Me: Fergal has her sword
Send.
Me: Why aren’t you answering
Send.
Me: Please don’t leave me
Send.
Me: Don’t leave me
My face fell into my hands and down to my lap as the tears flowed. Quakes of nervous tension jolted out of my body with each sob.
Sniffling, I peered at my silent phone.
Send.
Michelle pulled herself over the front seat and shimmied her way into the back. Her awkward wiggling plopped her into the backseat onto her shoulder and she twisted and kicked her way to upright.
A smile pushed its way across my soggy face and I shoved her knee.
“Hi,” she said. “You okay?”
“Yeah. You?” I raised my eyebrows, assessing her condition.
She darted a look over her shoulder and out the windows, nervous as a skittish mouse.
“Like I said before, not a fan of your freaky visions.” Her lips pressed to the side and head tilted in judgment. “But it’s Declan I’m worried about. I think he nearly crapped himself.” She laughed, poking at Declan.
“I’m fine.” His curt tone spat his words out onto the road ahead. “Let’s just get ta hell outta Mayo.”
He hit the gas harder.
Michelle squeezed my knee, trying to suppress her laugh, but the vibrating snort that escaped her nostrils shook the entire car.
Declan’s foot went heavier on the gas.
I shook my head at Michelle, grateful for the comic relief, and silently wished I could be in her skin instead. It was safer. And more fun.
Time stretched into a blur of instant-replays and emotional tidal waves in the protected bubble of the BMW, broken only by the growing traffic and lights of Galway City.
“You guys wanna get some food? Decompress a tad?” Declan glanced over his shoulder to gauge our response.
Michelle was slumped, half-asleep and half-drooling, and straightened up after hearing his voice.
I lifted my gaze from my lap.
“Can we drive by Paul’s first?”
Michelle shot her wide eyes at me, wiping wetness from her chin.
“Are you sure? What if she’s there?” she warned.
Her words were like taking a bullet and my face winced in pain.
“Sorry.” She bared her teeth. “But what if she is?”
“I have to. I need to know what’s going on. Please, Declan. Can you take me there?”
“Sure.”
He took the turn for Taylor’s Hill.
The homes grew larger and more estate-like as we entered the prominent neighborhood. It seemed a bit high-end for a college professor, but Paul lived in one of his family’s regal properties. Apparently they had several.
His red car sat in the driveway, confirming the right house, and I sucked in a gulp of air.
Declan pulled up in front of the house and parked.
“Wow. Not bad.” Michelle pressed her face on the car window. “Friggin’ hot, actually.”
The large windows and master stonework were pristine Irish architecture at its finest.
“You don’t have to….” Declan’s voice faded as I left the car without haste.
Paul’s overstuffed mail poked out of the slot in the door, needing one extra push to gain full entry. I stared at the high-shine, massive front window, framed in glossy teak, expecting to see a curtain move, maybe by a sneaking, guilt-ridden woman.
My shaking hand reached for the doorbell and pressed.
The chime filled the inside of the house and echoed emptiness back to me.
I imagined the sound of his feet thumping toward the door and then his strong arms pulling it open.
I waited.
I pressed the bell again and leaned into the narrow, frosted window at the side of the door. I cupped my hands around my face to block any glare in hopes of being able to see through the translucent glass. Maybe see movement or light.
Silence.
I balled my fist and pounded. Each effort got harder and louder. I reeled my arm back for an earth-shattering thump as Declan grabbed hold of my wrist.
“Come on.” He led me back to the car where Michelle stood with her face hanging in despair, mouth agape.
Her face said it all.
He was gone.
The pain started in my stomach and forced its way through my heart. I bent over to soften its assault on my insides, but nothing helped. It tore at me, shredding my fragile core like a vicious, hunting beast.
I dropped my beaten body into the back seat.
Michelle and Declan stood motionless in silence. Michelle climbed in the back with me and held me in her arms as Declan drove.
