Pints and potions, p.4
Pints & Potions, page 4
He circled the hood of the car and held out a hand to her. Once hers was firmly ensconced within his warm grip, she fell into step beside him and listened intently as he wove a lively story. Like with his song, he had a way of drawing her in by using the cadence of his skillful voice. She would cheerfully remain mute the entire day if it meant hearing his pleasing monologue. Cian could read her the dictionary, and Piper would be a puddle of goo at his feet.
They obtained their tickets, and he good-naturedly answered the questions she peppered him with. She wanted to know everything from the highest points of the cliffs—214 meters—to the length—about 14 kilometres. He was a fountain of information, and he wasn’t lying when he’d said he was a brilliant tour guide. It wouldn’t stop her from double checking his answers. For all she knew, he could’ve made them up on the spot, but she liked his confidence and how ready he was to provide information for her endless questions.
When they got to a particularly scenic area, she reached for her phone to capture nature’s beauty. “Oh, crap!”
“What is it?”
She grimaced and admitted, “I forgot and left my phone in the car again. I want to snap some pictures of the view from here.”
“I’ll get it.”
“No, it’s too far. I can go, find an out-of-the-way spot, and teleport to the car. You wait here. I’ll just be a minute.”
* * *
As Cian watched Piper jog away, he smiled. She was a bit quirky, but she was proper fun to rile. The longer he was around her, the stronger their connection grew. It worried him, if truth be known. He’d only ever been close to one woman.
Moira.
His smile died away, and he faced the cliffs.
Moira had been beautiful, smart, wickedly funny, and a gas to tease—like Piper. But there, the similarities ended. Moira had been a tiny thing. Barely five-feet, with fiery red hair and a temper to match. She’d burned in bed just as hot as she’d burned out. A part of him had flat-lined the day they put her in the ground. Hell, if he were being honest, it had flat-lined the day she betrayed him. As yet, the spark hadn’t been revived. Most days, he still lived a half-life, with his heart frozen.
Piper was a welcome distraction. She was lively and witty. Her intelligence shown from her sparkling dark-honey eyes and tempted Cian to discover the thoughts behind the emotion. Part of him felt guilty. He didn’t want to lead her on or invest in another romance doomed to failure. He certainly didn’t want his heart to thaw, because the pain was too great. No one could replace Moira. She’d been his everything. Until she wasn’t.
A flicker of awareness flared to life.
Danger.
He spun just in time to dodge a knife directed at his kidney. It glanced off his side instead. Cian felt the burn of the blade and the resulting air exposure on the wound. The damned thing stung like a motherfucker.
Throwing out an arm, he knocked away the wrist of his assailant, then planted a facer to the man’s ugly mug with his other hand. The guy recovered faster than Cian cared for, and charged straight for his midsection, wrapping his burly arms around Cian’s ribs and grazing his new wound in the process.
The pain—in addition to the unprovoked attack—was infuriating, and Cian saw red. He clasped his hands together to form one giant balled fist and brought it down on the back of his attacker’s neck. The vice-like hold eased enough for him to break it.
Cian had learned to fight dirty early in life, and those skills came in handy now. He poked his thumbs in his opponent’s eyes and drove him to the ground with a knee to the groin. Had he witnessed the move by anyone else, he’d have given a sympathetic wince, but this fucker didn’t deserve his compassion.
“Who sent you?” he demanded, recognizing the bull-like man from the ruins.
“I kill you.” The hitman’s use of the English language was fragile at best, and for all Cian knew, the heavy accent indicated the guy’s homeland was anywhere from Budapest to Moscow. Geography he was decent with, languages not so much.
Cian silently dubbed the man Baran, because it meant ram in Russian, and the guy hit like a fecking battering ram. Also, he smelled like the ass-end of a sheep. Although Cian liked nothing better than a rousing fight, the sheer size of this guy gave him pause. Reason was the better tactic in this situation.
