“It’s insanity,” Griffin said, not knowing why his convictions were so strong. “Clare told me to treasure what is real. What is in the here and now. To be mindful of the present moment and not dream about do-overs.”
“Uh, yes, Clare is very mindful,” Maeve said. “Can you slow down?”
“No.” He passed a lorry and almost clipped a fence. “Keep reading and tell me more clues.”
“Oh, crap.” Maeve gaped at him. “Tonight’s the night of the vernal equinox. It’s resurrection night. If you were meaning to sacrifice Clare, you’re almost out of time.”
“If I were meaning to sacrifice her, would I have called you and Sorcha to interfere?” He bit his words and added a sneer. “Stop accusing me.”
“You don’t remember what you were trying to do,” Maeve said. “The evidence is in here. I bet this is your handwriting.”
Maeve’s cell phone rang, and she picked it up. “Sorcha, we’re on our way to Gallagher Castle. Did you call the Garda? Yes, we have to hurry. Something’s going down tonight.”
“What do you mean they don’t believe you?” Maeve asked. “How about those two officers who searched our apartment. Do you have their card? Call them.”
She hung up and blew out a huff.
“Did Sorcha figure out anything else?” he asked.
“She’s calling the two men who searched our apartment.”
“What were they searching for?” Griffin’s heart plummeted. “Are you saying someone else was after the diamond, too?”
“They said they were from the Garda, but Sorcha says the Garda never sent anyone to search for mythical treasures. They think Sorcha is playing a prank, or she’s drunk. You won’t believe how many times they’re called about fairy sightings.”
“What did these two gentlemen look like?” Griffin asked. “Was one of them old and the other young?”
“Yes, they were. How did you know? They both had electric blue eyes,” Maeve said with a sigh. “The younger one was quite big, and spoke with a roguish brogue.”
“Was his hair wavy and shoulder-length?”
“Why, yes, it was,” Maeve said. “He had that watchful look of a fugitive. Didn’t miss a thing.”
“How about the older one?” Griffin made a sharp turn, almost missing an exit. The car lurched and fishtailed before righting itself.
“Wore horn-rimmed glasses,” Maeve said. “But his eyes were large behind them. Like a real detective.”
“Mustache?”
“Yes, white. The young one was clean-shaven with a cleft chin.”
“I know them,” Griffin said. “Myles and Mack Brady. They’re guardians, too.”
“Guardians? Of what?” Maeve asked.
Before he could answer, a Rolls Royce limo cut in front of him, causing him to curse and brake.
A pale face was plastered against the back window. Her eyes were wide open; she opened her mouth and shut it, like a fish gulping out of water.
“It’s Clare!” he cried. “I’m going to rescue her. Hang on.”
He glanced at oncoming traffic and waited for an opening. Then he sped into the opposing lane, drawing alongside the limo.
“What are you doing?” Maeve shouted. “We’re going to crash.”
He turned the wheel and sideswiped the limo, trying to force it off the road and get it to stop.
The Ashton bounced off the heavier car, and Griffin fought the steering wheel as it spun. Regaining control, he barely missed a head-on crash and shot back behind the limo.
“Call the Garda,” he shouted. “Get the license plate number.”
“I’m trying,” Maeve said, then screamed.
Too late, Griffin noticed the limo brake. He slammed onto the brakes but couldn’t slow fast enough. The front of the convertible smashed into the limo’s long boot, before rebounding off the road into a freshly plowed field.
The last thing Griffin saw were the taillights as the limo revved its engine and disappeared into the mists of the night.
Chapter 27
“You imbecile!” Griffin’s grandfather shouted at Seamus when he and Pierce marched Clare into the castle. “I’m not allowing you to start the ritual without my grandson.”
Clare gaped at the elderly man who was tied up at his breakfast table. She didn’t know what to believe. She’d caught a glimpse of Griffin chasing after the limo. Was he trying to rescue her, or was he putting on an act of heroism, only to swerve into the field and take himself out of the action? Had Pierce truly turned against the Gallaghers or was this, too, an act?
