by Donna Grant
She’d cornered Bran, but she hadn’t allowed Fintan near to kill Bran and end the war. He’d be furious.
And rightly so.
Yet, he’d given her nothing but honesty since coming into her life. How could she not give him at least the same?
“When the dagger came to me, I’d been thinking about it. That’s what I did this time.”
His white eyes narrowed a fraction. “Just what did you think about?”
“Wanting to be hidden.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
It also wasn’t the entire truth. Which, ultimately, was a lie.
And she felt like a piece of shite.
If it were possible, Fintan’s rage elevated several levels. He didn’t move, didn’t utter a single word. But it was there in the way he stood, tense and rigid. It was there in the way he stared at her as if she were a stranger—as if she couldn’t be trusted.
She fought the tears that threatened, blinking rapidly. She would not cry for what she had destroyed. She would not. Because it was for her grandfather.
Fintan was a wonderful Fae with an amazing body, but he was so broken, she wasn’t sure anyone could ever mend him—if he even wanted to be healed.
But in the end, she had to think of her future. The smallest thread of hope that her grandfather could be alive was too great to pass up.
Even if her heart hurt at the idea of losing Fintan.
Regardless, she hadn’t committed to Bran. If she learned the body at the morgue was indeed her grandfather, or if Bran couldn’t give her proof of life, then she would tell Fintan everything.
Even though it would destroy what little trust he had in her. Surely, he would understand.
She didn’t want to think about what would happen if she learned her grandfather was alive and well. Because whatever Bran wanted couldn’t be good. She would, in fact, possibly be betraying Fintan and the other Reapers.
Without a word, Fintan veiled himself. At least she assumed he did. For all she knew, he could’ve teleported away. And she couldn’t blame him.
He knew she wasn’t telling him everything. Instead of demanding she share what she hid, he’d let the half-truth hang between them.
She looked down at her hands. If she had called the dagger, and if she had brought Bran to her and created the dome, why couldn’t she feel the magic?
Domhnall and Nora had often spoken of how it felt to feel their magic. She even recalled her father and grandfather speaking of it.
Cat dropped her arms to her sides and turned toward the cottage. She walked to it, pausing briefly at the door before continuing inside. Her gaze searched everything, looking for any sign of a struggle or anything that would give her a clue that he was alive.
Everything was as orderly and clean as always. The kettle set on the stove. A cup had been washed and left upside down on a towel next to the sink to dry. A book waited on the table with a clip marking over half the story read.
It looked as if her grandfather had just taken a walk on the beach and would return shortly. She grasped the hope tightly that he was alive.
“Cat, a stóirín.”
She closed her eyes at the sound of her grandfather’s voice behind her. It could all be a trick. Or he might be the real thing.
Slowly, she turned and opened her eyes. She gazed into the weathered face she knew so well. Her heart was so overjoyed she thought it might burst from her chest.
She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck, only to be met with air. She looked at her empty arms and spun around to look for him.
Her grandfather’s face was filled with sadness and regret. “This is as close as he’ll allow me to get to you.”
“Who?” she asked, but she knew the answer.
“Bran.”
“What does he want with you?”
Her grandfather shook his head. “Ah, girl. It’s you he wants.”
“Why?”
“Because of the power within you.”
She gawked at him, stunned to her bones. “You say that as if you know I have magic.”
“I’ve always known. So did your parents. We were protecting you.”
“From what?” she cried.
The deception of her family was a swift and cruel blow. All those years she’d cried herself to sleep because she was without magic. All those years she’d felt inferior. All the time she’d felt excluded.
And they’d known the truth.
Her grandfather raised his hands before him. “Listen. We don’t have much time. Save your anger.”
Save it? Was he serious? She was going to unleash it on someone. Namely Bran.
“Your magic manifested itself when you were just a wee babe. It grew out of control so quickly that I had no choice but to step in when your father couldn’t control it,” he said.
She fisted her hands in an effort not to lash out at her grandfather. “What are you talking about?”
“All you have to do is think of something, a stóirín, and it’s yours.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Bushy white eyebrows rose in his forehead. “What have you thought about recently and suddenly had, unsure of how it came to be?”
Her mind immediately went to the dagger. Then there was Fintan. Last night, she’d wished he were with her so she wouldn’t have to be alone, and he’d walked into her room. Then there was Bran just a bit ago, along with the dome.
“By your face, there are several instances.” Her grandfather released a long sigh. “When Bran took me away, it severed my connection with you, which broke the spell I’d used to bind your magic. You have precious little time to learn to control your thoughts so your magic doesn’t manifest into reality.”
She put her hand to her forehead. “This can’t be happening.”
“I’m sorry, but it is.”
“Why haven’t you told me until now?”” she demanded.
He glanced at the floor. “Three Fae, Cat. Three. No other Halfling family in the world has had more than one Fae beget a child. We have targets on our backs because of this, my girl.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you’ve kept the truth from me all these years?”
“I wanted to protect you.”
