malley hands, the last line of the prophecy was wrong. Their magic hadn’t been restored. She’d not felt a single spark when she touched that feckin’ thing. Not even a tingle.
Her disappointment had been keen, and it galled her that Ruairí had witnessed it and recognized her emotions for what they were. She’d seen it in his watchful expression.
When the Enemy at the Gate is welcomed by the Keeper of the Sword, all that is lost shall be restored.
She’d welcomed him into her home, but perhaps he wasn’t the true Enemy at the Gate. Or perhaps she wasn’t the true Keeper of the Sword. Maybe that fell to another. She’d have to put the sword with the O’Malley grimoire and see if it triggered any reaction from the temperamental spellbook.
Maybe there was more to this than the simple act of receiving the weapon back.