“You’re not in control anymore,” Seamus said. “The O’Tooles, Donnellys, and Bradys took a vote, and we decided Ireland no longer needs four Guardian families. Your family has failed in every way, losing the Heart of Brigid to the O’Munsters before it was sold into the black market.”
“Our family traced it to America through the line of the Morrigan,” Griffin’s grandfather shouted. His face was red, and his flabby jowls quivered. “My son spent his entire life hiding it.”
“For what purpose?” Seamus sneered. “Without the only living descendant of Richard ‘Strongbow’ de Clare, the Heart of Brigid would be useless.”
“We don’t agree on that requirement,” Griffin’s grandfather said. “Brigid will be brought back when Griffin finds his true love. She will be a changeling who possesses Brigid’s eternal spirit.”
“That’s a load of poppycock, balderdash, and malarkey,” Seamus said. “This young lady here is the living body and blood of the Norman invader. She is wearing the Heart of Brigid. Everything is in place for the transformation.”
“Then Griffin must be here,” Gramps huffed. “The young lady is in love with him, not you. Aren’t you, darling?”
“Are you talking to me?” Clare asked, feeling her cheeks heat. She was bedraggled, muddy, damp, and colder than a wet spaniel stuck in a peat bog, and this old man was asking her if she was in love with his grandson?
It was none of anyone’s business.
“Yes, my dear.” Gramps struggled against his bonds. “The magic won’t work unless there is true love involved.”
“Well, in that case, you all might as well let me go,” Clare said, jerking her arm against Seamus’s tight grip. “There’s no love here for anyone. Take the Heart of Brigid and find someone else.”
“You’ll be sorry it wasn’t you,” Seamus said. He detached the precious gemstone from the chain around Clare’s neck and put it in Pierce’s hand. “Take this woman and get her ready for the wedding. We only need her blood, not her heart.”
“And you, Pierce.” Gramps fixed his glare on the traitorous butler. “What is the meaning of tying me up? Am I not your master? I command you to throw this O’Toole scoundrel out.”
“You’re finished, Gallagher.” Pierce threw off his butler’s cap and chuckled drily. “This O’Toole scoundrel is my grandson, Seamus. You used to know me as Sean O’Toole, but because your family is so forgetful, you had no clue.”
Clare couldn’t stop gawking at the spectacle in front of her. Of all the twists and turns she’d concocted for her novels, she had not expected this in a million years. Why would Seamus’s grandfather spend his life as a butler to the Gallaghers?
Apparently, Gramps was similarly bowled over. His eyes bugged out, and he slumped forward in the chair as far as he could, making choking sounds.
“He’s having a seizure,” Clare said. “Put a comb in his mouth so he doesn’t swallow his tongue.”
“That’s exactly what you don’t do,” Pierce, or Sean, said. He clapped his hands, and two male servants appeared. “Take him to his bedchamber.”
After they were gone, both O’Tooles grabbed Clare, one on each arm, and steered her up the stairs toward Griffin’s room.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” Clare said. “I don’t believe the rest of the Guardians voted to get rid of the Gallaghers. Four has always been the lucky number for Ireland. There are four cities of the Tuatha
Dé Danann, four lobes on a four-leaf clover, and of course, the four children of Lir.”
“I wouldn’t call that last one lucky,” Seamus said, referring to the four children of a king who had been turned into swans by their jealous stepmother. “Stop wasting time with chit-chat. You’re going to get cleaned up before the wedding.”
“Who am I marrying?” she asked, but no one answered. Instead, a sharp-faced female with bulging biceps uncuffed her and hog-marched her into a marble bathroom.
She was ordered to undress, get into a bathtub filled with bubbles and rose petals, and get herself ready for her bridal night.
“Can’t I stop this crazy-go-round and get off?” she asked, but of course, no one gave her an answer.