Patricia was always a danger. I was never safe from her power to pull Paul back into her arms. They had a history together and were meant for each other.
My thoughts sickened me further. Who did I think I was anyway? Maeve Grace O’Malley, from Boston, the small and meek.
My toxic thoughts poisoned me and I crumbled like a house of cards.
We pulled into Tirrelan Heights and Michelle dragged me out of the car.
The sick taste in my mouth soured my entire being and I spat into the grass. I spat out Paul’s promise but it remained on my tongue. I spat again but it wouldn’t leave me. It lingered, with full intent of torturing me.
***
Of all the insane events of the past few days, the one detail that nagged me most was Fergal at the cemetery.
How did he know I’d be at the cemetery that day? It was as if he were waiting for me, with his henchmen. He knew I’d be there, but how?
The only person who knew I was going, besides Declan and Michelle, was Paul. Declan made me send him that damn text.
I shook the thought from my head. It wasn’t possible. There was no way Paul would betray me like that. But the seething toxin was already planted and it permeated my every cell, sickening me.
“Don’t tell anyone where I’m going,” I said to Michelle and Declan. “Please. I don’t want to run into any more trouble. Unless Fergal’s psychic or something, I should be fine.”
“You still shouldn’t go alone. It’s just a bad idea. You should know that by now.” Declan paced in the kitchen while Michelle stood in the middle of the room and stared at me, as her half-eaten apple hung from her hand. “Izzy screamed through the night again last night. That means something.” His eyes widened, as if he were waiting for me to drop everything.
But I had another little secret that fueled my decision to go to Clare Island. Now.
A letter.
I found it stuck in the seam of my blue door, wedged in tight so it wouldn’t blow away. The return address read only: BALLYNAHINCH, in golden Old World cursive.
Without question, I knew the Original Three had found me and left me a message.
In the envelope was a hand-written letter. The script was blotched as if scrawled with a quill and black liquid ink. The letter wrapped its way around a smaller envelope, sealed with a red wax stamp of the O’Malley crest.
It was addressed to The Lost Daughter of Gráinne Ní Mháille and directed me to not open the wax seal until the right time.
Signed by “The O’Malley Clan Tribal Council,” it also held the three names, scrawled in their own hand, beneath. They were the three last remaining council members.
I breathed in, holding the significance in my lungs and allowing it to spread through my body. The letter was snug in my backpack with the other relics.
“I love you guys. Just keep in touch with my text messages. Don’t fall out of communication. Not even for a minute. Promise?” I begged.
Declan nodded once.
“Yep.”
***
I waved as my bus pulled out and watched Michelle’s head drop onto Declan’s shoulder as I drove out of view. Her despair haunted me for the first leg of the journey, as if she were resigning herself to the fact that I wasn’t coming back… in one piece, a
nyway.
My hand rooted around inside my backpack to confirm I had everything I needed. My fingers wrapped around the ancient tube holding the map and the signed document from Queen Elizabeth. I rifled around more and grabbed the leather satchel holding the ancient tomb key that was hidden for years in my grandfather’s garden. And the letter from the Original Three of Ballynahinch. My treasured relics—they had to come on the trip with me in case they might come in handy.
I missed having the sword. Though it wouldn’t have traveled well in my pack, getting it back from Fergal was a mission that smoldered in my soul. Whatever I gained from Clare Island—knowledge, power, or more relics—would help me when I went back to confront Fergal for the sword, preferably in his sleep.
My arm hugged my pack close to my body, under full protection, like a small child. The more I thought about the contents, the more I realized I should probably have hired a security guard or two.
If Michelle and Declan knew that I was traveling with these things—or worse, if Paul knew—they would all kill me.
I lifted my hand and it hovered in front of my face as I gazed at Gráinne’s ring and drew courage from it. A tingle in my stomach grew into full, winged butterflies. The fluttering tickled a smile onto my face as I recognized my adventurous self emerging, blinking into the sun.
