by A. S. Green
“My aunt and uncle had a painting by their front door of a green shamrock crossed by a sword. When I left, the first thing I did was get that same image tattooed on my back.”
“Why? I didn’t think ye liked them much.” Obviously he didn’t believe her explanation.
“I didn’t. I hated them.” She raised her stein and took a sip. The beer was good. Cold. But she still couldn’t relax. She couldn’t even fake it, and she grimaced as she swallowed.
“Then why the memento?” he asked.
“I like to collect reminders of where I’ve been. The good, the bad, and the ugly.” She swept her hand over the stickers on her suitcase: the hotdog from Chicago, the St. Louis arch, and Paisley Park. “It’s not just stickers. I’ve collected other things from my travels, too.”
“Like the snow globe?” he asked.
“You’ve seen that?”
“When I found ye on the hilltop. I saw it in your bag, along with the sketch pad.”
She nodded. “I know it’s pathetic, but they help me remember where I’ve been. And who I am, I guess. I put the tattoo on my back to signify that I’d survived that period of my life and they were now in my rearview mirror. I was turning my back on them.”
He tipped his head to the side and stared at her for a while, probably assessing whether she was telling the truth.
Before he could pass judgment, she jumped in with her own question. “Now why did you leave?”
His eyebrows came together in confusion, as if the answer should be obvious. “Because that image ye tattooed on your body is the symbol of the Black Castle. I saw it when ye were sleeping. I figured ye were one of them and that ye were trying to trap me. So I got the hell out.”
Meghan felt an icy chill slide over her shoulders, and it took a second before she remembered the same picture on the desk in the rental office. When she did, the meaning of it all hit her at full force.
“My aunt and uncle are like…Riley?" That couldn’t be right. Her aunt and uncle weren’t killers. They watched 60 Minutes and re-runs of M*A*S*H, for Christ’s sake. Every week they went to their social club mee— Oh, shit. Oh, shit! They called their group the BC. All this time she thought it was a bunch of history buffs, but BC stood for Black Castle?
Cormac’s face went stony, and he confirmed her conclusion. “Aye. Why else would they have the emblem in their home?”
Meghan’s heart pounded against her sternum. Now she really was going to be sick. “And because of my tattoo, you thought I was one of them? You thought I meant to hurt you?”
Cormac leaned in closer, with his forearm on the table. “I thought ye meant to trick me so that someone else could hurt me.”
Meghan blinked. “But… I would never hurt you.”
“I believe ye.” He curled his hand over hers, and his statement carried such solemnity that it sent a shudder running through her. She turned her hand over, palm up, and laced her fingers together with his.
He gave her a squeeze. “And I’m so sorry I left.”
She blinked back tears. “Everyone eventually wants rid of me. I knew it was only a matter of time. I thought it was weird you would go so soon after asking me to help you, but I figured you came to your senses.”
Cormac leaned in again, this time giving her knee a squeeze with his other hand. “I won’t ever want to be rid of ye.”
Meghan wished he hadn’t said that. It would make it worse when he finally did. “You will. Eventually. It’s okay. I wouldn’t expect—”
He shook his head. “What I mean to say is, I can’t leave ye.”
“What?” Now he wasn’t making sense.
“I left, but I came back. I told myself it was only because I had to pay for last night’s fee, but that wasn’t all of it. After I paid, my plan was to check on ye.”
“Check on me? Why? You just said—”
“Ye wouldn’t have seen me. I had no plans to ever speak to ye again. But I had to make sure…” He sat back and bowed his head. “That ye were safe.”
She stared at him in confusion. “You thought I was the enemy and you still wanted me to be safe?”
It was nice, what he said. It had been a long time since anyone cared. But something had shifted for her. A roof, food, a real bed with pillows… These had been huge motivators in the past. But ever since meeting Cormac, ever since entering his world… She wouldn’t admit it to herself before, but she would give up all of these comforts if it meant she’d never lose him.