She threw up her hands in agitation. “Why?” she demanded again.
“Because you’re . . . different. I knew it as soon as you were born.”
She didn’t want to be angry with her grandfather, but there was no controlling it. “You could’ve told me. I could’ve been working all these years to control this.”
“It doesn’t work that way. Your magic is like a magnet to the Fae.”
This only confused her more. “Why?”
“All the magic in all the generations of our family has culminated in you, a stóirín. I don’t know how or why, but that’s the truth of it. It’s why I bound your magic. You see, you have great power within you. It’s so formidable that you can be used to do good or evil. The choice is yours.”
Her arm fell to her side as her stomach revolted at his words. She walked to the table and pulled out one of the chairs before she dropped down on it. “Bran killed Domhnall and Nora.”
“I know. He gloated over the fact.”
“Bran wants to kill Death and the Reapers,” she said, looking up at her grandfather, who had come to stand beside the table.
He gave a shake of his head. “Death? Reapers? I heard stories when I was a lad, but I never expected them to be real.”
“They are. Death put Bran in a prison realm called the Netherworld because he broke her rules then killed two of his fellow Reapers.”
Her grandfather’s eyes widened. “If that’s true, you cannot give him anything, no matter what he uses against you.”
“If I don’t go to him, he won’t release you.”
“He won’t ever release me,” he said with a sad smile. “Bran will use me to get you to do whatever he wants. I’m an old man. I’ve lived my life. Forget me and go live yours. Do good with your
magic. Continue the legacy of our family.”
He made it sound so easy, but it wasn’t. She’d never be able to live with herself if he died because she didn’t help. Then again, she’d never be able to live with herself if Bran won against the Reapers and Fintan was killed.
Either way, she was going to lose.
“Cat,” her grandfather called.
She saw him begin to fade away. “No,” she cried, jumping to her feet, her arm outstretched, reaching for him.
But her grandfather was already gone.
Once more alone in the cottage, she dropped to her knees and buried her face in her hands. The torrent of tears came, choking her.
She threw back her head, screaming her anguish, anger, and frustration. She shouted until her throat hurt, and then she yelled some more.
But it did nothing to ease her troubled soul.
Her mind went to Fintan. How she wished he were there, his strong arms around her. He would know what to do. He always did. If he could forgive her.
More tears gathered in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She was in a tricky spot, and there was no way she could come out a winner.
It didn’t seem fair to finally discover that she had magic and learn why it had been concealed, only to find that it was her magic that had brought the worst kind of evil to her door.
And the best of men, as well.
If only she’d told Fintan everything from the beginning. But she knew he would advise her to do the very thing her grandfather had.
Two men she trusted and regarded highly had the same opinion, but she couldn’t let go of the fact that she wouldn’t be alone if she did what Bran wanted. She would have her grandfather.
Her head jerked up as she blinked through the tears. Her grandfather had said she could get whatever she wanted just by thinking about it. So she thought about him, of wanting him there beside her without any restrictions from Bran.
Yet nothing happened.
She tried again and again and again, exhausting herself in the process. It took a toll on her body, sapping her of all strength so that her arms couldn’t hold her up. Lying half on her stomach, half on her side, she cried for all that was, all that could’ve been.
And all that would never be.
It was hours later that she had to concede that Bran had put something in place to prevent her from using her magic on her grandfather. And the realization was too much for her to take.
Anger gave her a flood of energy, enough that she was able to push herself up onto all fours. Then, using every last bit of strength she had, Cat grasped anything she could to help her get to her feet.
Once there, she swayed, but she was determined not to fall. She put one foot in front of the other and made her way to the door. Opening it, she looked outside. The rain came down faster as the wind caused it to fall at an angle. The walk home was going to get her drenched.
She looked over her shoulder at the cottage, briefly contemplating remaining there, but she couldn’t. Because Fintan wouldn’t be able to come to her. And right now, she needed him.
There was a part of her that wanted to wish for him, but forcing him to come to her didn’t seem right after lying to him. Even if she needed him so badly that she thought she might die without him.
How she wished she were in her own home. The thought barely went through her head when she found herself standing in the middle of her living room. She turned in a circle, shocked at what had just happened.
“Fintan,” she called and rushed from room to room, looking for him. “Fintan!”
But it didn’t matter how many times she called for him, he didn’t appear. She knew he could hear her. It was his choice to stay away. Though she had a way to bring him to her, she didn’t use it.
If he didn’t want to be with her, she wouldn’t make him. She’d hurt him deeply, and he might never forgive her for that.
She removed her scarf and coat and hung them up. It had been a day of emotions that brought her high, and ones that dragged her so low she wondered if she could ever get up again.
The absolute worst was knowing that her actions had sent Fintan away.
Possibly for good.
Chapter Seventeen
Fintan knew the taste of betrayal all too well. The fact that it lingered on his tongue yet again left him grim and miserable. It was a wretched thing indeed to give someone trust, only to have it snatched away so quickly.
