In return, you will receive Brigid in the flesh, human again, but mortal. You will have one glorious lifetime with her, but she will grow old and die. You should rejoice, because Ireland will be united once again in the Otherworld—passed through the mist into a world of forever.
You have plenty of money to carry out your task. Any questions, ask me.
Grandfather
* * *
Knocking sounded at the door.
“Master Griffin, your grandfather is here,” Pierce said, this time in a firm voice.
Before Griffin could shut the leathery cover of the annals, the door flew open, and a man with blazing white hair, eyes the color of flint, and thin, stern lips entered.
“Where is it? The Heart of Brigid? Give it to me.”
Griffin gaped wide-eyed at his grandfather and showed him the purplish-red crystal. “This came in the mail from someone named Seamus.”
“This is not the Heart of Brigid,” the elderly man said. “Does this crystal look anything like a diamond in the rough?”
Griffin narrowed his eyes. This lump appeared like a diamond in the rough. However, on closer examination, the crystals were six-sided, not four like a diamond would have.
“No, it is quartz,” Griffin said. “Why would Seamus send this to me?”
“Because he’s tricked you,” Grandfather said. “We may be a family of thieves, but the O’Tooles are tricksters from way back. When was the last time you had the Heart in your hand?”
“Pierce said I had a seizure, and I don’t remember a thing.” Griffin ran his hand through his hair and shrugged. His brain was still buzzing with static electricity, and it was hard for him to believe he wasn’t in a time loop.
“That rascal Seamus probably has it.” Grandfather’s sharp eyes scanned the room as if Griffin were hiding the diamond from him. His gaze stopped on the lump of coal. “Where did you get that piece of coal?”
“I have no idea.” Griffin’s shoulders felt heavy, and fatigue ran though his limbs.
“You were on a transatlantic flight,” Grandpa said. “It was your duty to bring the Heart of Brigid back to Ireland. You know how important it is to leave notes.”
“I know.” Griffin couldn’t help yawning. “But I must have forgotten. Here’s the note that came with the quartz. It’s from Seamus, but if you say he’s a trickster, then we can’t believe it.”
He handed the note to his Grandfather who scowled as he read it.
“A Morrigan? Do you remember the woman you were sitting next to?” Grandpa’s voice rose sharply. “We have big problems if she’s taken the Heart of Brigid.”
“We have no proof I had it on the airplane,” Griffin said. “Who is Seamus, and why is he important?”
Grandfather sighed and patted Griffin’s back. “G.E.M.S. stands for Griffin, Eamon, Mack, and Seamus. We are the four guardians of the four treasures of Ireland.”
“Is Seamus helping us?” Griffin crossed his arms, feeling peeved at the news he should have known.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Grandpa frowned. “He has his own treasure to guard, so I don’t know why he’s interfering with ours.”
“You think he took the real stone?” Griffin hated that he was at such a disadvantage.
“We have to follow whatever leads that come up.” Grandfather shook the note and laid it on the table. “He planted this Morrigan to sit on the airplane next to you. Find her and question her, then keep her imprisoned until you recover the real Heart of Brigid.”
Griffin recoiled at the harsh tone. “I can’t go around kidnapping innocent women. You’re going to have to go over this with me again, because right now, I’m drawing a blank.”
“Humpf, I keep telling you.” Grandfather opened the annals and huffed. “Your neglect of your story is disgraceful. You were supposed to keep the annals up to date. Where is that green notebook you always carried around?”
“Lost?” Griffin turned his palms up. “I’ll be more diligent in writing my story. Promise. But right now, I’m so very tired.”
“Ah, yes, the seizures tire you out, and you must be jet-lagged.” Grandfather rubbed his shoulders. “You’re excused from tea. Sleep and dream, but write everything down when you wake.”
“I always promise to,” Griffin said on autopilot, not even knowing where the thought came from. “Without memory, there is no life.”
“There is only faith,” Grandfather finished.
“Yes, faith that tomorrow will bring new life, because I surely cannot remember the old one. I die many times, and I always wake up. If I find my true love, she will cure me from dying, and I will always remember her face.”
“Yes, my dear Griffin. Yes.” Grandfather patted his shoulder. “Your grandmother was the one who saved me. Bless her heart. Your father was lost in perpetual forgetfulness. You must avenge him and save yourself at the same time. You read the note in the back of the book, didn’t you? The one I wrote?”
“Yes, I did. You accuse my Brigid of being a changeling. Why?”
“That wasn’t for you. That was for your father. He never found his true love. Instead, he was lured away by a wild woman.”
“Was she my mother?” Hadn’t someone recently told him? But who? Trying to piece the puzzle together was like looking into a broken mirror. Nothing matched or made sense.
“She was a Morrigan,” Grandpa huffed. “An evil fairy who lures men away from their destiny. She destroyed him. He lost what little he had left of his mind, and he was never able to rebuild memories again. You, on the other hand, must find this new Morrigan and take her to her grave.”
Griffin shuddered with the feeling of skeletal fingers crawling down his spine. “I don’t think I can hurt anyone.”
