Chapter Twenty-Four
Ronan
RONAN DIDN’T USE GLOVES FOR THIS KILL.
Instead, as the man struggled against the binds strapping him to the chair, Ronan readied his supplies across their sleek kitchen counter.
He couldn’t be long or his middle-of-the-night excursion from Burghley House would be suspicious.
But with the Wake’s new hunt order, he couldn’t go on as powerless as he had either.
Thankfully, Verin had kept tabs on unsavoury people in case he ever needed fresh blood in an emergency and had given Ronan the most local name.
Their kitchen and living room were tasteful, spotless.
Unlike the owner of the place.
‘Do you know what stopped me falling into madness when my wife was killed?’ Ronan asked as he pulled out an array of knives. ‘My kids.’
The man thrashed, his eyes wide. ‘Please—’
The words weren’t really audible, but Ronan had done this long enough to know what the plaintive singular sound meant.
‘I don’t want to have to do this,’ Ronan said. ‘But I’ve tried to thrive without my powers for so long, and now my children are in real danger. You understand.’
He activated one of Lawna’s soundproofing devices, then put his fingers on the man’s temples, bleach ready for afterwards to remove any DNA, and began.
The man’s screams ricocheted off the device’s barrier as Ronan’s eyes burned and went fully dark.
Magic. Archaic, long-smothered magic warmed his veins after far too long.
Details forged in the molten red behind his eyelids, images of decimation and destruction that reminded him all too much of the life he swore he’d never return to.
But protecting his kids?
That was worth more than a little blood and fear and darkness.
So, until he found the Druid, he’d rebuild his long-sapped strength as much as possible. Kill by kill.
He’d made his wife a promise to protect their children after all, and that was worth breaking any and every oath he’d ever made.
Even if he died trying.