by A. S. Green
Maybe it was the intensity of his stares that left their mark, or how his beautiful gray eyes always flicked away the second she looked up. Maybe it was the careless tousle of his dark auburn hair, or how surprisingly soft it was when it brushed along her hand as she walked her fingertips along the edge of his trimmed beard, feeling the lymph nodes in his neck, or checking for his pulse. Maybe it was the way she felt that pulse quicken every time she touched him, matching her own.
Unfortunately, she was daoine sídhe, and Declan MacConall was cú sídhe. Her family—her clan—would never approve of such a match, no matter how strongly she felt.
Rowan drove home from the clinic, then pulled into the circular drive, passing the sign at the gate that marked her home as Dún Laoghaire Manor.
In actuality, her house was a modest two-story, but her father had used a glamour on it long ago, making it appear to the world as a grand manor house. Then he named the place accordingly and had the sign commissioned. Between the sign and the glamour, Rowan knew her life was a farce. She’d learned to accept it, but never liked it.
She parked, turned the key, then let her car’s engine rattle and bang for a few seconds before it finally went silent. It was over ten years old and not getting any younger.
Just like you, she mentally heard her parents add.
Rowan tossed her keys in the Kate Spade bag her mother bought for her off an auction site. Then she made the slow walk to the front door. It was slow not because she had so much distance to travel, but because she realized she’d spent the entire drive thinking about Declan, and no time thinking about how she was going to explain her weekend plans to her parents.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door.
“You’re late,” her father, Sean McNeely, called out from the living room. “By five minutes.”
“Sorry, Daddy.” Rowan closed the door softly the way he liked it.
Her father got up from the couch and met her in the foyer. He was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and only the slightest paunch of middle age. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair. “Your mother and I were just talking about you.”
Of course they were. Rowan had known since she was little that her parents were no great love story. As their only child still left at home, she had two jobs: one, give them a mutual interest so they had at least one thing to talk about; and two, make a good match with the son of a respectable family, preferably one to raise her father’s social standing.
She wished her parents didn’t rely on her so much. She wished they’d rely on each other—that they could be true partners in their marriage. For a long time, Rowan didn’t understand why she wanted that for them so badly. Now, at twenty-four years old, she realized she wanted that for her parents because that’s what she wanted for herself—someday.
“Would you prefer to have roasted potatoes or mashed?” her mother called out, also from the living room. The sound made Rowan jump; she hadn’t noticed her sitting there.
Rowan turned from her father, her gaze glancing past the narrow staircase lined with photos of her and her sister growing up, and toward the living room. A sunburst clock was mounted over the brick façade fireplace. The floral couch was covered in plastic. Nothing much had changed in that room since her parents’ marriage in nineteen fifty-five, and that included her mother.
“I’m sorry?” Rowan asked, not understanding the question. She was rarely consulted on the menu.
Her mother touched her fingers lightly to her perfectly coiffed hair. “I know you prefer mashed, but roasted seems more elegant.”
“What are we talking about?” Rowan asked.
Her mother muttered to herself, “Honestly.” Then she stood up, pressed the wrinkles out of her skirt with her hands, and walked toward the foyer.
“Dinner tomorrow,” she explained on approach. Her face was smooth, but still held an air of irritation. “Your father invited Niall Buckley from Babbitt. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
“So?” her mother prompted, throwing out a hand.
Rowan glanced away from her face and looked longingly toward the stairs. She needed to get to her room. For privacy, as well as to pack for the weekend. “I guess we’ll need to reschedule.”
“Rowan,” her father said warningly just as her mother whined in disappointment, “But I just ordered the lamb!”
“I have to work,” Rowan explained, trying to keep her tone as matter-of-fact as possible.
“On a Friday night?” her father asked. “Do we have to remind you how important our Friday dinners are? You’re lucky, princess. With your looks, many eligible daoine have shown interest. It’s time you start thinking about your family and our future.”
“Yes, I know. But I have to work all weekend, starting tomorrow.”
“All weekend? Since when is the clinic open all weekend?” her father asked, and Rowan could hear the disapproval in his voice.
“It’s not. Doc has a patient that requires round-the-clock nursing care for the next few days.”
“Who?” her mother asked, putting one hand on her slim hip.
“Doc. My employer.”
“No, who is the patient?” her father pressed.
“Oh. Um, Declan MacConall.” Rowan tugged at her scrubs. She’d worn them all day but they’d been feeling uncomfortable ever since his appointment.
“The cú sídhe,” her mother said softly.
“Yes.”
Her father turned his head and muttered, “I’d think he’d do better with a veterinarian than a nurse.”
Rowan felt the anger bubble up inside of her. Her father’s prejudice toward any kind of shifter was ugly, even for a daoine.
She would have thought he and his generation would be over it by now. It had been centuries since the cú sídhe had been in servitude to the daoine. She thought her kind should have been grateful for their years of service and the protection they’d provided.
Instead, her father and his cronies were bitter that the leveling of the social playing field had given some of the cú sídhe the opportunity to rise even higher than their former masters. The MacConall family, who lived in an actual manor house, were a case in point and a perpetual sore spot.
