Chapter 24
“What the fuck do you mean you can’t find her?” Wilder had never wanted to destroy shit more. Directly on the heels of Damian’s entrance, the trio searching for Abbie arrived to deliver the bad news.
“We searched all through the canyon. If she’s there, she’s cloaked,” Castor replied. The thin edge of anger in his tone suggested he was no happier than Wilder.
“Scrying?” he asked, desperate for a solution.
Their grim expressions said it all.
His legs gave out, and he sank to the floor. “This can’t be happening again. It just can’t. Christ. Hasn’t she suffered enough?”
“We’ll find her, son.”
“People keep promising, but they’ve yet to deliver,” he retorted before dropping his head in his hands. “God, Abbie.”
It only took another minute to register the weighted silence, and he looked up.
“Just spit it out. It can’t be worse than losing her a second time.”
“We found two bodies on the trail. Bart and Gus,” Jonas said.
“How’d they die?”
“Bart’s appeared to be an altercation with a rock wall, and the boy was shot in the back,” Castor replied, glancing around the room as if looking for a drink. His gaze landed on Damian. “We need your preferred brandy, Dethridge. STAT.”
The Aether’s brows rose, and he cocked his head as if seeing an unusual species. Perhaps he was. From Evie’s stories, Wilder imagined not many people dared such familiarity.
“And you are?” Damian asked dryly.
“Alexander Castor. Your future best friend and pain in the ass.”
“I see.” His lips twitched, and amusement lurked in his eyes. “You do realize, as a Traveler, you are forbidden from dispensing future information. It could see you dead.”
“Pfft. It’s like you don’t know me at all.”
Again, the Aether’s brows shot up. “I don’t.”
“Yet.”
“There you go with that information again.”
Castor shrugged. “What can I say? It’s a weakness.”
“Hm, yes. I can see why you would be my friend.”
“You do? I can’t see it. He was a complete pain in the ass the entire trip out and back.” Jonas’s complaint earned him a glare from Castor.
“I was not. I merely suggested you get your head out of your asses and perform a proper search for my daughter.”
“We pulled out all your tops,” Draven inserted.
“All the stops,” Wilder corrected absently as he considered what those might be.
Wordlessly, the Aether held out his hands, palms up. Light flared as a crystal decanter formed, filling itself with an amber liquid. The instant he was done, he held it up to the light and smiled.
“A twelve-year-old bottle of Martell, imported all the way from Cognac. Masters, you might appreciate this.” He passed it to Draven. “If you don’t mind, please hold this while I conjure glasses for the group. I suspect the Traveler’s story will be long, if not interesting.”
“Let’s take this to Red’s sitting room,” Jonas suggested. “It’ll be more comfortable.”
“One moment.” Damian held out a hand to Wilder. “You’re another Thorne, or so I’m told.”
Anger kept Wilder from accepting the help, and he climbed to his feet on sheer determination alone.
“You’re upset with me. Why?” Damian asked.
Wilder rounded on him. “You could’ve helped Abbie at any time, but you didn’t. You left her in this hellhole to suffer unimaginable pain and abuse at the hands of outlaws. What kind of person are you?”
Even in his rage, he didn’t miss the wary exchange of glances from the others. He simply didn’t care.
“I’m working on the assumption you know who and what I am, Thorne, yes?
” After receiving a sullen nod, Damian continued.
“You should also know I’m constantly under scrutiny from the Witches’ Council, the Authority, and the Deities for what my mother became.
I cannot afford a misstep for one moment of one day. ”
“You’re not your mother, Damian,” Castor said quietly. “You’re stronger than she ever will be.”
His head whipped around, and his jaw tightened. “Will be?”
“Slip of the tongue. I should’ve said, than she ever was,” Castor corrected with a half smile. “And quit trying to probe my brain for details. You, my dear master mind reader, taught me how to form a wall against intrusion.”
“It’s quite possible he can’t penetrate your thick skull,” Wilder muttered. “Can we get back to Abbie now?”
“I appreciate your singular focus.”
“You should, she’s your daughter, dude.” He sighed in disgust. “And look, I’m sorry, but this boys’ club shit can wait. We need to find her immediately. And if you aren’t willing to help, Aether, then restore my fucking powers so I can search myself.”
“You’re out of time,” Damian replied sharply.
“There’s a limited window for requests?” Wilder scoffed.