“I want something more now,” she said, “something more than just to be safe.”
He nodded as if he understood. “That’s fine because obviously I can’t give ye safety. What I can give ye, all I can give ye…is me. It’s not much, but it is forever.”
Meghan swallowed hard, enjoying, but still not believing what he said. Forever was what people said in the moment. It wasn’t ever real. “No, Cormac. Think. The rash I got around Riley…it was unique to him.”
“I know that.” And by the sound of his voice, it seemed like he already understood her point.
She continued, just to make sure. “If I can’t help you find anyone else, I’m no more use to you.”
Cormac shook his head like she was being funny.
“Don’t brush this off,” she said. “I want to know what’s next, and before you think I’m being incredibly clingy, don’t worry. I’m not suggesting you bring me home with you…make me the little woman…” She said this last part with so much sarcasm she nearly choked on it.
A large lump rose in Cormac’s throat, then he swallowed it down. “That’s what’s supposed to happen, isn’t it? But of course I can’t bring ye home, now can I? Not until I finish what I started. And if I can’t bring ye home, then I’m the first cú sídhe since Creation to fail his anamchara.”
Meghan was used to Cormac using words she didn’t understand. This was a new one. “His what?”
Cormac wouldn’t look her in the eye. Instead, he focused on his finger, which he ran along the condensation on the outside of his stein. “Anamchara. My fated mate.” Then he looked up. “You’re mine, mo cuisle. I’ve known it for a while.”
Meghan’s eyebrows drew together, then up, and she jerked her head back. “Mate?”
Cormac turned his head and looked at her out of the side of his eye. “Isn’t that what we’re talking about? Bringing you home. Being the ‘little woman?’”
“Uh…no.” Sweet Jesus, had he lost his mind? Mate?
“Fuck,” he muttered, his cheeks flushing.
“Cormac, is this just because of what…um…happened with me…tilting?” She still didn’t understand how she’d done it, but had that one small, weird act made Cormac see her differently? Like, maybe he now saw her as someone more like him?
He shook his head. “We still need to talk about how you did that, but no. I knew ye were my anamchara the moment I saw ye trying to build that fire.”
She thought he was trying to make a joke, so she retorted, “Because you’re inexplicably attracted to idiots with no survival skills?”
“No,” he said, and his tone was not joking. Not at all. He was deadly serious. “Because—if ye believe the stories my da used to tell me—at the moment of your birth, Danu scribed your scent in my nose and drew your face on my heart. You’re under my skin, Meghan. I can’t change that. It’s the way it works in our world. I just never expected our paths to cross. And heaven knows, I sure as hell don’t deserve ye.”
Meghan stared at him for a beat, then another, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come. Instead, Cormac continued to stare at her expectantly. She needed to say something.
“Cormac?”
“Aye?”
“You’re crazy.” She let that sit there for a second, both for his benefit and for hers because if his brand of crazy meant he wanted her…really wanted her, when no one else did, then maybe it wasn’t so bad. She inhaled. “But maybe I’m okay with that.”
Meghan leaned forward, grateful that they�
�d found a table in a dark corner. Apparently sensing her intent, Cormac met her halfway. She slipped her hand along the side of his neck and drew him closer. He let her lead the way.
That is, right up until her lips pressed against his and she opened to him. Then he took over, diving in and deepening their kiss.
So much for being inconspicuous.
A wave of heat flooded the surface of Meghan’s skin, starting between her legs and blazing upward for her hairline. Her heart raced as if trying to break free, and she might have jumped him right there, if not for the grating sound of someone very close, clearing her throat.
They jerked apart, and Meghan touched her swollen lips with her fingertips.
“Seriously, I can’t keep up.” Branna lowered herself onto a chair.
“Branna,” Cormac said, as if warning her not to say anything more.
“For one thing,” she said, ignoring him, “you’re in a public place in the middle of the afternoon. For another, is she some vile untouchable, or the fucking holy grail? For the love of Danu, make up your goddamn mind, MacConall.”