***
The Clare Island ferryman held out his hand for my ticket. His weathered, bony fingers unfurled, one at a time, in a slow fan-like gesture. My air sucked in as my eyes darted to his face, half-expecting to see a skeleton in a black shroud. His twinkling eyes and friendly grin smacked me back and I shook my head, handing him my ticket.
I shimmied past the few other passengers and ran straight to the front of the boat and, cautious to not appear too much like Rose from The Titanic, I lifted my face into the wind and kept a bead on my destination, Clare Island.
Thoughts and images of Paul jumped to mind every other second and made my heart hurt. He was determined to come on the trip one way or another.
It was true, though; he should be here. This was the biggest part of our journey—finding Grace’s final resting place and connecting everything together.
Anything could happen.
My eyes fell closed under heavy lids and I dove into the deep blue depths of Paul’s warm, passionate eyes as tears streamed back into my hair from the wind and mixed into the gusts of salty sea mist.
A bone-jarring horn sounded, unhinging my joints, as clear details of the pier and rocky headland came into view. The quiet docks cowered beneath the shadow of a tall, square castle that kept watch over the harbor.
Grace O’Malley’s tower house was one of the pinnacle sights of the island. She’d spent her final years in the castle and many say she was buried nearby or maybe even inside.
My eyes traced every feature of the fortress. It was nearly identical to Rockfleet, though this one had a parapet, right over the front door. My lips pursed as I thought of Paul telling me stories of clans attacking intruders—dropping rocks or hot oil on their heads, “from the parapets.”
My knuckles turned white on the rail and I released it as if it had turned red-hot, and ran my fingers through my hair to dispel any unsavory feelings or regrets.
I could do this.
I shot my gaze back to the castle that stood five hundred years strong without any sign of age or weakening. Though I’d heard legend that Grace’s head was buried somewhere around it, my intrigue was drawn elsewhere—to the abbey I’d researched.
Somewhere on the island was the ruin of a 12th century abbey and it supposedly held an O’Malley crest and other ancient relics. Most of my recent research of Clare Island, and okay, my gut, pointed to the abbey as her final resting place, not the castle, so I kept that idea close in mind.
I clung to the rails of the ferry again, bouncing in my shoes anticipating our mooring, and was then first in line to disembark.
“Tourist, are ya?” The deckhand wrapped huge ropes around a post and tied massive knots. His traditional cap covered his gray and the deep weathered lines in his face proved he’d been working the docks his entire life.
I slung my pack over my shoulder.
“You could say that,” I replied with a smile.
“Best B and B in Ireland right over that way.” He pointed to a white house with red trim and the words Granuaile House painted in Celtic lettering on the side. “And, sure, don’t miss the ghost village at the far side of the island. Tell us if you figure out the mystery of where they all went.”
Ghost village? I hadn’t heard about that. My intrigue rose ten notches.
“Thank you.” I waved to him as I hopped onto dry land and looked up the road ahead.
“Cead mil falte, Inish Clare.” His voice trailed off behind me as I barreled toward the castle.
My adrenaline spiked the minute I felt the island under my feet and an urgency rose in me, like the feeling of coming home after years of being away. Getting to the castle was suddenly the only mission on Earth and I charged for it.
Its ominous brooding stature grew in size as I got closer. The dark gray walls, three stories high, threw shadows all around it and added a bone-reaching chill to the air. It stood strong and proud in its solid foundation, daring me to come closer.
As I approached the stony fortress, my pace slowed as my breathing became louder. With each small step, more detail of the structure came into clarity. My hand flew to my mouth as I noticed its state of disrepair. The crumbling walls and moss-colored exterior stopped me in my tracks.
Crumbling from the pressure of time, the castle was a broken ruin. My hand hit my forehead and pulled back into my hair. The castle’s state of disrepair shattered me with disappointment, and I shook my head for my naiveté in assuming it would be in its original steadfast condition.
