“Then there has to be an account somewhere that has your pictures,” Clare said. “Problem is you don’t have your user name and password.”
“Pierce says there’s a notebook I used to carry around. I’ve lost it, of course.”
A funny expression crossed Clare’s face, but she shook her head as if a sudden chill descended on her shoulders. She continued tapping on the phone. “Anyway, I’ve set up another account for you, and it has cloud storage. That means every picture you take is uploaded to the cloud. Each image or video is date-stamped and geo-tagged, showing the location.”
“I suppose all of this will help me when I wake from the dead,” he said in a purposely gloomy undertaker tone.
“It will, I promise,” she said. “The key is you have to remember your user name and password if you lose your phone. We’ll also set up social network accounts for you so that you can find your friends again, like me, Maeve, and Sorcha.”
“Ah, so I’ve made my very first friends on my own. Should I be proud of myself?”
She swung the phone in front of his face, flashing a picture of the three festively dressed fairy impersonators. “What will your grandfather think when you come home with three girlfriends?”
“From thousand-year virgin to playboy. I think I died and went to heaven.” He took the phone and browsed to her social network account. “Hey, I recognize this guy, Seamus O’Fool.”
“He was a real joker, life of the party,” she said. Her voice sounded half-strangled, but she cleared her throat and continued, “Funny thing, I believed him when he said he had a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow.”
“You knew him?” Griffin zoomed in on a photo of Seamus wearing a lampshade over his dark, wavy hair.
“He had the crowdfunding accounts for my movie project.” Clare grabbed the phone and x’ed out of the photo gallery. “A week before I was on that flight to Dublin, I found myself locked out of my accounts. When I called the bank, they said the money was gone.”
“Why would Seamus filch from a pretty lass like you?” Griffin asked. “Wait a minute. Were you and he an item?”
A grinding burn roiled his gut, and waves of tension gripped his body. What if Seamus had already tapped this beautiful fairy creature who hallucinated in broad daylight? What if, in not knowing where she was, she’d given herself to him?
What if instead of hiding the Heart of Brigid in a fairy mound, like she wanted him to believe, she’d actually given it to Seamus?
“We weren’t close,” Clare said, biting her words. “After he took the money, I had no choice but to return home.”
“On a first-class flight?” He raised a doubting eyebrow.
“The ticket was gifted to me by my cousin, Jenna Hart,” Clare said.
“I thought you were an orphan.” He wasn’t done poking holes in her story. She was so much a storyteller, she had a hard time keeping things consistent.
“I took a DNA test, looking for relatives,” Clare said. “Jenna’s family came up as positive match for being my cousins. I wrote her, but she didn’t know of any aunts or uncles in Ireland, although it was possible one of her uncles could have passed through and left someone pregnant.”
Fair enough. Griffin himself had many holes in his family history. But he wasn’t done with the interrogation. Even though she wasn’t his Brigid, she’d promised to prove her basic goodness by helping him get his Heart of Brigid back.
“Why would she gift you a first-class ticket? Where did you get the money to rent the convertible?”
“She felt bad for me and decided to pay me for the design work I did for her Fae line of evening gowns.”
Griffin couldn’t help groaning at the thought of fairy garb on the fashion show runways. “She’s perpetuating false stereotypes.”
“Not really,” Clare said. “I call it creative arts. Maeve and I researched all of the legends. The beauty of the Fae is that there are so many stories that don’t have to be consistent. Brigid is said by some to be the daughter of Dagda, but in another telling, she is the wife. Sometimes, her mother is Boann, the goddess of fertility, and others have her born of the Morrigan. Does it really matter which telling is right?”
“Guess it doesn’t matter which version of my family annals is right either,” he said. “I’ve never really thought about it, but if all of us, my grandfather, my father, and I are supposed to return the Heart of Brigid to free her as fairy queen, then which one of us is her true love?”
“It might not matter,” she said. “Just like Brigid is everything to everyone. What matters is what we do with the story. Do we play it out exactly as it’s told, or do we make it up as we go along?”
An intense feeling he’d gone this way before, heard the same sentiment, peered into the identical emerald eyes, and lived an entire life with the woman next to him clutched his heart and shook him to the core.
“Do you believe in déjà vu?” he asked. “Because I feel like we’ve been this way before.”
“On this exact bus route?” She giggled and tapped his chin.
“Maybe, but it’s more the discovery or rediscovery that we’re either playing out a tale that’s set in stone, or we’re making it up as we go. Are you sure you and I haven’t had this conversation before?”
“I’m sure I’ve never met you,” Clare said. “At least I would have remembered.”
“How would you know if you forgot?” he teased. “It’s a question I always ask myself. If I don’t remember, does it mean it never happened?”
“That’s why you need pictures and voice recordings,” Clare said, opening up an app. “I’ve recorded our conversation and uploaded it to the cloud.”
“This cloud of yours must be magic,” he said, taking the phone. Even though she closed the photo gallery, she was still logged into her social media page. He checked the “remember me” option on her settings so he could get back into her account and check out all her party pictures.
