“If you get caught, you’ll get fired,” Maeve cried. “The museum might think you stole it from them.”
A weight like a soggy wool blanket draped itself over Clare at the thought it could be valuable. “I shouldn’t have taken it. I only thought to play a trick on the ass. He was so rude and dismissive, like I didn’t belong in first class. I mean, I didn’t, but Jenna bought me the ticket.”
“Then give it back after we scan it,” Sorcha said. “Did you give him your name?”
Clare nodded glumly. “I’m also dressed like this. Very noticeable. What if he calls the Garda on me?”
She spread her ostrich wings and fluttered them, shaking her hips so that her hazelnut girdle rattled like bone dominos. “Good thing I got rid of the wilted lettuce and blessed kale.”
“Uh, yes, you are quite memorable,” Maeve said. “I can see the headlines now. The Garda are looking for a jewel thief. Look for a female dressed like an ostrich mixed with a vegetable garden. Thigh-high green boots, rattling nuts, a feathered cape with black wings, pointy plastic-armor boobs, and a crown of broken twigs.”
Clare took back the Heart of Brigid and pointed it at her besties. “She was last seen in the company of a reptilian sea goddess with snakeskin boots and shiny green fins and a fur-caped huntress with a quiver full of arrows and a yew-wood longbow only a Viking could love.”
“You do know what this means.” Sorcha unzipped the top of her bodysuit. “You’re going to have to go incognito.”
“Right,” Maeve agreed. “No more wearing fairy clothes. You have to lay low. Disappear into the green hills and vales.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sorcha, always the voice of reason, said. “You’re no longer listed at this address. He’ll look for you in San Francisco. Did you tell him you were back to stay?”
“I didn’t get into it with him,” Clare admitted. “He wasn’t really interested in me, only showing off his Heart of Brigid and assuring me I knew nothing about true love since I hadn’t lived as many lives as he.”
“Sounds like an ass,” Sorcha said. “Does he have any redeeming qualities?”
“He’s good-looking,” Clare said.
“Better than that investor dude you were hanging around?” Maeve’s sharp blue eyes drilled into her. She’d been hankering for an introduction, should the swindler set foot in Ireland. “Seamus O’Toole. Did you two have a falling out?”
“Not really,” Clare said, shrugging. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sorcha raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Did you and he by any chance …”
Two pairs of inquisitive eyes laser-focused on Clare, and she felt pinpricks of sweat dot her nose, but she had nothing to worry about.
While Seamus squired her from party to party and fundraiser to fundraiser, and he might have had his hands in places he shouldn’t have, Clare did keep her legs tight and closed, thankfully. He flirted with her and eyed her many costumes and outfits with unfeigned delight, and several times, they’d pretended to be a couple, the better to raise funds by creating a romantic air.
“Thankfully, we did not become intimate,” Clare enunciated. “He’s quite a bit older than me and acted in the role of an investment advisor. It would have been inappropriate.”
“Where do you think he’s off to now?” Maeve asked. “He seems to have disappeared off social media.”
“Seamus O’Fool is history. P. A. S. T. This, my dears, is the key to our future.” Clare held the Heart of Brigid in her palm and raised it eye-level. “I’ll figure out a way to get it back to the man I borrowed it from. In the meantime, let’s get started on the new story.”
“Who is this new man? Name?” Maeve might be a librarian, but her main interest was men. “I want to look him up.”
“Griffin Gallagher,” Clare said. “You won’t find much on him. He seems to have lived a very private life. No pictures on the internet, just a small entry in Wikipedia.”
“Oh, he merits an entry? How?” Sorcha asked.
“His grandfather is one of the few Irishmen to hold onto a castle through all the years of British rule. They claim to be descended from the high kings of old, but of course, anyone can claim anything,” Clare said. “Griffin is his only descendent. Party boy, started and failed a few businesses.”
“Is he on social media?” Maeve searched the phone. “How does he look?”
“He’s tall, dark, and typical. Dark-brown hair and eyes so dark, they border on black. His hair is cropped short, almost military-like, and he’s got scars and scabs on his knuckles.”
