“I think they’d like to establish a legitimate claim to Connemara, and eventually to Ireland,” I reply, my tone lacking conviction. I don’t doubt the Tuatha have all the ambitions of a conquering people, but I know the real reason. On this day of my wedding, I have no wish to discuss it.
“Perhaps they think we’re not likely to make trouble if one of our own is in their hands,” observes Aine, tugging my hair into obedience—something I suspect she’d have also tried on me, had I come from less stubborn stock.
“Perhaps,” I reply.
Aine takes hold of my chin, twisting my face toward hers. “They’re wise to do it. None of us would see you harmed.”
I nod in acknowledgment of this, hoping her tears will prevent her from noticing the ones stinging my own eyes, and she returns to her work.
The truth that awaits me is this: The transgenics fear that if they breed exclusively with their own kind, their offsprings’ abnormalities may be more pronounced. They may degenerate into a species more animal than human. I was chosen for my unsullied DNA. All other concerns were secondary.
I can’t think on this without dreading what will come at the end of this day.
—
My da says children born in an “after” time, as he calls it, have an easier life, and that that’s a paradox. Because our lives are actually much harder, but we’ve got nothing else to compare to. We’re happy with less. What I took from this is happiness comes from a person’s way of looking at life, and not so much from what that life contains. This is what gives me hope that one day I may find some measure of happiness among our enemies.
And it’s only this hope that prevents me from trembling as Aine raises the gossamer gown and lets it fall over my head.
“Child, you are so lovely,” she breathes. “I only wish I were giving you to one of our own today. How happy it would make me to—”
Emotion cuts off her words, and I close my eyes. As I said, I’m not naïve. I know there will be a period of fear and regret. How long it lasts will depend on Dayne. On what sort of man he is—assuming he is like a man at all—and whether or not he was given a choice about this union.
Aine presses her trembling lips between her teeth as she works jeweled hairpins into my plaits. Then she turns me to the mirror.
Deep purple and icy-clear gemstones frame my face, the sunlight streaming through the window behind me causing them to sparkle fiercely. The gown is lovely but complicated, and I’ve never been so exposed. Swaths of opaque fabric bind my shoulders and breasts almost like rope. They dip below my waistline and radiate down the lengths of my legs. Alternating with the opaque strips are panels of sheer lace embroidered with flowers, and these provide generous peeks at my flesh. Two scalloped edges of lace push teasingly above the bodice, drawing attention to, rather than concealing, the swell of flesh.
Running my hands over my hips, I take a deep breath.
“There’s still time, Rowan,” says Aine, her voice almost a whisper. “Jamie will take you away. The village in the Beara would hide you—it’s a long journey, but—”
“The Tuatha would kill you all for breaking the treaty,” I reply firmly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that it’s not worth the risk. This is our best chance, Aine.” She’s cupped my cheek in her hand, and I close my hand over her fingers. “I’m strong. I’ll be fine.”
A tear slips down her wrinkled brown cheek and she gives a quick nod. “I know you are, child. I know you are.”
And I take comfort that she believes me, because I’m not at all sure I’m strong enough for this.
—
My da arrives in time to join our small procession along the Sky Road toward the castle. Despite the relatively short distance between cottage and castle, walking in my gown and thin slippers proves impractical. But the alternative had been to dress in the castle, and I know my betrothed’s family are there, making the place comfortable for the evening’s festivities.
The structure was built by John D’Arcy, who founded the town of Clifden in the early 1800s. By the mid-1900s, ownership had passed to the tenants, and the roof, windows, and timbers were all stripped, leaving it open to the elements. Since then it’s been officially a ruin, and though we were forbidden to by both Aine and my father, who worried incessantly about enemy flyovers, Jamie and I went there every chance we got. My da—who taught literature in a time when such things were practical—always said that despite having been built in relatively modern times, it was a true storybook castle, because its former owners had been named D’Arcy, Eyre, and finally Joyce.
