Chapter 15

Brady made his way through the grand foyer and up the polished, winding marble staircase. Taking a hard right to the east wing, he headed for his suite at the end of the long, dark paneled hallway. Portraits of deceased family members stared at him on his trek, and he resisted the urge to shudder.

Kicking the suite door shut, he strode straight past his four-poster sovereign bed to the matching honey walnut dresser and fished in a drawer for sleepwear. He stripped, tossing his damp clothes near the vicinity of the hamper in the adjoining bathroom, then stepped into a pair of blue-striped cotton pants. Barefoot, he padded back down the hallway, shoving his arms into a white tee. A runner took some of the chill out of the mahogany floorboards, but he longed for a fire.

Knowing the few household staff they had on retainer would be asleep in their quarters, he took a shortcut through the kitchen to get to the west end of the mansion. Polished white cabinets and stainless steel appliances. Wine pantry with the best selection money could buy. A breakfast nook and a large island. Dark blue marble countertops and state of the art gadgets. Pristine black and white checkered tile flooring.

Nothing he hadn't seen before, but he shook his head, suddenly disgusted by everything. He had no idea what had gotten into him, yet distressed impatience grated under his skin like sandpaper. Maybe some of Tristan was rubbing off on him, or perhaps it was all the talk of their family that had him restless. He didn't know, but he'd kill to shake the sensation. It had begun the moment they'd returned from the woods and only kept building.

He paused outside the library to place his thumb on the keypad for entry, a security measure his uncle had installed before Brady was born. As a child, he hadn't understood the need, but as a beep granted him access to the room and he stepped inside, he recalled the gist.

From the hardwood planks decorated with a massive area rug to the thirty-foot vaulted ceiling, shelves held volumes and volumes of books. First edition Tolstoy to Poe, Austen to Bronte, and every second or third edition in between. Encyclopedias and manuals. The very top shelves harbored journals dating all the way back to Minister Gregory Meath, reachable only by a ladder, and in protection casing for preservation. The original Bible he'd brought over from Ireland was in a decorative glass box in the corner next to a colossal oak desk.

Riley stood in front of the ornate ivory fireplace, staring absently at the flames. He'd changed into a pair of dark green silk pajamas, his feet also bare.

"Thanks for getting a fire going." Brady took a seat on one of the stiff, scroll-armed Chesterfields that faced one another. "I can't get the chill out of my bones."

His brother made a sound of agreement, but didn't turn around. "Not quite as easily done like Ceara, but I made do the old-fashioned way."

Brady huffed a laugh. "That was something. Imagine the damage she could inflict if she wanted."

"Fiona's wind trick was no joke, either." Riley turned. "You beat your fists against a solid wall of air. And bled."

"Yeah, I..." Brady glanced at his knuckles and quit breathing. They were fine. Completely fine. No bruising or cuts. And they no longer hurt. His hands should've taken a couple weeks to heal. Hell, he was lucky he hadn't broken any bones. "Check it out. I'm cured."

Riley's mouth flatlined. "That was some ointment Mara applied."

Tristan strode in wearing red flannel pajama pants, no shirt, and went straight to the mini bar in the corner. He poured several fingers of Jameson into three glasses and handed one to Riley and Brady before downing his own.

After pouring another, Tristan leaned against the desk facing them. "Think we're dreaming, too? Perhaps you and Kaida pulled us into your messed up dreamland."

Brady stared into his whiskey. "I wish." He slammed the contents of his glass and set it on the coffee table. A slow burn traveled down his throat and heated his belly. His gaze traveled to the bar and the wall-mounted case above it. They could feed a small third-world country with the cost of one of the five single malts on display. "When this is all over, if we succeed in our whacked assignment, I say we crack the seal on the Dalmore 64 Trinitas."

Riley's brows rose. "That's a hundred-sixty thousand dollar bottle, my man."

Only three were ever put into circulation. Valuable, indeed. Circa 1868, the red decanter and black wooden mold held some of the rarest vintage on earth. Beside it was a bottle of 1937 Glenfiddich, a 1926 Macallan, a 1919 Springbank, and an empty diamond decanter of Isabella's Islay. Meath men loved their whiskey almost as much as having something others coveted.

