Then, with a fierce battle cry and unbelievable dexterity that made a mockery of what Nick could do on a football field, the puck came up from the ground in Nick’s body. He swung the Malachai sword and went after the others fast and furious, and with a martial skill Nick envied. A part of him doubted he would ever be that good with a sword.

But then, he wasn’t a god of war.

Whoever the púca had been before his banishment, he must have been incredible on a battlefield. ’Cause he still had it. And its evil cousin and all its friends.

In a matter of minutes, the púca had every single attacker scattered and fleeing into the night, begging for mercy and whimpering as they ran.

Yeah, he had rung every bell as promised and found a few in the field no one had seen.

Barely breathing hard, he turned toward Nick and let loose a proud, arrogant smile that said he’d thoroughly enjoyed every second of that brisk fight.

Laying the blade of the sword over his shoulder, he held his hand up before his face and made a tight fist. He kissed it reverently. “I’ve so missed having a physical body. You just don’t know, boyo … You. Just. Don’t. Know.”

The anguished joy in his voice concerned Nick greatly. “You are going to give that back, right?”

He met Nick’s gaze with a hooded, unfathomable stare. For a second, Nick thought he’d made a bad mistake.

Until the púca held his hand out to him and grinned in friendship. “Aeron, cursed, damned, and forgotten son of the Morrígan. Nice meeting you, Malachai.”

Nick tried to shake his hand, only to see just how frustrating it was to be noncorporeal. No wonder Aeron hated it so.

Gah! It sucked!

Aeron snorted good-naturedly before he exchanged places with Nick again.

Nick took a moment to fully appreciate his “skin” and, best of all, nerve endings, before he faced Aeron’s ghost form. The puck’s skin was pearly white and translucent. Like shimmering moonlight. His pale eyes reminded him of Acheron’s swirling silver ones. Even his hair was silvery white and long. He would be pretty but for the masculine jawline and rugged air that clung to him even though he was a ghostly white. His clothes were those of an ancient warlord, complete with a bare, muscled chest that showed battle scars and a stylized Celtic raven tattoo.

Livia gaped at Aeron. “I can’t believe you kept your word to return his body.”

Aeron raked a less than pleased stare over her. “To you … I wouldn’t have.” He inclined his head respectfully to Nick. “You trusted me and that I would never betray. Trust, much like a woman’s love and affection, and brotherly friendship, is a sacred thing, and should never be lightly given nor abused nor taken for granted.”