Something didn’t feel right with the fact that she coincidentally hung out with Seamus, who was also one of the four Guardians.
His fingers itched to text a message to his grandfather about this coincidence, but the bus screeched to a halt, and Clare stood up.
“This is our stop. Make sure to take a picture of the sign when you get off, so you’ll know how to retrace your steps. We’ll walk the rest of the way.”
Clare led the way at a fast pace toward the Neurological Institute. The last time she got off the bus, she’d finished reading several disturbing entries in Griffin’s notebook. She’d also been curious to find out what neurological problem he had and whether he was dangerous.
“Hey, slow down a bit,” Griffin said, chasing after her. “I didn’t get to set my fitness app to record my walking path.”
“We’re running late,” she said. “The bus ride took too long.”
“Eh, they’ll understand,” Griffin said. “I didn’t lose all my memory, and I remember the nurses are particularly nice to me.”
It figured they’d be charmed by Griffin. What was not to like about an heir to a real castle and one of the few members of nobility remaining in Ireland?
The problem with Griffin’s notebook remained. In it, he’d detailed lurid scenes where he had to sacrifice the daughter of his mortal enemy in order to gain the release of his beloved Brigid.
It had all happened in the twelfth century, and according to the notes, he was supposed to use the Heart of Brigid to return back in time. To do that, he’d needed a living, breathing female sacrifice victim.
Just recalling the words brought chills crawling over Clare’s exposed skin. Since he seemed to have forgotten his mission, she wasn’t about to give him the instructions of this heinous human sacrifice, especially if she was supposed to play the part of the daughter of Richard “Strongbow” de Clare.
Clare clutched her purse under her arm and hoped her sweating wouldn’t be noticeable, especially since the notebook was inside. Hopefully it didn’t cal
l to him.
Clare was justified to keep the heinous plans from this newly innocent Griffin Gallagher. She should let whatever evil outlined in that book die.
It was time to get him a new life with a new story, and that included the proper care and treatment for his condition.
Did this mean she cared about him?
The thought jolted her and made her shudder. He was attractive and fun to kiss, but he was unstable and liable to forget about her. How could she risk her heart on a man who might not recognize her? Besides, she was only going to show him her Brigid character loved him, so he could receive the Heart of Brigid and live happily ever after—without Clare’s involvement.
She and Griffin arrived at the entrance to the Poddle Neurological Institute. He opened the bright-yellow door for her and gaped up and around at the building.
“I was supposed to make some sort of decision,” he said. “But something got in the way, and I went in search of Brigid. I remember being angry and storming out of here. I didn’t ever want to return.”
“Do you remember why you stormed out?” Clare asked. “I’m sure they were only trying to help.”
“They had a treatment plan I didn’t agree to.” Griffin scratched his head and shrugged. “Maybe they’ll tell me.”
“Maybe it’ll help you retain your memory,” Clare said.
Together, they stepped into the reception area.
She took a giant step backward when she spotted the same receptionist who was there the last time she visited. Now she was going to get caught out on her lie about being his sister.
“Why, Mr. Gallagher,” the receptionist said. “How good to see you this morning. You missed your last appointment, but I’m sure Dr. Murray will see you. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?”
“Sure,” Griffin replied. “Please let Dr. Murray know that I’ve had another one of my forgetting episodes.”
Clare hid behind Griffin, trying to look like she wasn’t with him, but the receptionist craned her neck and said, “I’m sure Dr. Murray understands. Looks like your sister finally caught up with you. She came by with a notebook you lost.”
“My sister?” Griffin blinked at the receptionist. “I have a sister I’ve forgotten?”
Behind him, Clare made lip zipping motions at the receptionist who nodded and said, “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll let you know when Dr. Murray is available.”
Griffin put his hand on the base of Clare’s back and steered her toward a pair of plastic chairs in the corner of the room.
“Why would Enya think I have a sister?” he asked. “Grandfather said I’m an only child.”
“Maybe she got you confused with someone else,” Clare said. “Do you remember anything else about the last life you had? The one where you met me on the airplane?”
“I was into some dangerous stuff,” Griffin said. “Now, how did that come to me? I wasn’t even thinking.”
“Maybe your subconscious remembers more than you think.”
“I would remember a sister. I wouldn’t have been so lonely growing up. Memory is a strange thing, isn’t it? If I don’t remember something, it’s as if it never existed or happened—unless someone else can corroborate it.”
“Someone else might also remember things wrong,” Clare countered. “This is why written notes, text messages, audio comments, video, and pictures are so important for you.”
“True, but without the context, all of it could be interpreted many different ways.”
“Resulting in you being many different versions of yourself.”
“Are you saying I’m a different person each time I come back from one of these trips to the Otherworld or wherever I’ve been?” His glare was sharp and not a little unfriendly. “What do you have to compare me with except for the flight from San Francisco to Dublin?”
“It was a long flight.” She slid him a sidelong glance, still trying to avoid his direct gaze because of all the guilt that had to be written on her face. “I like you better now. You seem kinder and less arrogant.”