"Yep." Brady leaned back and tilted his face toward the ceiling. A hand-painted mural of angels in heavenly glory stared back at him. "I say we do it, anyway. What better occasion than saving the world?" Or their piece of it.

"Sure." Riley crossed the room and took a seat on the Chesterfield opposite Brady. "Why not? The only thing scarier than teaming up with witches who've hated us for three-hundred years will be the look on Uncle Greg's face when he discovers we've opened the bottle."

"Fuck him." At Tristan's sharp glare, Brady shrugged. "Seriously, fuck him. If the sisters were right tonight, he knew about this supposed destiny and kept us in the dark. Besides, he's an asshole."

The bastard had spent their childhood making them miserable, and then took off for destinations unknown when they'd come into their inheritance at nineteen. Tristan, with little help from Riley and Brady, ran Meath Hotel on the island. They had another location in Ireland and one in Britain that Uncle Greg oversaw. They hadn't seen him in eight-ish years.

Good riddance.

"Can't argue with that," Tristan mumbled, swirling the amber liquid in his tumbler.

"Moot point if you don't fulfill your task." Riley finished his drink, resting the empty glass on his thigh. "I'm not a hundred percent certain the sisters told us everything. Considering our meeting was the first instance where the Galloways were even remotely cordial with us, you've got your work cut out for you."

"Us," Brady corrected. "Not just me, but us. Following the pattern, if Kaida and I complete our part, one of you is next and will be paired up with another sister."

Riley froze. "I was happily putting all the drama on your shoulders and liked my delusions, thank you very much."

"I got the impression they were holding back intel, as well." Tristan sipped his whiskey, ignoring Riley's half-joke. "Now that the dust has settled and shock's wearing off, my mind keeps circling the drain on something Ceara said."

"I'm still tripping over the fireballs, reverse rain, and air wall. But you go right ahead."

Tristan gave Riley a baleful glance and stared at his whiskey again. "She said her kind were hunted."

Brady squinted, trying to remember. At the time, he'd been more focused on Kaida than her sisters. "Not just hunted, but by our family. Do you think she meant our blood relatives are killing witches?"

In this day and age? And assuming, of course, there were others with powers out there.

"This isn't sixteenth century Salem." Riley rubbed his eyes. "I chalk it up to the girls playing games. Ignore it."

"Ceara isn't coy or manipulative. That's Fiona's bag of tricks." Brady leaned forward. "What are you thinking, Tristan?"

"She looked scared." He closed his eyes, offering a subtle shake of his head. When he glanced at Brady after a beat, anger tightened his mouth. "She acted like she was genuinely afraid we'd...harm them."

Riley's brows furrowed. "I repeat, this isn't Salem and"

"When have you ever known them to be frightened?" Tristan barked. "In all our run-ins and business dealings, when has fear ever played a part?"

Deflating, Riley's gaze drifted in thought. "They're seductive and mysterious, yes. Arrogant and superior, sure." He looked at Tristan. "Okay, come to think of it, Fiona did seem...off."

"And Ceara was shocked at Brady's adamancy he'd never hurt Kaida." Tristan finished his drink and walked to the bar, quietly setting down the glass. "It's been running on a loop in my mind since we met up with them." His back to the room, he lowered his head. "What kind of monsters do they believe we are if..."

Brady's gut clenched amid the choking silence. He got lost in the flames crackling in the hearth before glancing at the trinity knot branded on his wrist.

"Think it'll disappear if you complete your end of the deal?" Riley jerked his chin at the tattoo.

"I don't know." Brady didn't care anymore. All he could think about was getting back to Kaida and ceasing the needles of anticipation under his skin. If Tristan was right and the sisters feared them, what did she truly believe about him? Of their connection and time with one another? Did she view their years together as a lie? "She's amazingly beautiful, isn't she?"

"They're all gorgeous." Tristan turned and headed for the door. "The real question is, are they dangerous?"