Free Heir of Danger by Alix Rickloff

But then a frown touched her aunt’s pale lips. “Or perhaps it was a truth so subtle, the tooth marks have yet to show.”
    As with so much else, the coffee room at The Goat’s Whiskers in Ennis remained unchanged in the years Brendan had been gone. Even the landlord, old Ned Crowdy, looked as moth-eaten and bristly as ever. Brendan could almost make himself believe he was twenty-one again. Cocksure, obsessed,convinced of the justness of his cause. And equally baffled by those who could not see the rightness of what the Nine attempted for the good of the entire race of
Other
.
    Freddie Atwood had been one of those unconvinced by his arguments.
    Freddie’s family paid the price.
    Brendan stood by and did nothing.
    At least, not then. Though his later attempts at atonement meant little to Freddie. Or any of his victims. After all, the dead can give no absolution.
    With grim disparagement, Brendan conceded his inaction had cost Freddie and his family their lives, while his action afterward had resulted in the death of his own father. A sure case of damned if you don’t and damned if you do. And if anyone could count on being damned, it was he.
    His gaze rested on the row of decanters upon the sideboard, but he shoved the desire away almost as soon as it rose within him. Alcohol wouldn’t help. It only numbed the guilt. Never erased it. And he’d emptied enough bottles to know.
    The door burst open on a bluster of lung-clearing wind and rain, sending men scurrying to secure their cards and their newspapers with much cursing and many shouts to close the bloody door already. The newcomer shook out his dripping greatcoat, removing his hat to run hands through his damp hair. Scanned the room from beneath half-lidded eyes.
    Brendan motioned him over at the same time he ordered himself a second pot of coffee.
    Even now, nine months after a near-fatal attack, Jack O’Gara walked stiffly as if he’d been sprinting overlong. But he was walking, which was amazing. Hell, he was breathing, which was a miracle.
    Leave it to Jack to be skewered like a pig on a spit and come away with nothing worse than the hollowed features of a languishing tragedian stage player.
    The
Fey
-born O’Gara luck at work.
    He slid into the seat, waving the maidservant over. “Brandy.”
    “That bodes ominous, coz,” Brendan remarked after the woman went scurrying in search of Jack’s order.
    “It is.” The brandy was brought. He downed it, eyes closed on a weary sigh of contentment, the deep lines carved either side of his mouth slowly easing. But when he looked again upon Brendan, fear sharpened his gaze. “You have to return to Dun Eyre.”
    “You couldn’t pay me enough to go back there.”
    “And Elisabeth Fitzgerald?”
    He pulled free his watch, checking the time with a smile. “Is even now dreaming of her trip down the aisle. By this time tomorrow, she’ll be Mrs. Gordon Shaw.”
    “If she lives that long,” was Jack’s grumbling response.
    Brendan frowned his confusion.
    “Máelodor knows,” Jack leaned forward, his words low and urgent. “Somehow he’s figured out you gave the stone to Elisabeth all those years ago. His men are on their way to Dun Eyre as we speak.”
    “Where did you hear this?”
    “From your contact in Limerick. After you and I separated, I headed there to see what I could learn about the
Amhas-draoi
’s intentions. No news on that front, but the story is that Máelodor has unraveled the stone’s hiding place.”
    “How much time do we have?”
    “Not long, I’d wager. If Máelodor knows where thestone is, you can bet he’s making all haste to get hold of it. You have to go back, Brendan. If Máelodor’s men seize Elisabeth . . .”
    He didn’t need Jack to finish his sentence. He well knew Elisabeth’s fate should Máelodor’s men get hold of her. His sister, Sabrina, had barely escaped a similar grisly end after becoming entangled in Brendan’s troubles.
    Was he destined to bring disaster down