“Sounds dishy.” Maeve licked her lips. “Maybe he’ll come looking for you, and I’ll get to meet him.”
“More like he’ll send the Garda,” Sorcha said. “You’d better start working on your cover story, or we can leave an anonymous tip.”
“Just fess up,” Maeve said. “Make him fall in love with you. I’ll trade you his flute for his heart.”
“I’ll figure out something and make it work,” Clare said. “Sorcha will research relics of St. Brigid. Maeve can find books on Brigid and anything else on the high kings, especially if there are any modern descendants.”
“On it.” Both of her friends left her alone in the cluttered room. The bed was piled full of inventory and the closets packed with boxes and bolts of cloth.
Clare unzipped her suitcase and dug through her attention-seeking clothes. She sorted them by fairy category, woodland, air, water, fire, earth, and sea, until she found what she was looking for.
A plain white dress given to her by her cousin.
If she was going to be the next Brigid, she should appear as a pure angel. Maybe she was the one the Heart of Brigid found, because she was the true fairy queen, hidden away in an orphanage.
She picked up the stone and held it close to her heart. It seemed to hum and vibrate, and it was hot to the touch.
Maybe Griffin wasn’t lying when he said the Heart of Brigid would lead him to his true love.
Hadn’t it led him to her?
Chapter 6
When he came to, he was lying on a four-poster bed surrounded by pillows and quilts. The bedchamber was decorated in the old style with wood paneling on the wall and light sconces that once held candleholders. His sheets were silk, and the pillowcases were embroidered with quadruple spiral symbols.
He deduced he was in Ireland, due to the motifs and symbols on the pillow and the Gaelic words on the paperweight on the nightstand. The clothes he was wearing—a thick robe over a white T-shirt and plaid boxer shorts—signified he was at home or at a relative’s place.
He sniffed his arms and rubbed his hand through his short, bushy hair. Squeaky clean, smelling like soap, shampoo, and men’s cologne. Wherever he was, he was freshly showered and clean. He checked under the boxers and smiled at how well he was hung. No problem down there.
There was a mirror attached to the heavy oak dresser next to the bed, and he could see his reflection clearly.
Okay, he wasn’t a vampire.
He had dark-brown hair and black-brown eyes. Dark Irish, if he assumed being in Ireland meant he was Irish. His skin was tinted by the sun, and he had the hands of a working man. His knuckles were bruised like he’d been in a fight, and several fingernails were broken below the quick. Scabs and half-healed cuts littered the backs of his hands.
The reflection in the mirror showed he needed a shave. He smiled, revealing two straight rows of white teeth. Great dental health. The whites of his eyes were clear, and his face was rugged and slightly weathered with a few permanent wrinkles etched near his eyes. Checking his hair, he didn’t find any gray. Other than the scar over one eyebrow, a small mole on his upper lip, and a nose that wasn’t perfectly straight, he’d say he was an attractive man—not that he judged men.
He’d seen the type. Dark, brooding, and not nice. Women tended to swarm to them.
He lowered his brows and glared at himself, getting into the grouchy mood.
Not bad. He wasn�
��t a youngster, but he was definitely not old. He flexed his muscles. They were hard and firm.
He wondered if he’d left himself any clues. A notebook, perhaps? Or a recording to greet him?
Getting out of the bed, he tossed aside the luxurious sheets and opened the drawer of the night table. Inside was a wallet and a passport, along with a golden four-leafed shamrock charm.
He flipped open the wallet and stared at his Public Services Card. There he was, a picture of him in black and white along with his surname, Gallagher, and forename, Griffin. His Passport ID card had more information, a birthdate and a birthplace.
So, he was Irish, born in County Donegal at Malin Head, the northernmost spot in Ireland.
Now that he had identification, it was time to talk to whoever it was who maintained this luxurious bedchamber.
Since there was a bell next to his bed, he jangled it.
A footfall sounded directly outside the heavy wooden door, and a cultured voice said, “Master Griffin, what can I do for you?”
