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A man stood at the far side of the room, dressed in the style of an earlier century—clocked stockings, knee breeches, and a frock coat that had once been a beautiful midnight blue, now faded with wear and age. Evidence of former strength was still visible in his huge hands, broad shoulders, but age had shrunken his frame, leaving him hunched and crooked.
Lank, gray hair hung to his shoulders while spectacles perched on a red-veined nose, enlarging a pair of rheumy eyes. Crumbs spotted his front, stains blotted his rumpled breeches. And—Cat looked again to be certain—he wore only one buckled shoe.
He studied Aidan through a narrowed gaze before his haggard face broke into a relieved smile. “Dear me, it is you. Come in, lad. Come in.”
Aidan seemed as startled as Cat by the man’s odd appearance though he hid it behind a polite bow and a smooth courtier’s smile. “I apologize for not waiting for an invitation. I wrote but never received an answer to my letter. Decided to risk it.”
Ahern harrumphed away Aidan’s apology. “Always welcome. Always welcome.” Before mumbling, “Thought you were one of them. Never rest. Never give up until it’s done. Until we’re all gone.” He began rummaging through his pockets. “Maude? Look alive. Prepare rooms for our guests, you bitter old shrew. Can’t you see they’re exhausted?”
Maude shook her head. “No use shouting at me, you old fool. I’ll see to it. Never you fear,” before shuffling out of the room on muttered curses.
Cat shot Aidan a sidelong look, but he ignored her. Tightened his grip on the saddlebag slung over his shoulder. “I came to ask your help, Uncle Daz.”
Ahern never paused in searching his pockets. Pulled out a piece of string. A stone. A shriveled, green leaf. “Don’t know what help I could give a young sprig like you. Why don’t you ask your father? Always was right brilliant when it came to things like that.”
“My father’s dead, Daz,” Aidan answered smoothly. Tossing his saddlebag onto a table. Unbuckling the flap. “He was killed six years ago.”
“Kilronan? Dead? Of course he is.” Out came the broken half of a bird’s egg, a crushed flower bereft of most of its petals, a feather. “Scathach and her cursed Amhas-draoi killed him.”
Aidan paused while Cat gave a don’t-look-at me shrug.
“That’s why I came to see you,” Aidan plowed on. “I thought you might be able to help me.” He withdrew the diary. “With this.”
Ahern finally looked up. Gagged on a wheezy breath, his face blanching to a ghostly white. “Kilronan’s diary.” Met Aidan’s eye with a gaze sharp as a blade. “It’s no wonder you’re running, boy. You’ve got a devil by the tail, for certes.”
Aidan stretched his bad leg toward the parlor fire, hoping to ease the cramps knotting his muscles. Endless days in the saddle had worsened the plaguey effects of the old wound.
Daz watched him with an unflinching stare. “Still bothering you, is it?”
Aidan lifted a brow in surprise.
Daz merely smiled. “I remember the night your father received word you’d been wounded. Your mother burst in despite all his warnings never to intrude. Shoved the damned letter beneath his nose and told him to hell with his warnings, his son and heir was dying.” He shook with wheezy laughter. “Never saw your father so flummoxed—or so scared.”
“Scared I might die?”
“Aye, that for certain. But scared of what the others might think—thought they’d see it as a weakness. Fear for one measly son when the entire fate of the world of Other hung in the balance. Perhaps if it had been Brendan, they’d have felt differently. They respected him. You?” His hands opened palm up in a surrender gesture.
“Not at all,” Aidan finished the unspoken thought.
Daz leaned back in the chair. Closed his eyes. “You lacked the qualities they admired.”
“In other words, I didn’t have Brendan’s abilities with magic.”
He’d always known it, but hearing Daz admit his father’s partiality stung. Even now.
Daz opened his eyes. Stared Aidan down, no trace of madness in his pale gaze. “It was Brendan finally made your father see reason. Called him the worst sort of coward if he didn’t ignore their disapproval and go to you. I’d never seen your father so wroth with the boy.” He cackled, slapping his thigh. “But he went.”
He’d come all right. All the way to London. Burst into Aidan’s rooms on Henrietta Street like a force of nature, his cold fury obvious even through Aidan’s agony-laced laudanum haze. Taken the first opportunity to rake him over the coals for the scandalous affair, going into great length about Aidan’s stupidity, his disastrous lack of discretion, the folly of his immature behavior.
He’d never stopped regretting that ill-fated duel. And not solely because of the lameness still afflicting him after so many years. But because of the final wedge it had driven between him and his father. A gulf that never had a chance to be repaired.
But if it took Brendan’s rebukes to rouse his father to attend what could very well have been his son’s deathbed, what did that say about the strength of that relationship? Had the bond between him and his father been more one-sided than he’d thought? Had Father truly cared about any of his children? Or were they mere pieces to be used and discarded as needed?
Aidan sought to make sense of it all while fighting the dull press of old regrets and new questions. Felt the stab of a headache erupt behind his eyes. He sought escape in the facts he did know. The diary. Lazarus. His father’s emerging villainy. The accusations of the Amhas-draoi.
Daz had risen to stab at the fire with a poker, the sparks crackling up the chimney. The light etching his face into harsh lines of light and shadow. The glow of the flames reflected in his haunted eyes.
So far, Daz’s confusion at their arriva