“I misspoke. What I meant to say was you’re out of your natural time. You don’t exist yet. Therefore, your abilities don’t either.”
“As we feared,” Castor said. “Can we get a loan?”
Damian barked a laugh. “You want me to loan you my abilities?”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“You couldn’t contain the power and would be dead in twenty-four hours.”
“You forget what I am, Dethridge.”
“I don’t know you to forget,” Damian countered smoothly. “You seem to believe I owe you a debt for being my future friend. I do not.”
“There’s where you’re wrong, pal,” Castor snapped.
It seemed the thread he held on his temper had snapped, and his charming veneer vanished in a heartbeat.
“I have never, not once, failed to be there for you when you needed me. I felt I owed you for saving me from the streets as a teenager. But I’ve more than repaid any debt, and I’m asking as a favor.
One you’ll regret not granting down the road. ”
The atmosphere around them grew thick with the Aether’s ire.
“I will not go against the Authority in this matter,” he replied coldly. “It isn’t done. And if you know anything about me, you know—”
“That you bloody well do what you feel is right, no matter what,” Castor snapped, his accent coming out with his anger. “In my century, you don’t give a flyin’ fuck what those manipulative bastards want. You’re on the side of justice and the magical community.”
“But we aren’t in your century, are we?” Damian countered. His silky tone was menacing in a way his shouting could never be. “And you haven’t offered proof they are corrupt. You merely strode in here, assuming you can charm me into doing your bidding. I’m no fool.”
“That’s bleedin’ debatable, ya feck!”
In a flash, a knife was in Castor’s hand, and he was going for Damian’s throat.
Wilder saw their lives flash before his eyes in that one reckless move.
But Damian didn’t bat a lash as the Traveler pressed the wicked blade to his jugular.
“And what will killing me prove,” he asked with admirable calm.
“Not a goddamned thing, but it will make me feel better for the five minutes before I regret my actions.”
“And would you?” he asked curiously. “Regret it?”
With a weary sigh, Castor dropped his arm. “Read my mind, Dethridge. See what you need to so you know I’m right.”
“Not necessary.” He cocked his head. “You’re Irish by birth?”
“Yes. I was born Anton O’Connor—”
“O’Connor,” he said flatly. The surname was synonymous with scoundrels and thieves. “Your family isn’t well-liked, and yours is not a name I’d be spreading around, Mr. Castor.”
“I’m aware. It’s also why you gave me a chance when I was a starving kid.”
“Please stop revealing the future. I don’t care to have my mind wiped like your Abbie.”
“What?” Castor was apoplectic
Wilder could no longer be silent. “Look, I can explain later. Can we focus here? While you two are having a pissing contest, she’s out there somewhere fighting for her life—maybe even lost in the desert after wandering the wrong way.”
But Castor wouldn’t be redirected. “Who the fuck wiped her mind? I thought it was from her injuries?”
“Why haven’t you warded this room before telling us that?” Jonas asked with a nervous glance at the windows. “Are you trying to get us all killed here, Damian?”
“Evie did, before I ever entered.”
Draven uncapped the decanter and downed a quarter of the bottle.
“Are you mad?” Damian’s appalled expression was laughable, had Wilder felt at all humorous. “You don’t drink a fine 1850s vintage as though you’re swilling rotgut. Are you a bloody animal?”
“Jesus,” Wilder muttered. “I can see where Alastair learned it.”
“Alastair.” Obsidian eyes locked on him. “Why does the man’s name continually pop up in conversation?”
“He’s our best friend,” Castor replied, grabbing the decanter from Draven and taking a swig. “He’s obsessed with manners and drinking booze like a gentleman.”
“Clearly, we didn’t rub off on you,” Damian replied dryly.
“Clearly, ya prissy arses,” he replied, laying his Irish on thick.
The Aether’s laughter was oddly beautiful to a listener’s ears, and Wilder would go so far as to say seductive.
His voice’s soothing cadence, combined with his stunning looks, pretty social niceties, and undeniable power, would be a honeytrap for the unsuspecting.
Hell, after hearing it, he was questioning his own sexuality.
Damian shot him an amused glance, reminding him of his ability to read minds.
“I’m devoted to Abbie, so you’re out of luck,” he said. “Speaking of—”
“You’re a dog with a bone, Thorne.”
“You know it. And if you entered a warded room, you intended to help us, all along. So let’s get to it.”