water, watching us with narrowed eyes. I had the sneaking suspicion he’d told Killian—but not Ronan—why I’d turned down the first room, because Killian appeared to know exactly where he was going.
And it seemed to confuse his brother. “The rooms on this level?”
We’d walked up a couple flights of stairs and now traveled along a narrow hall. The ends of the hall let in lots of light, so it didn’t feel closed in, but the windows were thin, and the glass looked heavy. The feel of magic on this level was different, too. There was less of a dew and rain scent. It was something heavier. Not bad. Just heavier.
The scent brought to mind autumn. Leaves falling off of trees and bonfires.
Killian stopped in front of a heavy oak door and paused before he put his hand on the knob. Magic flowed over me as he closed his eyes. There was a sharpness in the air now, like frost, and the door opened.
“Here?” Ronan stepped inside and turned in a tight, small circle. I followed him but had to stop abruptly.
This was more like it. It was tiny, with a slanted ceiling. I wouldn’t hit my head on it, but if the brothers, or anyone much taller than six feet, entered, they’d be sporting quite the egg on their forehead.
The bed was low and took up most of the room, but it looked deep and cozy. One side of the bed rested against a wall, and someone had arranged the pillows as if it was a daybed. There was a small table with a light next to it, a three-drawer chest against a far wall, and a bookshelf, stuffed with books, on the other. Light poured in from a long, narrow window. It was tilted, as if it followed the same lines of the ceiling. I studied it, something about that window nudging my memory. “Is that?” Nah. “Is that a witch window?”
I glanced over my shoulder toward Killian. He stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching me. “Yes.”
I laughed. “I didn’t know we had those in Tuatha.”
“All superstitions have to come from somewhere,” he replied, rocking back on his heels. “Is this room better?”
One charmed door. One narrow window, set at an angle high up on the wall, so no witches—Brina, cough, cough—could enter my room. I sucked in a breath, and frost and leaves filled my senses. “Yes. This is perfect. Can you make it soundproof?” The last thing I needed was for someone to overhear me wailing.
“Yes. Good idea.”
Ronan stepped closer to me and, startled, I stepped back, knocking my head against the ceiling. Fudge monkeys. I was still glamoured. Behind Ronan came the sound of the door shutting. I shivered as the glamour disappeared and used the disappearance to my advantage by retreating.
“I don’t like being surprised,” he said, his voice like sandpaper. “Why would my room not be to your liking, but this one is?”
Where to start? Should I mention that someone—not them—portaled me out of NP? Or that we still didn’t know who that person was? Maybe I should mention that their connection spell might not be the only one attached to me?
“Think about it, Ronan.” Killian spoke sharply before I could formulate a sentence. “You’re the master strategist.”
He lifted his chin toward the ceiling before studying the nooks and crannies. “Fuck.”
Spinning on his heel, he shoved past Killian and opened the door. Once through, he slammed it behind him. His footfalls echoed down the hall, loud enough that I could hear him through the heavy door. Then, in the distance, another door slammed.
“You shouldn’t do that to him.” Sighing, I sat my tired butt on the bed. “It’s not nice.”
“My brother is so thick-headed, the only way he listens is if a fact is shoved in his face.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Lame excuse.”
These boys. Did they not know anything about each other? Killian had shoved in Ronan’s face that, after a year in prison, I needed a small, defensible space. But I’d bet Ronan would have understood if we’d taken the time to explain it.
Assuming he’d been willing to listen.
I grabbed one of the pillows and shoved it against my face. “Argh!” Why did everything have to be so complicated?
The pillow was pushed aside, revealing Killian kneeling in front of me. “None of us are perfect.”
“I never claimed to be.” No one was more aware of my personality flaws than I was.
“I wasn’t talking about you.”
Did that mean he was talking