"I won't," he promised, gaze lingering on Adam a bit longer. For a moment he considered asking his old friend to come with him—but Ronan was planning on being irresponsible, and didn't want Adam to get into trouble.

He would not have a pleasant evening. Upon arrival, it was only fitting for him to visit his father's grave. It was the only other bit of magic left.

Finally looking away, Ronan slid down the ladder and left the barn, stepping out into the crisp autumn night air. It was a bit of a walk to where the chapel and the family crypt was. On the outskirts of their land, with the chapel the topside, and the crypt of the Lynch family beneath. The estate had been in their family for generations, though Ronan had rarely heard much about his forefathers. Dreamers, inventors. Magical people, like his father.

He prayed at the cross. Sat in one of the pews and stared at the little stained glass windows. It was obvious that Declan hadn't kept the place up. Asshole. Pulling a flash out of his pocket, Ronan took swig after swig until he felt lightheaded. Then, he stumbled down the stone stairs of the crypt, hand against the wall to keep from falling. He took more swigs as he went. It was potent brandy, tasted like shit, but it hit him hard. Eyes glassy, he sat at the base of his father's stone, draining the flash of its contents—and then pulling out another one. Two flasks were better than one.

Ronan fell asleep there, cold and miserable, hating every second he was near his brother and their splintered family. Time didn't make it better, but alcohol did.

He did not return to the barn, not even when the sun cracked against the horizon. The cold was numbing and so was the booze.