More magic washed over her, much fainter from Paul and Ruth. Realization hit her like a ton of bricks. They’ve been feeding him their energy to keep him going until I got here. It was no coincidence Dennis Seaton had managed to hold on while waiting for Leanne. His two youngest children had given themselves over to fulfilling that last request, and this display of filial devotion choked her up a bit. While he might’ve been shitty to Junie and Leanne, he must have been a much better dad to Ruth and Paul—that they’d go this far. The council disapproved of witches sharing magic in this fashion, as it skirted perilously close to necromancy.

Yikes. I must have that in my lineage as well.

Despite Ruth and Paul’s best efforts, Dennis Seaton looked like he had one foot over the threshold already. His skin was waxy and thin, bruises up and down his arms from bloodwork and IV tubes being moved. Witches tended to live a long time, as they were immune to certain human ailments, but other illnesses were unavoidable. She couldn’t see much of his face with the oxygen mask covering the bottom part. His eyes were closed, and Leanne had a hard time imagining him healthy and alert. His magic fluttered within him, a dying trickle that filled her with sorrow for never knowing him when he was hale, when he might’ve taught her about spell work or some important father-daughter truth she’d never learn.

“Dad.” Ruth pressed his hand. “She’s here. Wake up. You wanted to meet her.”

At first, there was no reaction. Leanne wondered if she’d left it too late. Then her father’s eyes opened, a weak and watery gray with blue flecks and darker circles around each iris. I have his eyes. That absurd thought shook her. An unsteady breath shuddered out of her as he raised a shaky hand, reaching toward her. She didn’t want this, didn’t want any of it; it was too bittersweet to say farewell at their first meeting.

I never had a dad, and now he’s dying.

But she stepped forward anyway, taking his bony fingers in hers. He was so cold that she nearly let go, but he held tight. “Sorry. Sorry. I…” A coughing fit took him, then he managed to say, “My fault. Sorry.”

Granting Brian’s request was nothing, she realized. “It’s okay,” she said. “I have a good life. My husband is outside waiting for me, I have a degree in communications with a minor in political science, and I was just elected to the city council in St. Claire. You can go with my blessing. I don’t hold anything against you.”