So, there was no way her parents would understand if she admitted that it was Declan MacConall who owned her heart. Her father would never allow it. It hardly mattered though, because Declan…
Suffice it to say, Rowan had heard the stories. The cú sídhe were instinctively driven to find their anamcharas. The instinct was so powerful that Declan’s own brother had been unable to resist a pádraig—well, a half pádraig—when she turned out to be his “one.”
Not once, in all the times Rowan had come to Declan’s house to treat him, had he ever even hinted that he felt that kind of pull when it came to her.
So, with her happiness doomed on two fronts: her father, and Declan’s natural instincts, why had she insisted on putting herself through the agony of sixty hours alone with that handsome male?
Oh, right. Ciera.
“I’m sorry that you’ll have to reschedule the dinner,” Rowan said emphatically, “but I have a responsibility to my work.”
“But if you were home for the dinner,” her mother prodded, “perhaps Niall Buckley would take a fancy to you. You could be married in a year, then you wouldn’t have to work. Your responsibility would be to the grandchildren you give us. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
“What about the MacConall brothers, or that pádraig?” her father asked abruptly. “Can’t they take care of him?”
Rowan exhaled with impatience. “She’s only half-pádraig, and no. None of them have any medical training.”
“The girl, though. She’ll be there, right?” her mother asked. “I wouldn’t want you to be alone in that house with those dogs.”
Rowan paused. For years she had been the dutiful, obedient daughter, and she knew how much hope her parents had that her pretty face a
nd equally pretty manners would attract a worthy mate. When she expressed interest in nursing, her parents had been adamantly against it, but Rowan had learned to be persuasive. What she’d never learned to do…was lie.
“Of course Meghan will be there,” she said, hoping her guilt wasn’t apparent on her face. Then she swallowed and added, “Doc will be by, too. Seriously. You have nothing to worry about.”
Chapter Three
DECLAN
Friday
Meghan Walsh, Declan’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, stood in the entry to his bedroom and leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. “You’re sure you don’t want to come to the wedding?”
By the tone of her voice, she was clearly nervous. This whole thing with his brother Cormac had been moving at warp speed. He knew how much they wanted, needed to be together, but he also understood Meghan’s nerves. There was a lot to lose when you gave your heart so completely.
Right now, she was twisting one of her dark brown curls through her fingers and glancing around at his mess. They’d become close in the last couple months, but she had never come into his room before. It made him self-conscious about the old newspapers, fantasy football charts, and empty pill bottles that littered his floor.
“I can’t come, Curly. Sorry.”
Declan closed the door to his empty wardrobe and moved closer to the fireplace to warm his hands and avoid her eyes. His gaze was level with his mantel, which, unlike those in his brothers’ rooms, held no photographs of his parents or of their youngest brother, Madigan. All he had was a quarter inch of dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…
“It’ll feel weird without you,” she said, and that felt nice.
Declan understood why Cormac had chosen this particular weekend to get married. It would be good for him to associate the date with something happy. For himself, however, Declan needed to preserve the anniversary just as it was, as horrible as it was. In a world where so few things endured, this was one thing he could control. Which was why Cormac understood when Declan said he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Doc’s medical orders just gave him another excuse.
“Doc’s starting me on an experimental treatment this weekend,” he explained.
“Experimental?” Meghan asked, taking a step into the room.
“Well, not a treatment exactly. More like he’s cutting me off. I wouldn’t want my body to freak right in the middle of your I dos.”
She took a few steps closer. “We can postpone.”
“No. No way.” Was she serious? “Cormac would have my hide!”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
Her defensive tone pulled his mouth into a grin. “Meghan, are ye completely oblivious to how much you’ve got him tied in knots? He’s so afraid you’re going to change your mind, he looks like a fucking contortionist.”
She rolled her eyes and turned away. “Not completely oblivious, but he doesn’t have to worry.”
Declan put both hands on her shoulders and brought her back to face him. He gave her a gentle shake for emphasis. “Put that hound out of his misery. As soon as ye tie yourself to him, the quicker he’ll relax. Then we can all relax.”
“Someone should stay behind with you,” she said, still sounding worried.
Declan wished they’d all stop fussing.
“We can find a new witness to come with us,” Meghan said. “Aiden can stay with you.”
“What can Aiden do?” Aiden asked popping up in the doorway and dragging his fingers across his thick dark beard.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” Declan said. “Doc has something arranged.”
“Stay with ye?” Aiden asked. “What’s arranged?”
“He’s taking me off the meds. Rowan McNeely is going to stay here this weekend to provide in-home care, just in case I don’t react well.”
Declan tried to deliver that bit of information as blandly as he could. He didn’t need them reading any more into this than what it was. And it was nothing. It meant nothing. It would amount to nothing.
His attempt went unrewarded.
“Oh, Row-an,” Meghan said in a sing-song way. “Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting,” he said with a frown.
“Where is she going to stay?” Aiden glanced suggestively around Declan’s bedroom.