“What are you doing here?” Meghan asked, feeling braver than the last time she met the púca. Perhaps that confidence came from the knowledge she’d rescued her fated mate from the clutches of an evil madman. In fact, for the first time since their escape, Meghan felt like a bit of a bad ass. Maybe she really could be Cormac’s equal partner.
Branna raised one eyebrow at her and retrieved—seemingly from out of nowhere—a large gold-colored envelope. She laid it on the table and placed both her hands, palms down, on top of it.
Cormac eyed the envelope cautiously. His eyes flicked to Meghan before he reached out and drew it toward him.
“What’s that?” Meghan asked.
“Something I asked Branna to look into,” he said.
Meghan studied his guilty expression for a couple seconds, then the truth dawned. “Meaning me. You saw my tattoo and wanted to get the dirt on whether I was the enemy.”
“Meaning you,” Branna confirmed, “and hold onto your mortal realm, cailín, because things are about to get a tad bit crazy.”
Meghan’s gaze swung to Branna, then back to Cormac. She didn’t have it in her to be pissed. Lives were on the line. She would have done the same thing if the tables were turned and if she’d had the resources.
“I wanted to know how and why you ended up in the Black Castle,” Cormac explained.
“But I’m not in the Black Castle.”
“I know that now,” he said as if she were being obtuse. “Now I want to know how you ended up in the household of two of its members.”
“But I told you that already, too. My dad left; my mom died. My aunt and uncle took me in.”
Cormac looked to Branna as if he wasn’t convinced. Branna’s expression was equally doubtful. Meghan huffed and leaned back in her chair, mumbling, “Great. Take me for a liar.”
“I assume you’ve already read the file?” Cormac asked Branna.
She nodded.
Cormac slid the envelope to Meghan. “This is about you. Do you want to open it?”
“Cormac,” Branna said, and this time she sounded genuinely concerned. It was a tone of voice Meghan had never heard from her before, and that got her attention more than anything.
Branna continued, shooting Meghan a worried look. “There are things in there that—”
“What?” he asked.
Branna pinched her lips together with indecision. “I’m just saying, there are some things in there she probably doesn’t want to see.”
Meghan folded her hands in her lap and stared at the envelope, leaving it untouched on the table. She wondered how much more she could take in one day. “I’m not going to open it. If you’ve read it, just tell me.”
Branna exchanged a look with Cormac, then she nodded and pulled her chair in close. “This is a copy of your Cook County child protection file. It includes a court order for your adoption, plus a related police report. I have to tell you, something about the police report doesn’t feel quite right, and there’s a photograph with it. It’s not pretty.”
Meghan looked up. She wanted to ask who was in the photo. Why wasn’t it pretty? What did she mean that it wasn’t quite right? But she couldn’t find her voice.
“According to the child protection reports, your father left when you were four,” Branna said.
Meghan clenched her jaw. There was a dead body back at the rental office, a dead body who was somehow connected to her aunt and uncle. She didn’t have time for a trip down memory lane.
“Your mother got sick shortly after that. The presumption was she was using drugs. She insisted she wasn’t, but she wouldn’t consent to UAs.”
“What are UAs?” Cormac asked.
“Court-ordered drug tests. Peeing in a cup,” Branna explained. “Child protection stepped in. They wanted your mother to take the test and get involved in a treatment program. They were willing to keep you in her custody so long as she was working a program.”
No, Meghan thought. It couldn’t be that simple. Her mother loved her. Her mother would have done anything for them to stay together.
“When she refused, the judge found it wasn’t in your best interests to stay in your mother’s custody and you were placed in foster care.”
Meghan shook her head. “This is all wrong. My mom died from an overdose, and my aunt and uncle took me in after she died. I was five. I remember.”