“Was I arrogant? Describe me,” he said, looking earnest like he truly wanted to know.
“You might have been tired,” she hedged. “But you gave me the impression you got one over on everyone, like a cat who’d swallowed a canary.”
“Because I had the Heart of Brigid,” he stated. “I must have done something to obtain it.”
“You would have done anything, wouldn’t you?”
She left unstated her suspicion he’d killed his own father for the stone. The writing in the notebook wasn’t clear if it was a journal or a set of plans.
But the fact he had the stone meant he had to have gotten it from someone who had it before—that would be the father who’d whispered instructions into his ear—right before he’d snuffed the life from him.
“You’re right,” Griffin said. “I would have done anything.”
“Great, then you should agree to whatever treatment the doctor is recommending.”
“What does that have to do with finding the Heart of Brigid?”
“It’s not the finding, but the keeping.” She tilted her head toward the receptionist when Griffin’s name was called. “Dr. Murray is ready to see you. Will you let me pose as your sister so I can take notes?”
He gave her arm a squeeze and nodded, smiling slightly. “Sure, you’re a woman of many faces. Let’s go.”
Chapter 20
A buzzing noise zipped circles around Griffin’s head, and flashing lights alternated with dark spots careening like a swarm of angry bumblebees. The scent of clean linen and flowers infused his nostrils, and a pair of breasts were pressed against his chest.
“Are you okay?” a female voice asked. “It’s not too hot, is it?”
Griffin blinked harshly and snapped his head back and forth to shake off the noise and lights, but he savored the fragrance of the woman’s ruddy hair and the softness of her embrace. He let his mind focus on her touch and inhaled slowly, letting the troubling noise fade.
“Where are we?” He looked up from the place he was standing and let the colors of stained glass absorb into his eyes.
“The hospital chapel,” Clare said. “I brought you here right after the doctor visit. You okay now?”
His mouth was dry, and there was a metallic taste on his tongue. “Yes, I might have blanked out, but I remember everything.”
“That’s good. You don’t have to make a decision today.”
“I’ve apparently been putting it off for a long time,” he said. “Is it true I might ultimately lose the ability to recall anything?”
“That’s what the doctor said,” Clare replied. “Each time you have a seizure, you’re damaging your temporal lobe. The more seizures you have, the more damage accumulates. I know it’s frightening. The thing that worries me is that you remember less and less with each attack. It won’t matter how many notes and videos we keep, you might not be able to catch up on all of the annals and lists before you have another seizure.”
“Are you saying I won’t know who I am?” He held her close and put his face in her hair. “If I ever forget my grandfather, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“You must consider the surgery,” Clare said, pushing away from him and staring into his eyes. “I know it’s scary to have them cut a piece of your brain, but if it stops your seizures, you would be able to live a whole life.”
“A single complete life with my Brigid as a mortal. That’s the promise.” He struggled to recall exactly why he would agree to it.
“Yes, that was what your grandfather wrote in the annals.”
“It’s a bum deal.” His lips pressed together. “I’ve lived over a thousand years, multiple lives, but I’m supposed to end it here? One last life with a mortal?”
She pulled his hand and led him to the altar under a large wooden cross.
“Would one coherent mortal life be worth more than thousands of fractured lives?” she asked as she looked up at the
cross.
What she said made sense in the abstract. He only had bits and pieces of his past lives, but it was what made him different from everyone else.
He also let the image of the cross pervade his field of vision. He’d lived before it ever came to Ireland.
No, he could not accept such a limitation to the boundless past he owned.
He turned away from the altar. “I sailed in a longboat. I burned our boats and forged the swords that fought the sea elves. I bore the shield for Brigid when she was victorious over the Norsemen. I survived the potato famine, bled for the Irish Free State, and fought for Home Rule.”
“Were these real memories?” Clare asked. “Or stories from Irish history?”
Griffin startled, jerking his head as waves of sights and sounds assailed him. He’d lived all those lives, hadn’t he? They’d been scribbled in the annals, and the timelines were filled with details.
“You don’t believe I was alive a thousand years ago? You know time passes differently in the Otherworld.”
“Yes, it does,” Clare said. “But how come you have no notes about the Otherworld? Descriptions, sights, sounds?”
“I wouldn’t have remembered if I were dead,” he said.
“Except you weren’t dead. No one dies in the Otherworld. Fae are immortal. It’s true they could erase your memory. But is that what really happened?”
Griffin held his head with both hands and rattled it, trying to shake the fog loose. “I don’t know. You’re using too much logic on me. I like to believe I have these powers.”
“I know.” She pried his hands from his head and held them. “I love storytelling and pretending. But if you continue to let your epilepsy attack your brain, you may lose the ability to come back to any life.”
The expression on her face was filled with compassion, and her eyes teared over. Was she pitying him?
“I know I’ve lived those lives,” he protested, although he sounded weak, even to his own ears. “Do you remember everything in your life, little changeling? Or do you also make up memories or believe your dreams to be true?”
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