I wonder if it ever occurred to him that the addition of the Tuatha de Danann to that list is consistent with the literary flavor of its history.
“The place is crawling with them,” mutters Da as he joins us. “I think the whole clan is here. They’ve repaired the castle, anyway, so you won’t be exposed to the elements.”
“It will be good to see it whole, Da,” I say, hoping to lift both our spirits. “I’ve often wondered how it might have looked when people lived there.”
“I said repaired, daughter. Not restored. You’ll hardly recognize it.”
I study his profile as he gazes out at the Atlantic, and I can’t help but feel guilty over the defeat in his expression.
“I think it’s a good omen,” offers Aine, “having a Darcy back at Clifden.” My heart swells with gratitude, though I know she only says it for my father’s sake.
He wraps Aine’s hand in the crook of his arm, and I wonder for the thousandth time why they never married. It’s twenty years since my mother died, and only a few years short of that since I began to think of Aine’s son, Jamie, as my brother.
Da wraps my hand in the crook of his other arm, and we start down the road toward my date with destiny.
“Where is Jamie?” I ask.
Da frowns into his rusty white beard. “I don’t know.”
“I’m sure he’ll be there,” says Aine.
“It may be best if he isn’t.” I can’t imagine going through this without him, but I don’t want him causing trouble. I certainly don’t want him getting himself killed. The others validate my concerns by not replying.
I start to ask my father if he’s seen Dayne yet—I’m sorely in need of an opinion to contrast with Jamie’s—but I don’t want him to know how much it weighs on me. And I’ll see him soon enough.
“Did you talk with any of the family?” I ask instead.
He nods, but won’t meet my gaze. “They’ve been courteous.”
I wait for him to say more, and when he doesn’t I finally do begin to tremble.
As we round a bend in the road, the castle comes into view and my breath stops.
I don’t know what I had expected. Perhaps that the ivy would have been cleared from the walls, and the windows and roof replaced. None of these things has been done. Instead, a series of what look like giant sails have been erected around the perimeter of the building. The sails lean inward, in some places overlapping each other, and in this way manage to cover the whole structure. But the panels are translucent like great insect wings, each a different color, shimmering like they’re coated in morning dew. Care has been taken with their placement so that blue overlaps red, creating a purple section, yellow overlaps blue to create green, and so on. And yet somehow the lines of the castle are still distinct.
“It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” says Aine, hopefulness lifting her tone.
“I call it strange,” grumbles Da. “But somehow it does keep out the wind. They say it’ll keep out the rain as well, but we’ll see what happens to those sails the first time we’re hit with a storm off the Atlantic.”
It’s not likely to happen today. The summer sky is cloudless and brilliantly blue, except to the west, where it’s been bleached by the afternoon sun in its path toward the sea.
We turn into the abandoned property that provides shorter access to the castle than the main gate, approaching from the back
. From here I can see that a whole section of the façade has been covered in something that looks like multicolored roof tiles. The color of the high wall bleeds from orange to pink to blue and then green, like the belly of a huge, fantastic fish. As I study it, the colors begin to shift—yellow where there was orange, purple where there was pink.
“Oh my,” breathes Aine.
I notice now that just beyond the castle the wedding party is assembled and waiting. They, too, are a sea of shifting colors in their bright costumes. As we draw closer I discover that not all of the color has to do with clothing—I see powdery blue wings, wings like a monarch butterfly, and even a set of snow-white, shimmering moth wings. As we draw closer still, I notice some of them have green-tinged flesh, and there are eyes so vivid with color they seem to glow. My gaze is so drawn to the face of a woman with widely spaced purple irises that I almost forget to look for Dayne.
I step onto the narrow strip of carpet that divides the wedding guests into two sections.
“Rowan.”
Da’s cheeks are wet with tears. I withdraw my hand from his arm and squeeze his wrist.
“You’re sure?” he says in a low voice.
I don’t trust my own voice and can only rise to kiss his cheek. My heart beats like it would leave my chest if it could. I’m not sure that it won’t if I don’t keep moving.
