Page 48 of Beer & Broomsticks
“Aye.” Ronan needed to express exactly how relentless Loman truly was. “If I know my father, and of everyone here, I’d say I’m the expert, he won’t stop until he has it.”
“Remind me, what is the last line of the prophecy?”
Ruairí answered first.“When the Enemy at the Gate is welcomed by the Keeper of the Sword, all that is lost shall be restored.”He gave Bridget a wry smile tinged with sadness. “I assumed I was the Enemy at the Gate and Bridget was the true Keeper of the Sword. I’ve tried a number of ways to be welcomed, all to no avail.”
Blushing furiously, she elbowed him but remained silent.
Damian’s lips twitched as if he were fighting back a smile, but he otherwise ignored the exchange. “No sudden influx of magic, Bridget?”
“No. A slight tingling in my hands a time or two, but nothing like my brothers experienced.”
“Tingling?” Ronan dropped his arms and stood straighter. This was the first he’d heard of it, and if her powers were trying to manifest, his father’s would be diminishing. The result would be deadly. Loman wouldn’t tolerate a drain of his magic, as the dead guards at the Witches’ Council prison could attest. “When did you feel that? What exactly were you doing?”
She appeared horrified to be put on the spot and gave Ruairí a helpless look. “I… that’s to say… well… I…” Closing her eyes, she touched her fingertips to the place between her brows and rubbed. “I was thinking about Ruairí. About second chances.”
“I see.” Damian returned the sword to her and touched her on the shoulder. “We’ve all been where you are, Bridget. There’s no need to be embarrassed.” Crossing the room, he paused and stared out the window, becoming completely silent.
They all shared a look behind his back, unsure what to say next.
Sabrina walked to where Bridget and Ruairí sat side by side, not looking or touching or acting as if the other existed. The girl cocked her head to the side and studied one, then the other.
Here it comes.The girl would throw a prediction out there and immediately be curtailed by the Aether for revealing everything she knew. Of course, Ronan shouldn’t take such pleasure in Damian’s trials, but it was great fun to witness so powerful a man flounder in the face of his young daughter.
“Papa?”
“Yes, Beastie. You can tell them, but not too much, mind.”
With a joyful laugh, she clasped first Ruairí’s hand then Bridget’s, joining them together and keeping them sandwiched between her smaller ones. “Your magic will come, Ms. Bridget, but only when you see the truth in Mr. Ruairí’s heart. Yours will have to thaw all the way.” Her earnest gaze bored into Bridget. “Do you know what I mean?”
“Aye. I think I do,” Bridget replied softly.
Sabrina nodded and addressed Ruairí. “You will need to help her make the new sword to fight your uncle. You will hold the true one for her and be the arm that strikes the evil man down.”
“I would die for her.” Ruairí looked right at Bridget when he said it, and Ronan’s heart stuttered in his chest. That type of sincerity, the unwavering commitment to another, would get his cousin killed in the end.
“This is feck—uh, this is pointless. I’ll not let him go up against Loman,” Ronan said angrily. “He’s not equipped, sword or no.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Ronan.” Sabrina gave him a knowing smile. “You’ll be there to help them, too.”
“You can’t just give us a location and be done with it, ya wee wild beastie?” Ronan said with a resigned sigh.
She ran and leaped for him, and he caught her midair. “You’re a true hero, you know.”
“I’m no one’s bleedin’ hero,” he growled, touching his nose to hers. “Don’t be spreadin’ vicious rumors.”
With a giggle, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight enough to choke him. Her adoration warmed his cold, dead heart, causing it to beat again with purpose. This child had a magic all her own, and it had nothing to do with her abilities. She was genuine and loved everyone, crusty old villains like himself included.
“You’re too generous with your praise, wee wild beastie,” he whispered against her temple.
“You’re a nice man,” she whispered back.
Giving her a final squeeze, he set her on the ground and ran a hand over her black curls. When she gazed up at him, those obsidian eyes full of trust and hero-worship, his heart swelled.
“You’ve too much faith in me. What if I disappoint ya?”
She grinned. “You won’t.” In a blink, she turned serious. “You’ll be careful, won’t you? You’ll come back?”
“Sure, and where would I be going?”