Branna stared at her with a look of supreme sympathy and, coming from Branna, this was extremely unnerving. Were her memories wrong? Was it possible that her mother was still…was still…
“My mom,” Meghan said, shivering against the chill that ran down her spine. “She is… dead…isn’t she?”
As much as she desperately wanted Branna to say no, the thought that she’d been alive all this time and hadn’t reached out to her was more than Meghan could take.
“I believe she is,” Branna said.
Meghan let out a breath.
Branna continued. “But not because of drugs.”
Cormac leaned forward again. “What’s your theory?”
“It’s only a theory,” Branna said, "but I think it’s a decent one given you didn’t kill Meghan outright when you tilted her out of that bar.”
Meghan and Cormac shared a quick glance, then they both looked at Branna.
“Meghan tilted herself,” Cormac said. “Independently. Not one hour ago.”
“You did?” Branna asked, turning to face Meghan. There was a flash of interest in her eyes.
“It was a high stress situation,” Cormac said, as if that should explain everything. “It just…happened.”
“Then that confirms my theory,” Branna said, breathing out.
“Confirms what?” Meghan asked.
“You’re a halfling,” Branna said.
“A…halfling?” That didn’t sound politically correct. It certainly didn’t sound like it was akin to winning the genetic lottery. A halfling? “Half of what?”
“Best guess: your mother was a sídhe. That’s why she wouldn’t take their drug tests. The results would have been…confusing to the examiner.”
“What clan?” Cormac asked.
Meghan’s heart was beating in her throat, keeping time with the polka band at the end of the room, which was transitioning into Roll Out the Barrel.
“Judging by the fact her father stuck around for as long as he did… I think her mother was likely a leannán sidhe.”
Meghan jerked back nearly tipping her chair. Oh, no. Oh nonononono. At this point, she was willing to accept almost any revelation Branna wanted to make, but not that. Not that. “I’m like those spider women in the woods?”
Meghan’s head whipped to Cormac and his expression was completely flat. Oh, God. It was bad enough when she thought he’d put her out for being too normal. Now he’d put her out for being a monster.
Cormac’s jaw got tense. “Don’t worry. You’re not like them
.”
“How would you know that?” Meghan asked, sounding desperate.
“Sucked anyone dry lately?” Branna asked blandly.
“No!” she exclaimed, as if she needed to convince them of it.
Branna made a sound of impatience. “For whatever reason, your mother thought it was a good idea to hook up with a pádraig. It’s not common, but she wouldn’t be the first idiot to cross species lines.” She smirked at Cormac, suddenly back to her usual snarky self, and continued.
“I assume he didn’t know what she was. That’s usually the case. Fortunately for him, she didn’t deplete him right away. She must have liked him, because she did it slowly, over time. Long enough for you to be born and then for—”
“Four years to pass,” Meghan supplied.
“Right,” Branna said. “That’s when he left the picture, voluntarily, I think, because my source couldn’t find any death certificate.”
“What happened to Meghan’s mum?” Cormac asked.
“Again, best guess, having fed herself for years on just one man, she’d become an addict. When he cut off her supply, she began to deteriorate physically. The county’s concerns weren’t too far off.”
Cormac nodded, and Meghan had a flash memory of her mother looking much too thin.
“She wouldn’t show up for the UAs. Because she wouldn’t comply with the court order, the county placed you—”
“With my aunt and uncle,” Meghan said.
“Which brings us to the point of all of this.” Branna squared her shoulders and looked at Meghan straight on, narrowing her eyes.
Cormac got visibly tense, and he shifted his folding chair closer to Meghan.
“Did you know your aunt and uncle well before moving in with them?” Branna asked.
“No.”
“Then why do you think they were related to you?”
“Because they…told me they were?” Shit, had it all been a lie? Was her entire fucking life a lie?
“I don’t know how they did it,” Branna said, “because these child protection cases aren’t accessible to the public, but I think they were following your mother. They applied for adoption, claiming to be relatives. Her mother wasn’t there to say otherwise because by then—”