“Have ye lost your mind?” Declan asked, sounding wounded by the very insinuation. “Actually, I was hoping ye wouldn’t mind letting her stay in your room. It wouldn’t be right to put her up in Cormac and Meghan’s room and…” His voice trailed off. The only other bedroom was their parents’, and no one had opened that room in fifty-five years.
“I don’t mind,” Aiden said, “but does Cormac know about this?”
“No,” Declan said. “And don’t tell him.”
“But—” Meghan started. She and his brother had vowed to keep no more secrets from each other.
“No,” Declan said, then he turned to Aiden. “Not until the three of ye are away. Ye know how Cormac is.”
Aiden nodded. “I do.”
Their older brother had been born pre-wired with a mission to save the world. The last thing Declan needed was for him to miss out on his own wedding just so he could hover over Declan’s bed all weekend. Declan gave Aiden a nod. “Which is what I want him to be saying tomorrow afternoon.”
“Are ye all packed?” Aiden asked, now turning his attention on Meghan. Apparently the Rowan conversation was over.
“Packed and ready,” she said with a smile.
Aiden gave her a head bob. “Me, too.”
Declan held back a laugh. The fact of it was, Aiden had packed three days ago. This would be the first time he’d been away from the house on this particular weekend, and Declan knew his brother was fucking thrilled about it. That was another reason why he didn’t want Aiden to stay behind.
Declan followed them out into the hallway.
Aiden stopped at his adjacent bedroom and grabbed the bag that was on the floor, then he tipped his head toward the stairs. “Cormac’s already waiting for us outside. Shall we?”
Meghan turned over her shoulder and gave Declan one last glance, raising her eyebrows in a question.
“Go,” he said. “Get yourself hitched, then ye can come back as the real lady of the house.”
She snorted, then shook her head, muttering, “Sometimes I honestly can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Declan understood. Two months ago, Meghan thought she’d been just a normal human girl, hitchhiking and couch surfing across the Midwest. She’d had no idea the sídhe—the whole faerie realm for that matter—even existed. Now she knew her life had been a lie. She was a halfling, orphaned then raised in the home of their kind’s ancient enemy. And now she was the anamchara to the alpha hell hound of the North Shore. No wonder she was fidgety.
Aiden wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and the two of them headed for the stairs.
A moment later, Declan heard the muffled sound of Cormac greeting them outside. Then—after the three of them tilted away, traveling through space as the sídhe had done since the beginning of time—there was nothing but the sound of the floorboards creaking under his feet.
“Okay,” he said, muttering to himself. “That’s done.”
He opened the linen closet in the hall, grabbed a set of sheets, and carried them into Aiden’s orderly room.
The room was bigger than his own because Aiden had once shared it with Madigan. Everything inside was clean and orderly. Just like Aiden, aka Mr. Clean. The stack of paper on his desk was straight. The pencil was lined up, perfectly parallel to the edge of the stack. The bed was made with the bedspread tucked so tightly you could bounce a goddamn quarter off it.
It was a shame to tear it apart, but there was no way he was going to have Rowan sleeping on his brother’s used sheets. He wouldn’t admit it to himself but, in the back of his mind, he didn’t like the idea of Aiden’s scent being in her nose as she slept.
He opened the window to air out the
room then, feeling the chill, started a fire in the fireplace. He checked the clock. It was six thirty. She’d be here at seven.
He rushed to get the sheets changed and the bed remade, then hurriedly repeated the process on his own bed. It was time. Ever since Meghan had moved in—bringing a definite female scent to the house—his dreams had gone a little nuts. Sometimes they featured faceless female cú sídhe that his hound encountered in the woods, or by Kawishiwi Falls.
After the hound took them from behind, the dreams usually turned dark, ending with him ripping out the throat of a Black Castle Brethren—their ancient enemy who’d recently brought their sadistic faerie hunt from Ireland to North America.
But most of the time… Most of the time, Declan dreamt of Rowan McNeely in his bed. Her golden sunrise hair spread across his white pillowcase…
It was probably no surprise that his nocturnal emissions had become something of a problem. That wasn’t exactly the kind of thing he wanted to see written up in her notes for Doc O’Se.
Declan had just finished getting his sheets tucked around the mattress—not as perfect as he’d done it for Aiden’s bed (and for Rowan), but good enough—when he had another thought. He remembered how his mother always kept a small bouquet of flowers in her bedroom. It was November, and too late in the season for anything to be blooming in their garden, but there was a holly bush and plenty of evergreen.
Was there enough time? Just barely. He could manage something simple if he was quick about it. He’d just got something arranged in a small round bowl on Aiden’s bedside table when he heard the knock at the door.
Declan froze.
The knock came again. He checked the time. Seven o’clock, on the dot. Should he have prepared something for her dinner?
Now the doorbell rang twice, and he bowed his head, muttering to himself, “Don’t be a pussy,” before making a lunging step that set him on a forward trajectory. “She’s just a nurse. She’s probably wearing the same pair of ugly green scrubs she was wearing yesterday. Maybe some of those white orthopedic nurse shoes…