But the scroll hadn’t surfaced. Not only that, even if it did, there was no guarantee he’d be the one to find it. The ritual could still be enacted by another sibling. That Cian, Rhiannon, and Belen had all embraced mortality on their birthday was strictly coincidence.
“That’s ridiculous. You know not a single line in any of the spells that have been uncovered so far call for the ritual to take place on a birthday, Brigid. What if Isolde finds it, or Dáire—he’d do anything for mortality. Or Taran? Isn’t he the one who’s stalking a woman in France? Seems to me that’s your most likely candidate.”
Brigid let out a soft chuckle. “No.”
“No?” Fintan spread his arms wide, indicating the empty castle room, the quiet that surrounded them. “Look around you. No women. No chance of falling in love and needing to lift the curse before I kill her.” Sitting forward, he folded his hands on his desk and gave his sister a meaningful stare. “Taran is your threat. Mark my words.”
Her laugh rang sharp with mockery. “Wrong. Taran is no fool. While you all have him tromping through the streets of Paris and hunting down this girl, you couldn’t be more wrong. He’s been in Italy. Prowling the beaches for drunks.”
Surprise landed a fist in Fintan’s gut, but he swallowed it back before the emotion could widen his eyes. Italy? Their darkest brother had taken great care to hide his whereabouts. Why?
He shook off the question. What Taran did was beyond Fintan’s control. Beyond all their ability to reason. Even Brigid, as faithful as she was to their sire’s blood, couldn’t hold a candle to Taran’s dark ways.
“Taran will not put himself in a position to make that fatal mistake, Fintan. Dáire, is being watched. Isolde is of no concern. Father could wipe the floor with her.”
Not quite, if the story Belen relayed about what Isolde had done to their father the night of Yule was true. But those siblings who opposed Drandar had kept that tidbit to themselves. Drandar’s pride would never allow him to admit the daughter most like their mother had bested him either.
Fintan gave Brigid a one-shoulder shrug. “So you’re here to watch over me.”
“Why not? I live with you. It makes sense. Besides.” She eased to her feet, her smile returning once more to its false angelic state. “You’re the one expecting company.”
As if on cue, a heavy knock sounded on the thick wooden door. A light feminine voice called, “Fintan? Brigid?”
“Yes, Muriel?” Fintan answered.
The door creaked open and a middle-aged blonde stuck her head inside. “Miss Whitley is here. Shall I show her to the front parlor?”
Fintan glanced at his sister, silently warning her that he wouldn’t tolerate any of her usual antics. “Bring Beth to me, Muriel. We’ll need the resources here. Is her room ready, the fire going?”
“Yes, everything’s prepared.”
At Fintan’s nod, Muriel slipped out again. Brigid threw her brother a wink. “I’ll leave you to your…research. But Fintan, I swear to you, I will not allow you to carry out any ritual beyond what you have already planned for your small coven.”
The sound of annoyance that rumbled in the back of his throat came out more like a snarl, a sound far closer to the dark blood he tried to ignore than he cared to admit. He took a deep calming breath then ordered his voice to remain level. “Go away. You have a room on the other wing of the castle. Stay there.” Taking three candles off the stack, he set them aside. He’d imbibe them for his ritual later.
Laughing, Brigid picked up one of the ribbon-embellished candles. She drew it under her nose, breathing in cinnamon and nutmeg. “I’ll know, Fintan. I will know.” With a saucy wave of the long taper, she sauntered out of the room, her wild red hair dancing around her waist like the flames that licked at the stones within the hearth.
Fintan watched her go, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. She was up to something. Something with the candles. He’d stake his immortal life on that fact. But what, exactly, eluded him.
Before he could dwell on the matter, the sound of heels clicking along the stone floor alerted him to Beth’s arrival. He rose to his feet as she entered the open door, Muriel her silent shadow. Yet the woman Fintan had expected wasn’t the one who filled the threshold. Her plain brown hair now bore enchanting shades of blonde and red that gave her delicate face new color. The tailored black pants she wore, the stylish white blouse, and the four-inch heels eradicated the memory he’d harbored of fraying jeans, faded sweatshirt, and sneakers.
She stepped into the room, crossing in front of the fire to shake his hand, and Fintan’s heart came to a standstill. Not because her confident smile held the impact of a head-on-collision, or because her missing glasses now revealed sparkling jade green eyes. But because he would stake his very soul on the fact he’d seen this new woman before…over two thousand years ago.
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Fated for Sacrifice Page 14