I dropped my pack off my back and searched for water for my suddenly-parched throat. I turned toward the doorway of the castle, swallowing a painful gulp of air along with my water. It squeaked and squirmed all the way down my tight throat.
Unlike Rockfleet, there was no heavy black door to this castle concealing centuries of secrets. The entry was wide open allowing the elements, and anything else, in.
My hand rested on the door jamb and hit a rusty nub that was likely a hinge at one point. Stepping over the slab-stone threshold, my eyes flew around the interior, searching for structure and purpose but it was only a bare skeleton of its former self—exterior walls only.
The upper floors were gone—anything made of timber, gone. No stairs. Just moss-covered stone walls, three stories high. Birds flew around the inside as I looked up into the grayish-blue sky above.
My heart sank with disappointment.
I had expected more—more like Rockfleet, with levels and chambers and spiral staircases.
Looking out through a narrow slit of a window, I gazed at the hills and the sea that surrounded the location and envisioned Grace’s daily view. I wondered what it was like for her. living in this remote and isolated location.
Granted, it was perfect for protecting Clew Bay and Rockfleet, as well as keeping an eye on the Atlantic for intruders, but it was lonely in the same breath.
I stepped out of the ruin and followed the single road farther into the island, away from the docks. The late morning sun shone on the Granuaile House, confirming it would be my base.
My Clare Island Guide brochure was already worn and torn at the edges from overuse. I reread every word, hoping for secret messages or hidden clues.
The contents described the mountainous terrain, home to about 145 people, walking trails, and a brief history of Granuaile, Ireland’s Pirate Queen. The first line explained the variation of Grace O’Malley’s name, Granuaile being a medieval combination of Gráinne and Ní Mháille.
Looking back, the docks hid from my view, and rolling hills of green filled my vision. I stopped and pulled the tube from my pack and tugged out the ancient map. I unrolled it just enough to see the skull and the appro
ximate area of the island it marked.
My feet turned left, then right, and with a few more adjustments, I lined up the map with the spot where I stood. The accuracy was surprising, but with each step taking me farther from the docks, a new level of insecurity ramped up.
Being alone reared its ugly head.
After scrambling over a steep ridge in the road and panting to catch my breath, I stopped short as a field of gravestones took over the view. My shoulders relaxed as my breathing settled into a smooth rhythm.
My rising angst was soothed by the appearance of the tranquil graveyard and its numerous inhabitants. The stone monuments rolled in waves across the lawn that surrounded the ruins of an old church.
My shaking fingers pulled at the edges of the map to double-check the location. It confirmed my suspicion.
It was the abbey.
The stonework of the abandoned structure was bone-white and the two small windows, high up at the second floor, were water-marked with dark stains running down the front of the building, like tears. The top of the abbey rose to a sharp point. The lower level had two vertical ornate windows with thick glass, still intact but worn to a fogged opaque.
Excitement shot through me as hope rose.
Maybe I would find answers inside. Answers on how to settle Grace O’Malley’s soul. To get the final puzzle pieces so I could end this curse, once and for all.
Behind the abbey was a smaller roofless ruin, possibly the original structure from the 12th century. Grave sites marked the yard all around the abbey. Some were ancient, weathered chunks of stone with hand etching, some shiny and new with modern machine carvings.
No matter where I looked, though, my eyes were drawn back to an ancient monolith grave marker. A course-cut tower of limestone with a single hand-carved marking on it. It stood away from the others and overlooked the abbey and the rest of the island.
I walked up to the monolith and touched it. The rough surface pressed back and sent a warm current through me.
Was it my imagination? Maybe I was trying too hard.
I looked back toward the abbey as if it called out to me.
From the front, there was no way in, only the big double windows. I stumbled over the uneven terrain and moved around the back, noticing the church went much deeper than it appeared, almost like two buildings attached, front to back.
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