Griffin and Maeve jumped out of the crumpled convertible as soon as the airbags finished deploying.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine, but now what do we do?”
“Do you still have your phone? Call for a rideshare and I’ll reimburse you. We have to get to the castle before it’s too late.”
“I agree,” Maeve said. “The notebook says the bride must be ready before dawn.”
“You keep reading, and I’ll go through Clare’s phone for more clues,” Griffin said. “I don’t believe she was double-crossing me. She looked so scared. I swear, I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to her.”
“I hope you’re not playing me,” Maeve said. “Because in this notebook, you said you are going to set her up by luring her with the gemstone and getting her to fall in love with you so she would provide the proper sacrifice.”
“I’m not paying attention to the notebook. All I care about is making sure Clare is happy and safe,” Griffin said, flipping screens on her phone. “Look what Clare texted me this morning. She told me to hold on to memories of what really happened, that they are worth keeping, whether good or bad.”
Maeve read the pithy messages. “Clare is always saying motivational things. She’s really into self-help, visualization, positive thinking, and mindfulness.”
“She promised to stay with me when I go through my surgery,” Griffin said. “I need someone like her to witness my life and for me to witness and cherish hers.”
“Why, Mr. Griffin Gallagher,” Maeve said teasingly. “I didn’t know you were such a romantic. Maybe you should be a hero in one of Clare’s romance novels.”
“I would be honored,” he said as headlamps appeared down the road. “Looks like the rideshare is here. Let’s hope we’re not too late.”
Maeve turned a page of the notebook. “We have until dawn, and according to this book, whoever took Clare is missing an ingredient.”
“What’s that?” he asked, peering at the chicken scratch he was no longer able to decipher.
“It’s obvious. The sacrificial woman, or the Morrigan, must be a virgin. I’m sorry, but Clare is not a virgin, and your entire scheme falls apart. You’ll have to wait for another year when the full moon falls on the night of the vernal equinox.”
“Clare’s not a virgin?” Griffin felt his blood boil. “She has the virgin vibe written all over her. She only goes so far before she clamps up. I never would have guessed.”
“Caught you.” Maeve gave him a shove. “If you really cared about Clare and didn’t want her to be sacrificed, you’d be happy and relieved. As it stands now, I’m getting into the rideshare, and you’re staying here.”
“Wait, I do care about her,” Griffin said, but Maeve was already at the open door of the car.
She greeted the driver and said, “Ride for one. Me. This man is not coming with us.”
“I’ll stay here,” Griffin told Maeve. “But give me the notebook. It’s my property.”
“You can’t read it anyway,” she said, throwing it at him. It landed in a puddle, and the ink began to run. “Good luck with your silly scheme of bringing Brigid back from the dead. Dawn is but a few hours away, and you might as well say bye-bye to Brigid.”
She slid into the rideshare car and left him standing in the field with the wet notebook and Clare’s phone.
Her mistake. What kind of friend was she to leave Clare in a lurch?
Griffin brought up the rideshare app on Clare’s phone and requested another one. There was no way he would hurt Clare, virgin or not.
He called the phone at the castle, and Pierce answered. “Gallagher Castle, how may I direct your call?”
“Oh, Pierce, so glad I caught you,” Griffin said. “It’s me, Griffin. I’d like to speak to my grandfather. I know it’s late, but this is important.”
“Indeed, it is late,” Pierce said in his gravelly butler’s voice. “I’m sorry, but your grandfather has gone to bed and does not wish to be disturbed. How may I help you?”
“I’m out in the countryside,” Griffin said. “Crashed my Ashton and standing in a field. I’m on my way home, but I need to know if we’ve had any unexpected visitors.”
“Visitors? No, I don’t believe anyone has come to the castle.”
“How about that young woman who had lunch with me yesterday? The one who called herself Brigid O’Brien?” Griffin used the alias Clare had given him the day before. For some reason, it came to him just now. Weird how it had only been such a short time ago.