“What happened to you? I can’t believe how much you’ve changed. You know the story well, and you were so eager and aggressive to fulfill the prophecy.”
“Which was?” Griffin blinked through bleary eyes.
“The restoration of true Ireland,” Grandfather said. “The reanimated Brigid will take you back to the twelfth century and destroy Richard ‘Strongbow’ de Clare. The Normans will retreat from Ireland, and the British invasion will never happen. Ireland will belong forever to the Tuatha Dé Danann. The Otherworld will become Our World. All the trees, flowers, and grass will grow back, and Ireland will be green again. The seas surrounding us will be filled with magical mist, and the veil of protection will surround our Emerald Isle, shielding us from all invaders.”
“Is this my destiny?” Griffin felt as if a mantle of responsibility had been placed on him, weighing him down and choking the air from his lungs.
“Yes, it is what the goddess Brigid would want. This duty has been entrusted to the Gallagher line. We have all failed. Your grandmother was not Brigid. Your mother obviously was not. It is up to you to bring Brigid’s heart to her, to sacrifice the Morrigan to destroy Richard ‘Strongbow’ de Clare and save Ireland for all ages!”
Grandfather raised his fist in a defiant salute. “Éirinn go Brách.”
“Ireland to Eternity and Beyond.”
Griffin felt like a fool.
A complete and utter fool.
He’d not only failed his destiny, but he’d lost his memory and the plan he and his ancestors were supposed to fulfill.
“Master Griffin,” the butler said as he opened the door. “You rang? How did your visit with your grandfather go?”
Griffin tossed and caught the egg-shaped quartz. “Not good. Not only did I lose my green notebook, but I lost the Heart of Brigid. You see this? It’s a worthless quartz.”
The butler took it from him and examined it. “This is disappointing. What are you going to do now?”
Griffin shrugged. “What can I do? I can’t be sure I ever had the real Heart of Brigid.”
“You’ll need to hire a private investigator to retrace your steps,” Pierce said. “I can go ahead and order it, but in the meantime, you could be in danger. If you truly had the real Heart
of Brigid in your hand, others could be after it, including the criminal mob dealing in our precious ancient artifacts.”
“If I truly had it, don’t you think Brigid would be here right now? Standing in front of me, alive?”
“Only if you went back to the twelfth century and found her,” Pierce said. “As far as I know, you didn’t have time to reanimate her and time-travel.”
“Time in the Otherworld moves differently than it does here. Looks like I still remember those rules,” Griffin said. “I could have been there and back in the time it took me to have a seizure.”
“All you had was this lump of coal,” Pierce said. “If you went, you might have exchanged the diamond for coal.”
“Oh, no,” Griffin groaned. “That’s what happened. Both diamond and coal are made of carbon. When you found me, where was I and what was I holding?”
“You were inside your walk-in closet. You were holding this piece of coal and calling for a woman named Clare, saying she took the Heart of Brigid.”
“The daughter of Richard ‘Strongbow’ de Clare?”
“I assume so.” Pierce’s Adam’s apple bobbled, and he made the sign of the cross. “Do you know what this means?”
Griffin’s entire body shuddered as if breaking out of a shell of ice. “If the Morrigan has Brigid’s heart, she will never live again. Ireland will turn into a dark, desolate, denuded rock. I’ve failed.”
“Unless …”
Griffin held up his hand to ward off the horrid thought. “I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is no. I’m not going to get the Morrigan to fall in love with me.”
“It’s the only way,” Pierce said, picking up the lump of coal. “I’m sorry, but it will be up to your son to reunite with Brigid. You, like your father, will have to mate with the Morrigan and produce another Griffin.”
“I’ve failed.”
“Not yet. Your mother returned the Heart to your father on her deathbed.”
“And my father lost his mind,” Griffin said, not knowing where that thought originated. “Is that my fate, too?”
Chapter 7
A few days later, Clare was still jet-lagged. She’d been dragging herself around Maeve and Sorcha’s apartment, carving wands, sewing capes, stringing beads and nuts, and using the 3D printer to create lucky charms. She was also trying not to think about the contents of Griffin’s green notebook.
Half of it was written in runes, or the old Irish ogham script, a system of letters looking like cross-hatches and flags. The other fragments were in English, and what it contained was truly horrible.
It contained lurid tales of Ireland’s violent history, of invasions and wars, of battles and conquests. The part that scared her the most had to do with luring an innocent virgin to her death. In the green notebook, love between a human and a fairy always ended tragically for the human.
Every time.
Maybe Griffin was a writer of horror mythology, if there was such a genre. Each story she read was more gruesome than the last, but she couldn’t look away, no matter how many nightmares she caught during her jet-lagged bouts of sleep.
Clare put down a partially constructed cross of Brigid and slipped her hand under the mattress for the notebook. Griffin had great ideas, though. If she could incorporate some of his themes and plotlines into her script, he would be more inclined to fund her movie—maybe even partner with her.
Now that she was locked out of Hollywood, she’d have to go the indie film route, which meant raising funds, hiring producers and directors, actors and actresses, as well as doing the marketing and post-production work. Having a partner, especially a wealthy man, would make it easier.