Smiling congenially, he said, “Listen, Baran. It appears we got off on the wrong foot here, man. I’m sure this is a case of mistaken identity.”
“No miss-take. I kill.”
“If I slept with your woman, I didn’t know she was married. I don’t—”
“No woman!”
“Ah, so that be your problem, Baran; you need to get laid. Come to me pub, and I’ll hook you right up.”
Cian’s words poured petrol on the fire, and Baran lost what was left of his pea-sized mind. With a strangled cry, he charged again. The impact swept Cian off his feet and brought him down hard on his back about ten feet from his original spot. His ears rang and stars danced before his eyes.
Perhaps Baran would kill him after all.
For sure, the bastard had bruised a few of Cian’s ribs and made breathing a wee bit harder than it needed to be.
The next few minutes were spent trading blow for blow and rolling toward the cliff’s edge. Just how they’d traveled so far, so fast was beyond him, but Cian had a healthy respect for Moher’s cliff face. The drop would be fatal.
Something behind Cian caught Baran’s attention, and it was distraction enough for him to get the upper hand. He delivered rapid punches to the burly assassin’s pug-like face and drove him toward Moher’s rocky rim.
He hadn’t expected the meaty hand to grab his throat or hurl him toward the edge, but he should’ve. Cian brought a fist down on Baran’s elbow bend. He, then, let go of the tension in his legs and let gravity pull him down. Baran couldn’t hold the dead weight, and as he felt his attacker’s hand release him, Cian grabbed Baran’s extended arm, dropped onto his back, and tossed him over his head.
One quick, terrified scream rang out, then nothing could be heard but the crash of the waves on the rocks below.
5
Sensing another presence, Cian rolled to his feet and spun.
A quick check of the area showed Piper was the only witness to the fight, and she stood frozen like an antelope sensing danger. Her bright eyes had darkened to a muddy topaz, and a wary expression settled in place.
“This isn’t what it looks like, love,” he said gently.
“You threw him over the cliff!”
He winced. “Well, yeah, but there were extenuating circumstances.”
“You’re no pub owner.”
“Of course, I am.” He visually scanned the area for witnesses. Satisfied they were alone, he advanced toward her. “You were at both my pub and the inn.”
Piper stepped backward and raised her hand as if to ward him off.
“Now darlin’, stay calm. I mean ya no harm.” Cian smiled in what he thought was a reassuring way, thickening his accent to put her at ease.
Obviously, her definition of reassuring was much different from his. Her screech of disbelief hit an octave so high, beasts all over the island were likely howling in protest. Before he could take a step closer, she'd bent and hefted a good-sized rock.
Unable not to, he snorted. "What do you think you can do with that wee thing?"
The widening of her eyes was his only warning before the rock sailed in his direction. Though he twisted, the stone still made contact. The impact to his shoulder caused him to grunt.
"Now why'd you do that? Weren't we having a civilized discussion?" he hollered.
Two more stones were hurled in rapid succession. One grazed his cheek, and he touched where the skin stung.
The damn she-devil had marked him!
"Now look what you’ve done. You’re feckin’ mad, you are!” He held out his blood-coated fingers. "You marred me good looks.”
Another outraged cry was followed by more rocks. Each impact felt like a brick the closer he got to her. Knocking the final projectile from her hand, he straightened to his full height of six-two and glared down into her wide, frightened eyes. The sight had him softening.
"Piper, darlin’, I can—umphf!" She kneed him in his boys, bringing him low. She'd just killed the future O'Malley line with one well-aimed shot; he was sure of it. Water streamed from his eyes—he refused to acknowledge them as tears because O’Malleys were made of stronger stuff—and he cupped himself. He’d read somewhere that pressure overrode pain.
It didn’t.
At least not in his case.
“I swear to the Almighty that I’d be throwing you over the cliff after that bugger if I was the murderin’ bastard you believe me to be. I—umphf!”
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth where Piper kicked him.