Despite his feelings, he didn’t abandon Cat. He continued to watch over her. Even when she was inside the beach cottage, he’d observed her through the window.
It didn’t take a great mind to sort out what was happening. Fintan was angry with himself for not realizing it sooner. Bran’s ploy was so basic, so ironclad that it had been easy to look for something bigger and more dramatic.
The simple fact was that Bran had Cat’s grandfather. It was the clear and only way Bran would ever coax her to his side. Knowing why she lied didn’t make it hurt any less, though. It meant that Cat didn’t trust him enough to help.
And she was right. He wouldn’t. He’d talk her out of anything to do with Bran. He’d tell her to look at the big picture, to think of the fate of the world versus one man who was in the golden years of his life.
Fintan would wear her down until she agreed. The Reapers would triumph over Bran, and the war he’d begun would end. Things would go back to normal.
While Cat was left alone to deal with what she’d done. Hate would enter her heart and be directed towards him, and she’d never forgive him.
There would be no happy ending for him either. Their night of passion, a night that had changed him, would crumble into nothing.
But the feelings would still be there. He’d still long for her. It would be that yearning that reminded him of what he’d done. Of what he lost.
That guilt would build over the centuries until he began to hate himself. That disgust would eat him from the inside out until his brothers had no choice but to kill him.
All because Bran had escaped the Netherworld and sought revenge.
It didn’t matter how he looked at it, Fintan couldn’t find a solution. By the way Cat had lied to him, she’d already made her decision to go with Bran. And he couldn’t blame her.
She remembered her family. She knew what it was to be a part of a group who loved unconditionally. She’d watched each of them be taken from her, leaving her completely alone.
He recalled nothing of his family. Not how many siblings he’d had, or even a hint of what either of his parents’ faces looked like. He’d been abandoned. All he’d ever known was loneliness. Cat had a chance to change that. In her shoes, he’d do the same.
His thoughts ground to a halt as he reflected on Eoghan. How was it that he’d never thought of the Reapers as his family? It wasn’t until now, at that moment, that Fintan realized that’s exactly who they were.
He called them his brothers, but he’d kept himself distant from them—just in case. All that changed with Bran. Fintan had subconsciously—or perhaps he’d knowingly done it—bonded with the Reapers.
Eoghan’s disappearance haunted him. Fintan wanted to find Eoghan, needed to find him. It’s what drove him to hurry and kill Bran so that the Reapers could put their focus where it needed to be—Eoghan.
All this time, he’d just thought he was part of a group. He was always on the fringes, always watching Kyran and Talin joke with each other while Cael sought patience. Baylon would egg things on, and Eoghan would stand guard in muted silence.
Fintan looked across the street to Cat’s house. The curtains were open, but he didn’t approach. Her magic had brought her there. He hadn’t seen any movement, but he didn’t expect Bran or any of his men to get anywhere near her.
In some ways, Cat was safer now than she had been. What Fintan wanted to know was how Bran had discovered her? How had he known she had magic?
It was her power that stumped Fintan. A Fae could think of something and have it appear or disappear. He
did it with his sword all the time. The same with the teleportation.
The fact that she, as a Halfling, was exhibiting the same type of magic as a Fae was interesting. The Fae often put spells on their children to keep them close until they grew old enough to learn to control it. And Fintan suspected that’s exactly what Cat’s grandfather had done.
None of that explained why Bran wanted her, though. If her magic was much like a Fae’s, then he could grab anyone and get what he wanted. It had to be something singular about Cat. Something that only she could do.
Since Fintan had never paid much attention to Halflings, he was at a loss. It could be anything. The scope of possibilities that sat before him was endless.
There was one person who would know. Yet Fintan wasn’t at all eager to have an audience with Death. It didn’t matter that he’d seen her more times over the last few weeks than the last several millennia. Death was . . . Death. She held more power and magic in her little finger than all the Fae combined.
The sight of long, black and silver hair out of the corner of his eye caught Fintan’s attention. He turned his head and stared in surprise at Balladyn.
Fintan used glamour to hide his hair and eyes before he dropped the veil. Balladyn’s head turned toward him immediately. The Dark stared for a moment, then made his way to Fintan.
Balladyn was once the Captain of the Queen’s Guard and a famed warrior in the Light army until he ended up wounded and in the hands of the Dark after a battle.
There was much Balladyn was unaware of. Especially the part about how his own queen, Usaeil, had betrayed him and handed him over to the Dark.
Fintan didn’t feel inclined to open the Dark’s eyes. Mostly because Balladyn was now the Dark King’s right hand. While Taraeth had assumed that Fintan wanted to take over and had him killed because of it, the king seemed oblivious to the fact that Balladyn might very well do the deed.
“Who are you?” Balladyn asked as he approached.
Fintan shrugged. “Nobody.”
“You’re using glamour. Why?”
“For obvious reasons.”
Balladyn’s red eyes looked him up and down. “You don’t want me to see who you really are. Are you Light?”