I turn and begin to walk down the carpeted aisle. I know that Da will not forsake me, whatever he thinks of my in-laws. Nor will Aine. I will see them, though probably not as often as I would like. But Jamie—I’ll be dead to him. He’s as good as told me so.
It’s not something I can afford to think about now.
From the buzz of low voices and hissing whispers accompanying my journey down the winding aisle, it’s not hard to imagine I’ve entered a hive of insects. The creatures around me are more human than not, but seeing so many together like this, it’s hard to recover from the shock of their exotic mutations. In time, surely I will grow used to them.
As I round a final curve the aisle straightens, and my betrothed finally comes into view. I press my damp palms to the outsides of my thighs and am reminded of the revealing nature of my dress.
He turns as I approach, and I hesitate.
The first thing I notice is the intensity of his gaze under a heavy, dark brow. Then the crimson curve of sensuous lips. The distinctly human point of a widow’s peak, and the sleek lengths of glossy black hair hanging in hundreds of small plaits to the middle of his back. The front sections have been drawn away from his face, accentuating his high cheekbones, and wound into a knot at the back of his head.
His chest…his chest is bare, his flesh the rich, burnished brown of a hazelnut shell. Fat Celtic bands have been inked around the thick muscles of his upper arms. Above the inked band on his right arm, a band of metal gleams silver against his skin.
He does not look like my people, but also he’s not the monster I imagined. In fact, he may be the most beautiful male I’ve ever seen, human or otherwise. His skin practically glows with health and life, and his warm-brown complexion is flawless. For a moment I lose myself following the rigid curves of chest and upper arm, and the flat planes of his abdomen.
I notice nothing transgenic about him—until he shifts to better track my approach. What I at first took for a cloak is actually a set of wings, flaring slightly from his sides just below the shoulder and extending all the way to his knees. There’s a set of two on each side, elongated and uniform, delicate and veined like stained-glass windows with dark-crimson panes. They resemble the wings of a dragonfly—and I remind myself they probably are.
He tips his head, gaze still following me, to murmur something to someone at his side—another male, with the same crimson wings. The other shakes his head in response, and my betrothed’s eyes sweep over the assembled guests. The older man’s complexion is fairer but with a reddish tint, like he’s spent too long in the sun. Based on the manner of their interaction, I guess that he is Dayne’s father.
The lady beside this man has wings of a deep, velvety blue and shares Dayne’s nut-brown coloring. Her hair is the same luxurious black, and has been plaited and worked into an even more elaborate headdress than my own. She’s a dainty creature, and her compact form seems to strain at containing energy. The tips of her wings quake as she watches me, and she unfolds and refolds two sets of very insectlike arms. With her heart-shaped face, huge blue irises, and plum-colored lips, I could easily imagine her appearing at dusk beside a pool along a path through the forest. I’ve always assumed it was pride that caused these people to take the name of our mythic ancestors—a scorned species attempting to command respect. But now it occurs to me I may have underestimated them. The name Tuatha de Danann taps into an Irish Celt’s deep, almost primal link to the land and its history.
When I’ve crossed about half the distance to Dayne and his family, I sense something has changed. He’s turned toward me, but not as a courtesy. I see his hand move to his hip, where a knife hilt protrudes from a sheath strapped to one thigh.
I freeze, cursing my decision to reject the knife Jamie tried to give me. Though had I accepted it, there’d have been no hiding it under this dress. Maybe that wasn’t an accident.
Dayne’s eyes are moving over the assembled guests, and I follow with my own gaze. Am I imagining that a handful of the bigger males are regarding me with a fearful intensity?
“Rowan, get out of there!”
I spin around and find Jamie rushing toward me—wielding an ax, his dark hair tossed by the strengthening wind.
I glance back and see Dayne approaching from the other direction. I’m closed in on all sides—Dayne and Jamie before and behind, and the Tuatha to my left and right. There’s nowhere for me to run, but Jamie at least I know and trust, so I hurry toward him.