Okay, now he was damned furious. With a roundhouse kick of that nature, the woman wasn’t an innocent miss. She had to be here as backup to his earlier assassin; her intent, of course, to finish him off.
Cian dove for her legs, but she danced away and assumed an expert’s fighting stance. She was smart to take a stand because she couldn’t outrun him. Her single other option was to teleport, but she’d risk greater exposure if she did, and witches knew not to reveal their abilities to mortals.
Left with no choice, he prepared to fight.
* * *
Less than five minutes later, Cian rifled through Piper’s messenger bag to find her identification. When he opened her passport, he grimaced. Had he been a betting man, he’d have wagered, with her rod-stiffening good looks, she couldn’t take a bad picture. He’d have lost a hefty sum.
He frowned down at her still form.
Perhaps she’d pulled the face on purpose in a fool’s attempt to trick facial-recognition software? But why go to that length if she could magically travel and avoid detection altogether?
Wasting no more time, he whipped out his smartphone and switched the sim card with another he kept in a hidden compartment of his wallet. When he got a signal, he dialed the number he had memorized.
“Cian! How’s it hanging, man?”
“Ryker, man, I’ve had a bit o’ an incident here at home, and I need you to run an identity check. Do you think you could help an old friend out?”
“I thought you were retired?”
“True, and so did I, to be sure.” He gave Ryker Gillespie a brief rundown of the incident with the assassin before finishing with, “Now, I have another person who may or may not be involved.”
“Want me to run facial recognition?”
Cian contemplated the question for all of three seconds. “I thought maybe you could look up her passport in the database, but a full background check wouldn’t be remiss.”
“Give me the number.”
He rattled it off, and within a minute, Ryker was swearing on the other end of their connection.
“Cian, what does the woman look like?”
“Oh, she’s a wet dream.” He sighed and described her in detail. “But if we’re being honest, she screams like a banshee, has a wee vicious temper, and fights better than many o’ man I’ve seen.”
“That’s because she teaches martial arts at the rec center in her spare time, you damned fool.”
“You know her?”
“She’s my wife’s relation.”
“Don’t be windin’ me up, Ryker. It isn’t funny. I’m halfway to falling in love with the woman. I might, too, if I knew she wasn’t out to slit my throat as soon as look at me.” He reached down and smoothed a lock of hair from the flushed face.
“Shoot me a photo of the woman.”
Cian snapped a shot and hit send.
“You knocked her out?”
“She attacked me! Drew blood and kneed my bollocks into the next century. What was I supposed to do?” The long stream of colorful words from the other end of the line forced Cian to wince and hold the phone away from his ear. Sure, and he’d stepped in it with his friend. “Knocking her out was an accident, man,” he confessed sheepishly.
“Alastair Thorne is going to have your ass,” Ryker predicted.
“Why would—ah, hell no! Don’t tell me Piper is a Thorne. I’ll save everyone the trouble and throw myself off the feckin’ cliff right now.” Cian grabbed the back of his neck and started to pace. He was in deep shite. Everyone who was anyone in the magical community knew of Alastair Thorne. The man was lethal and not to be trifled with. “You have to help me, Ryker. What can I do to fix this mess?”
“First, tell me how badly she’s hurt. Should I teleport with my wife to come heal her?”
“I’m worried. She should’ve woken up by now. And, for sure, she’ll have a good-sized egg on her jaw. I’d rather she not sport a bruise around all of Ireland. And there is still the matter of finding out who wants me dead.” Cian sighed heavily. “Yeah, I could use the help.”
“Take her back to your inn. We’ll meet you there. Keep the sitting room clear of people so we can avoid detection.”
“Right. I’ll see you soon. I’m obliged to you, man.”
“Say that if I can keep Alastair or GiGi from detaching your head from your shoulders.”