Somehow, he knew the voice. It was the butler, Pierce, who worked for his grandfather.
Things always came back slowly for him, and there would be gaps in his memory, but some were imprinted deep—possibly because they were stored away in ancient catacombs.
“Come on in,” he called. “How long have I been back?”
“You arrived this morning,” the butler said, entering the room. “Your grandfather wishes to take tea with you.”
“Have I been sleeping long?”
“Not too long.” Pierce set down a few envelopes and a package. “Here’s your mail.”
“What does my grandfather want?” Griffin asked, hoping the butler would drop a few clues.
“To welcome you back, of course, from your travels.”
A thought popped into Griffin’s mind that the butler would never offer information unless asked directly.
“Who showered me and put me in this robe? What was I wearing when I returned?”
“Your clothes were filthy and sticky,” Pierce said. “I’ve had them taken to the cleaners.”
“How about me? What did I look like? I’m asking because I don’t remember anything.” He stared blankly at the butler whose eyes shifted toward the door, as if looking for an escape.
“You’ve had another one of your seizures. You banged your head and bruised your knuckles pounding on the door to your walk-in closet.”
“Did I say anything? Write any notes? Was there anything strange or out of place?”
The butler walked to an armoire and opened it. He picked up a dull black rock and set it on the nightstand. “You were holding this dirty piece of coal, and you were calling a woman’s name.”
“Who?” Griffin stared at the lumpy piece of coal. It was suspended inside a hastily tied together net of knotted yarn.
“Clare took my heart, you said over and over again.” The butler quirked one eyebrow and smirked. “You had one hand over your chest, like you were in pain. Frothing at the mouth over this Clare, eh?”
“I don’t know anyone named Clare,” Griffin said.
“I suppose you can check your annals. Of course, you last updated it before your trip to America.” The butler plopped a package on Griffin’s lap. “This came in the mail. From Seamus.”
“Seamus who?”
Instead of answering, Pierce pointed to the golden shamrock. Each lobe of the shamrock had a letter engraved on it. G. E. M. S.
Griffin got busy as soon as Pierce left him alone. He tore off the Turkish cotton robe and dressed himself in a black, long-sleeved turtleneck and a pair of black jeans. He had no clue who Seamus was, but if the golden shamrock showed they were in a secret society, then he’d better figure it out quick.
He tore the package open. Out dropped a purplish translucent rock about the size of a small egg. The enclosed note was written in the sharp, strong handwriting of a man.
* * *
Dude. I’ve found the Morrigan you need. She thinks she’s a fairy queen, and she’s an easy mark. I’ve arranged for her to sit next to you on your flight to Dublin. She’s sure to hit you up for money and let you know she’s a romance writer. Use the Heart of Brigid to lure her into the bedchamber.
You can do it,
Guardian Seamus, G.E.M.S.
* * *
“Heart of Brigid, Heart of Brigid,” Griffin muttered to himself while turning the rough stone in his hand. Why was it important? And who exactly did he sit next to on the airplane?
He made a note to ask Pierce to investigate his movements in the last few weeks. He had ticket stubs and receipts from San Francisco and a boarding pass along with stamps on his passport.
Why was he out of the country?
Since Pierce told him to read the annals, he slid a monstrous leather-bound book from the bookshelf. A note inside the cover read:
* * *
Your name is Griffin Gallagher. You are one of the four guardians of our race. Every time you visit the Otherworld, you will return without memory—a blank slate. Go through these pages to receive the lives you’ve lived. But beware. If you did not religiously update these annals, you will be filled with regret.
* * *
Griffin flipped through the pages. The earliest entries were full of lyrical poetry, written during the time of the Tuatha Dé Danann. It was filled with battles and beautiful women being given as brides to cement alliances. There was one named Brigid, whose heart was generous and loving. She was his true love, but she was forced to marry a war hero who turned out to be a despot.
He had the distinct impression of Brigid standing at the foot of his bed. But when he turned his head toward the fleeting image of a redhaired fairy dressed in white, it wasn’t there. Traces of her perfume lingered—a spring day in an orchard of apples with the clean scent of rainwater-washed clothing. He could almost hear her light and airy laughter, giggling like ripples of water.