What had Griffin said to her? That his life was dull and boring, and that the stakes were too low? His drivel about the Heart of Brigid and finding his true love was rich boy angst—trying to stir drama into an otherwise unfulfilling life.
In that case, everything in the green notebook was fictional, and it meant Griffin was writing a novel or he, too, was looking to make a movie or screenplay.
No wonder he’d talked down to her. He didn’t want her as competition. As for the many lives, or never dying and always waking up part, that was him trying out a character and not getting it right.
Clare opened the notebook and continued reading.
* * *
Fair Brigid lies still, trapped and imprisoned underground. She yearns for her beloved land, and she weeps for the devastation, the forests destroyed, the waters defiled, and the air filled with soot. She, who cannot die, is suspended between the worlds. She has been this way for hundreds of years, lying in a bedchamber, awaiting the man who must restore her heart and free her from her shackles.
Only the man whose heart is true will she accept. Only one who has not been beguiled by evil can bestow upon her the gift of reanimation. She lies still for centuries, waiting for her true lover—a man of valor, strength, and pureness of heart.
I have failed her, my son. I was once a young, hale, and hearty man, full of strength and bright as gold. By crook and hook, I wrested the precious stone, the Heart of Brigid, from my devious and dastardly enemies.
My heart was pure, or so I thought. I was true and loyal to my fairy queen. I worshipped her and kept her bedchamber pristine and clean. I lacked no resources to prepare for her arrival, to do all the enchantments and spells to free her from the icy grip of her captivity.
I followed the instructions to the letter, but I was not perfect. I made a small mistake, so miniscule, I did not suspect it would change the course of my destiny.
But it did, and this is why I’m dying.
My son, you must complete what I could not do.
To restore Brigid to all her glory, you need not only her heart, the diamond in the rough formed deep in the bowels of the northernmost tip of Ireland. This is the Heart of Brigid. It is necessary, but not sufficient.
You will also need a blood sacrifice—a living, breathing woman. Not just any woman, but one who possesses both extreme good and on the opposite end, extreme bad. She will be the Morrigan, daughter of the man who imprisoned Brigid.
You must bring this human sacrifice along with the Heart of Brigid to the underground chamber, and then you must sacrifice her lifeforce so that Brigid might live again.
This isn’t as easy as you think, my son.
The Morrigan is a seductress. She will be extremely hard to resist—beautiful, beguiling, sly of tongue, and mesmerizing in motion.
She will not make you forget your true love, the pure and innocent Brigid. She will hypnotize you and entice you into the gravest depravity. She will find that one tiny crack of weakness, and wind the strings of her deceitful web around you.
You cannot avoid her, because you need her. But you must deal with her swiftly if you are to join her lifeforce with the inert form of Brigid and restore Ireland to the glory it was when the Otherworld was part of the Mortal World. You must do this to drive out all invaders from Normans to Vikings to Britons.
Behold, you will see me, a rotted corpse, corrupted by my sins, defiled and stained with decay. Let my predicament be a warning to you.
What I tell you, do.
Don’t write it down, because we cannot let others find the treasure.
Do it quickly, end my suffering. Wring the life out of me after I whisper the secret to you, but beware of following in my footsteps.
I will know if you succeed, if my bones knit strong, and my skin heals smooth, if my joints grow supple, and my muscles stretch limber. I will know if trees bud and flowers bloom. If the hills and valleys of Ireland are blanketed with life, green, lush, colorful, and full of song—from the giggling streams of clear water to the symphony of birds and bees.
But you will fail. You’re a man, after all—not a god.
Your eyes will grow dim, and your hair will fall out. Your back will stoop, and your blood will turn to sludge. You will write these words and more to the young man you sire—for he, mayhap, be the hope of
Éireann. He, mayhap, is the truest of true hearts, and he, mayhap, is the man destined for a queen—or not.
* * *
“Clare, I’m leaving to go to work.” Sorcha’s voice snapped her out of the fairy tale. “I might be able to sneak into the lab tonight. Can I take the Heart of Brigid?”
Clare slipped the Green Notebook underneath her mattress and pulled out the crystalline amulet. She studied it and shook her head. It was most likely a worthless bauble, embellished by Griffin to be a magical thing. “Sure, be careful and keep it safe.”
Maeve peeked through the door. “How’s the story coming along? Don’t forget to write me in as the sexy strumpet fairy.”
“I’m beginning to realize it’s not all about sex and romance,” Clare said. “Real relationships between humans and fairies can be very complicated, and they might not end well for the humans. Fairies are very tricky.”
“I prefer the sexy ones,” Maeve said. “Like the warriors and high kings.”
“How about horror mythology?” Clare stretched out her fingers in a creepy motion, stalking Maeve. “Fairies luring humans into the Otherworld to prey on them, drink their blood, and eat their heart?”
“What’s gotten into you?” Sorcha put the Heart of Brigid in her messenger bag and slung it over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go.”
In deference to all of them keeping a low profile, she was wearing jeans, suede boots, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a denim jacket. Her double-braided hair was wound into a tight bun.
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