Jamie grabs my arm and drags me behind him, blocking Dayne.
“You fools!” snaps my betrothed. His dark eyes are bright with anger and his wings have spread behind him, perpendicular to his frame. His whole body emanates power. “There’s no time for this.”
The Tuatha to either side are clearing a large circle of ground around us, but a big male steps into it. He’s eye-to-eye with Dayne, who is probably just over six feet. He has blade-shaped green wings and forearms spiked like a praying mantis.
“Stand down, Archer,” snaps Dayne, eyes flashing. He grips his knife tightly at his side.
“If she’s come here in that state,” growls the mantis man, “she’s not exclusive.” His head jerks to the side as his gaze rakes over me. His eyes are a disconcertingly bright shade of green, and their almond shape runs vertically rather than horizontally.
He’s every inch a predator, and by the tautness of his muscled frame and the determination in his expression, I sense he is seconds away from pouncing on me.
Dayne plants himself in front of the mantis man, his back to us. Jamie turns and tries to herd me back the way I came. But I slip away from him, muttering, “Wait.”
“You’re mistaken,” Dayne tells the man. “She doesn’t know our ways.”
Archer tries to step around him, and in a flash the tip of Dayne’s blade is pressed to his throat. “You’ve forgotten yourself, friend. She’s my mate.”
The mantis man growls his dissent. “Not yet, she isn’t.”
More Tuatha close in on our little group, one of them Dayne’s father. I notice that with the exception of my future father-in-law, not one of them looks away from me for more than a couple of seconds. It’s obvious that I’ve provoked them somehow, but beyond obediently wearing the dress sent to me by Dayne’s family, I can’t imagine how.
But the feverish, tense vibrations binding this subset of the wedding party has finally reached a pitch that frightens me.
“Rowan, come on,” urges Jamie, towing me away.
Dayne notices our movement and breaks free from the group. “Take her to the castle,” he orders.
“Like hell,” snaps Jamie. “I’m taking
her home.”
Dayne’s reply is low and deep, and he speaks slowly, letting his words sink in. “They will follow her.”
“What’s going on?” I interrupt. “Do they not understand we’re to wed?”
My betrothed’s eyes come to my face, and I feel it like an impact. The implications of “man and wife” coil up inside me, the potential energy spreading heat through my belly and chest. She’s my mate. This dark prince is feeling proprietary about me, and instead of offending me, it’s heating my blood.
“If you don’t do as I say,” he says, “you’re going to get hurt.” He’s not angry with me, I can see that. But he’s going to be soon.
I believe him. I have no reason not to. He has no need to trick me.
“Let’s go,” I say, turning and taking Jamie’s arm. I fix my eyes on his face, begging him not to argue. “We’ll sort it out later.”
Dayne moves to return to the others, but calls to Jamie, “Stay with her until I come to you.”
These last words of Dayne’s are perfectly timed. Jamie is so hot with resentment he’s not really hearing me, but now he sees what I began to see five minutes ago—Dayne isn’t just fighting for what’s his. He’s trying to protect me.
Besieged
As we move away from the others the pitch of argument rises, and I can easily make out the angry voices. These Tuatha are, in fact, fighting over me. There’s been some breach of etiquette that has this handful of males convinced that Dayne’s claim to me is in question.
Yet I can’t be sure, because they all seem to be in some kind of trance. They move nervously, pacing like cats with senses on alert, and it’s only the reasoning voices of Dayne and his father keeping them in check, reminding them all who they’re opposing, and what the likely outcome will be.
Fearing that real fighting may break out soon, I lift the hem of my dress and move as fast as I can without running, Jamie following in my wake. My father and Aine have retreated a little from the wedding party, and we encounter them on the way to the castle. I offer harried, unconvincing assurances that Dayne has things in hand and urge them to return home and wait to hear from me. It’s only when Jamie promises to stay until he’s sure I’m safe that they finally agree.
Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales Page 20