He was allowing himself to be absorbed by the story, and he didn’t have the luxury of time to wallow in it. The key fact of that lifetime was that Brigid was shut away behind the walls of her husband’s castle.
Griffin flipped through more pages and grimaced at how spotty the record was. There were huge gaps, especially after the Christians came. Brigid would appear here and there as a saintly woman, and more than one incarnation of Griffin had been a priest or monk. Love was not spoken of beyond a passing glance or a word in the cloisters. Snippets of poetry mixed with expressions of piety and worship. It was obvious the writer deeply admired the beloved saint, even though she was unattainable.
Not all of the stories were sad. In the eleventh century, Brigid led a band of female warriors who helped drive the Norsemen back out to the sea. She’d returned home loaded with booty, and apparently, he’d sired many children with her. The annals listed grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but in the twelfth century, the lineage stopped.
* * *
Treachery and betrayal. The Norsemen are gone, but a new threat arrives. Norman invasion from the house of Clare. My precious heart is gone. Taken by the invaders. Brigid is ravished and with child. She weeps from the hills of Tara, watering the fields of shamrocks with her tears. She is trapped in the castle of her unwanted husband. She reaches for a knife to plunge into her heart.
No, no, no, a goddess must not die.
A goddess must endure.
* * *
Griffin’s heart jolted with a deep ache. How had Brigid endured war, rape, and conquest? She had to have survived, right? As difficult as it was to be a goddess, Brigid was Ireland. Even if she had to go underground, she would emerge stronger and eventually escape the castle of her bondage.
He turned the page, eager to read about her leap to freedom. Alas, thick words of blotted ink told of more tragedy.
* * *
Brigid is lost. She is no longer in Ireland. I can’t find her. Can’t feel her. Can’t live without her. Maybe she left during the potato famine, but unforgivably, I did n
ot make any entries and leave any clues. We should have lived happily ever after defeating the Norsemen. I must have failed to rescue her from the castle of the Normans. What have I been doing? Have I failed her? It’s unthinkable, but horror of horrors, I continue to exist without my precious Brigid. Could she have died?
Alas, no! I woke from the sleep of death, clutching a piece of her heart. It has turned into a dull crystal-like stone, bruised purple and red.
I must believe this Heart of Brigid will lead me to her.
Why didn’t I leave more clues?
* * *
Griffin clutched the purplish-red quartz and turned the page. The scrawl on the page looked like it was written in blood with blots and splatters.
* * *
Civil War. Treachery. Heart of Brigid stolen. Gemologists say it’s a rare Irish diamond in the rough. Found in County Donegal at the northernmost tip of the island. I know it belongs to my fairy lover. She told me so in a dream. She is the true Queen of Ireland to protect Ireland from the Norman invasion and the British thereafter. I must go back to the twelfth century and find her. Bring back the heart so she can live forever. Oh, my love, I now know why you and I have not seen each other for so long. I will do your bidding and kill Richard “Strongbow” de Clare. I will fight for you, my fairy queen, until Ireland is ours again.
* * *
“Master Griffin,” the butler’s voice sounded from the door. “Your grandfather awaits you downstairs.”
“A minute,” Griffin said. He skipped to the end to see what he’d been up to right before this last, most unexpected visit to the Otherworld.
What he’d read dropped his temperature several degrees. The note was written by a different hand than the other ones.
* * *
Brigid is a changeling. She is not human, but a fairy substitute. You must find the Heart of Brigid and bury it where it was found. Activate the Four to join in the hunt. A female child will be born, hair the color of dried blood, skin as pale as the moon, eyes green as the leaf of a rowan tree. Do not be fooled by her. She is the daughter of Richard “Strongbow” de Clare. Use the heart to lure her to her grave—the place you are to bury Brigid’s heart on the northernmost tip of Ireland on a rock jutting from the sea. There, the Queen of Ireland will resurrect and reward you.
Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1 Page 5