“Brigid O’Brien? I thought she left with you in the Ashton,” Pierce said. “Come home as soon as you can. I’ll call a tow truck for your car. Where are you located?”
Griffin gave the location by texting the GPS coordinates from Clare’s phone. “Thanks. I’m taking a rideshare and should be back as soon as I can. If you see Brigid O’Brien, can you please call me?”
“I’m so sorry you two had a tiff,” Pierce said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, nothing.” He decided not to tell Pierce about the limo and Clare. He hadn’t been able to write the license number down, although there was something he should have known.
The limo was a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow.
Where had he seen one like it before?
The license plate would tell him where the car was registered. But what was it? Why couldn’t he remember?
It wasn’t fair.
Everyone else had normal memories and ran rings around him, especially Pierce who was the one with the countless lists of events and annals used to refresh his memory.
Peering at Clare’s phone, Griffin relived their day visiting the sights of Dublin. Everything he’d posted was saved on his account in the cloud.
While waiting for the rideshare, he went back meticulously, reading his notes and listening to his own commentary.
He wanted so badly to believe she’d been true to him, but it was easy to take advantage of a man who couldn’t remember things. Had she found the true Heart of Brigid only to swap it for the quartz version and leave him passed out in the dungeon?
What if she’d planned on fooling him the entire time? She’d stolen the Heart of Brigid once; what was to stop her from playing out the search and then swiping it from under his nose again?
This time, she could claim someone kidnapped her and that it wasn’t her fault. She could have pretended to be dragged through the dungeon. Maybe she’d left the country with the so-called kidnapper and was on her way back to America by now.
How well did he truly know her?
How could he love her if he didn’t remember anything about her?
Reading posts and looking at photos didn’t mean he knew her. She was just like any other person on social media he’d had no personal experience with. A familiar stranger known only through soundbites, tweets, likes, and shares.
Griffin held his head in his hands and groaned.
He hated starting over again and being told all of the stories of his life or lives. How could he ever trust anything to be true?
Chapter 28
Clare stood still and stared at her image in front of the full-length mirror. She was bathed to a pink, squeaky clean complexion. Her hair was like strands of bu
rnished copper, pressed straight and arranged in an updo, exposing her long, elegant neck. She wore a tiara that Miss Bulging Biceps proclaimed as studded by real diamonds, not rhinestones.
Her dress was white lace and sparkled with clusters of diamonds and emeralds, and she wore long, white silk gloves to keep her fingerprints off her surroundings. A portly makeup artist brushed blush over her cheeks, and two matronly women pinned and tucked her dress, and attached a diaphanous veil sprinkled with glitter.
She looked glamorous and posh, if she might say so herself. But her outlook was grim, if Seamus was going to go through with a bloody sacrifice ritual. As far as she could tell, she would die, and the spirit of Brigid would use her body.
“If I’m getting married, shouldn’t I call my friends and have bridesmaids?” Clare asked. “It only seems fair.”
“Humpf, we don’t have time for bridesmaids,” Bulging Biceps said. “Besides, it’s not you getting married, but Queen Brigid.”
“Who is she marrying? Are you sure it’s all going to work?”
“She will bring the High King back,” the muscular woman said.
“Who would he be? Since I, as Clare, won’t be around to find out, you might as well tell me now.”
“He will be the King of the Fae and ruler of Ireland.”
Clare wanted to tell her she was nuts, but it wouldn’t buy her any time. Instead, she said, “I’d be careful of changing the legend if I were you. The real Brigid was a saint, kind and gentle. She was generous and virtuous. She would never hurt anyone, and I doubt this revenge pact the O’Tooles are planning would work.”
“The Gallagher version is sappy and stupid,” Bulging Biceps said. “Let’s finish up. It’s time for the bridal march.”
The dress pinners and makeup artist put in their last touches, and Biceps placed the Heart of Brigid, now attached to a platinum chain, around Clare’s neck. “Follow me.”
“What if I don’t want to?” Clare narrowed her eyes at the woman with the swimmer’s arms.
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