Cian stared at the phone’s blank screen for a few heartbeats after Ryker disconnected their call. Gods, he was in trouble. Not only with Alastair Thorne, but with Piper herself. When the woman woke, she was going to be rabid. He toyed with the idea of dumping the whole mess in Bridget’s lap and disappearing for the foreseeable future.
A slight moan of pain shook him from his cowardly thoughts. No, he’d take his lumps like a true O’Malley. Bending, he scooped up Piper, and as he straightened, he noticed a petite dishwater blonde staring at him with suspicious eyes. How she’d snuck up on him, he didn’t care to know. He was growing soft in his retirement. It would see him dead if he didn’t apply his training more.
“Me wife. She tripped and broke her fall on a rock. I need to get her to hospital and make certain her injuries aren’t worse than they appear.”
“Of course.” The woman cautiously approached and frowned down into at Piper’s face. With a trembling hand, she touched a lock of Piper’s sweat-damp, black hair. “How badly was she hurt, and what proof can you show me that she’s your wife? I don’t see a ring.”
Damn and blast!
He had to go and stumble across a cautious American.
Bloody O’Malley bad luck.
Pasting on a rueful grin, he ducked his head to meet her concerned gaze. For a moment, he was caught by the overly bright amber irises. “Do I know you?”
Not bothering to answer, she shook her head and probed along Piper’s wound with gentle fingers. A barely discernible crackle sounded, and a faint red light arched from her fingertips.
Another witch!
What were the odds?
Not that high.
This woman knew Piper. And likely, with that eye color, they were related.
Cian decided to test her further. “I promise, I’m not abducting her. It’s a wee bit hard to produce proof when I’m holding me woman in me arms.” He laid the accent on thick, hoping it would work on her as it had with Piper the evening before.
Her expression hardened.
So much for his legendary charm!
“Which hospital are you going to? I’ll follow you there,” she said sweetly. More than a hint of steel underlay the words.
Yep, definitely a relation of Piper’s. Cian was positive, and he wanted nothing more than to bang his head against the boulder behind him.
“Look,” he added a hard edge to his tone. “I need to get my darlin’ Piper help. Step aside.”
The blonde narrowed her eyes as her mouth firmed into a tight, white line. “I’m going with you.”
“Fine,” he growled. He made it two steps before it occurred to him that as a powerful witch—and she certainly was if she was in any way related to the Thornes—she could teleport them all. Cian turned back, ready to lower himself to ask.
Piper moaned again and curled toward him.
“I’ve got you, love,” he murmured, dropping a kiss on her brow. “Never you worry.”
When he glanced up again, it was to see the other woman’s eyes had softened. “I think she’s in good hands,” she said.
With a direct look meant to assure, he nodded. “She’ll come to no more harm from me.”
“No more?” The frown was back, this time accompanied by a black look.
Gah, he was an eejit.
“Poor choice of words,” he corrected. “I’ll see her safely back home.”
“Or the hospital?”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Just give over, woman. I know you’re related. You have to be with those eyes. Now, use all that blessed magic you were born with and get us to safety before the gardaí show up and arrest me.” He didn’t miss the slight smirk she shot him as she placed a hand on his arm and the other on Piper. “Bloody Thorne witches!”
6
They arrived in Piper’s room, and Cian desperately wanted to learn how she’d known where to go without asking. It stood to reason she’d been snooping at some point.
“I’m Liz, and as you guessed, Piper is my cousin.”
She failed to mention a last name, but Cian heard what she hadn’t said.
“Cian. And thanks for the assist.”
“Why can’t you teleport?” she asked curiously. “You’re like us, if I’m not mistaken?”
He hated to admit he was a warlock without power, but he had no other way of explaining why he couldn’t pop home immediately. “A curse. About two hundred and fifty years gone.”
“Witches without power… hmm… you must be an O’Malley.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you know of the O’Malleys?”
“Nothing more than the fact they lost their power to the O’Connors over a feud. Legend has it there’s some type of riddle associated with reversing the curse.”
