I follow his pointed finger to the small line forming at the counter on a sidewall. The half-dozen people there look as tired and frustrated as I feel.
I sigh and join the line of misery.
One thing I love about living in a city and working at a pub is having a broad sense of the people in the world around me. Humans are an eclectic lot from the myriad of their natural features, skin colors, accents, friends, lifestyles, clothes, and choice of drinks.
It all goes to tell their story.
Deep down, we are all the same. The subtle differences are the spices that make the stew of life rich with flavor. I cherish Da’s accent and quirky sayings, Aiden’s wife Kinu bringing Japanese culture into our family, Calum and Kevin being free to live their love without judgment.
On any given night at Shenanigans, there are a few gregarious beauties, a few awkward but wonderfuls, and a few who would rather be left to themselves to sink into the background and get steaming drunk.
You learn a lot about people from behind the bar. The same can be said when standing in a line. As one passenger after another records their lost luggage and peels away empty-handed, I distract myself by studying them.
There’s a well-tailored businessman next in line. He has a faint tan line where his wedding ring usually sits on his finger, and there’s an indent if you look. Newly divorced maybe. Hoping for a little Irish adventure during a business trip more likely. He’s a looker. I don’t suppose he’ll have much trouble finding a good time.
The woman next seems quiet and not all that put off about losing her luggage. She gives the name of a local bed and breakfast and asks directions to the taxi stand.
Then comes a red-faced man irate about his golf clubs not arriving on his golf vacation. Yeah, that sucks.
I occupy myself watching the other luggage losers and try to guess their stories. When I’m next up, I glance at the woman behind the counter.
My world goes wonky.
Maybe it’s the jetlag that throws things off or perhaps the past two days are catching up to me, but I widen my stance to keep from keeling to one side.
I notice her hair first, long, and ruler-straight. It’s so black under the fluorescent lighting it shines blue. When she turns to her printer, I trace the fall of the cut to a sharp line at her backside, which, from one female to another, looks amazing—more amazing than it should, given the unflattering fabric of her airport uniform.
When she turns back, I get my first direct glimpse of her face. I’m stunned, mind-numb. Something primal inside me bursts to life. Danger, Will Robinson.
I’m not into girls but to say she’s Hollywood starlet material is to insult her ethereal beauty and grace—she’s a freaking angel.
It’s not real. She’s not human.
I shake off that lunacy and try to slow my crazy train. My exhaustion is obviously making me loopy.
She finishes with the irate golfer and has somehow tamed the raging beast. He turns away from the counter, looking love-drunk with a dreamy expression on his face.
“Grand. Now, what’s yer story, dearie?”
Oh gawd, she’s even more mesmerizing when her attention is focused. Her eyes are such a light blue they’re almost silver. When her gaze locks on mine, every hair on my body stands on end.
“Are ye all right?” she asks, her voice a warm caress. She waits, her eyebrows arched expectantly. I feel strange. Not a normal odd, but a panicky, run for the hills weird. She frowns. “I take it ye queued up fer a reason, did ye not? What have ye lost?”
My mind. I tear my gaze away from her radiance and focus on the laminated images of baggage on the counter. I point to the one that most resembles my suitcase and offer her my boarding pass. “It’s like this one, number six, but red.”
She takes my dog-eared flight stub and starts to fill in a claim form. Her mouth tightens when she’s writing my name, and she pegs me with a look. Her silvery eyes glitter with—I’m not sure what—hostility, concern, curiosity?
“And where will ye be stayin’ while yer here, Fiona Cumhaill?” The intensity of her gaze makes my skin tingle. I break the connection to watch the silver tip of her pen glide over the page as she records my information.
“I’m not sure. It’s all a little undecided right now.” I desperately want to get away and have no idea why.
For the next few minutes, her pen flows in a graceful cursive, as efficient as it is hurried. When it jolts to a stop, she tears off the top copy and pushes it at me. “Next.”
I take my paper and put some distance between the creepy, ebony-haired angel and me. In an effort not to look back, I check that she’s gotten everything right and notice the digits of my cell phone.
Shit with sugar on top. I left in such a rush that I have no travel package. Awesome.
I make a mental note to go online and amend that before I have to sell my firstborn to pay the bill. No doubt, my phone will ring the moment I take it off airplane mode.
I likely have fifty hostile and frantic messages too.
Wait. Maybe not having a package is a good thing. It gives me an excuse to never take it off airplane mode.
Thinking about Da’s ire doesn’t improve my mood. He’ll be raging mad that I went against his wishes and came to Ireland. More than angry, he’ll be disappointed.
I swallow and head into the loo to freshen up.
It’s not like the six of us are obedient children—far from it—but when push comes to shove, we respect when our father lays down the law for Clan Cumhaill.
He has the final word. No argument.
I’ve never blatantly crossed him before, and the betrayal of trust twists my guts tight.
Still, those same guts tell me I need to be here.
I need to unravel what my dark and dangerous, back-branding, mugger has to do with a family I know nothing about. What does the symbol mean? Why do I feel so strange since it appeared?
“He called me kin of mac Cumhaill,” I whisper to myself in the mirror as I wash my hands. I mulled everything over in my mind a million times on the plane. In the city, work-life, and with everyone who knows my family and me, I am simply Cumhaill.
Da has buried most of our family history from the first day he arrived. I doubt anyone in Toronto knows our traditional Irish name—mac Cumhaill—except for a shadow-creeping hottie in fine clothes.
Exiting the loo, I shrug my computer bag higher onto my shoulder and stare at the security exit into the arrivals area. The flow of arrival traffic has thinned to a trickle of the last few stragglers.
The businessman has struck up a conversation with the quiet woman, and the two of them are lost in conversation as they slip into the same taxi. I wonder if he’s accompanying her to her bed and breakfast. My instincts say yes.
The red-faced golfer still looks dazed and oddly blissful. Before the ebony angel, I would’ve said if looks could kill, the Kerry Airport arrivals area would be heaped with bodies. Now, it seems all is right in the world.
I let him pass, creeped out by the energy he gives off.
Alone in the corridor, I draw a deep breath and decide I’ve stalled long enough. When the automatic doors whoosh open, I draw another steadying breath and step over the threshold.
As stupid as it sounds, although no one knows I’m coming, my heart sinks when no one stands waiting for me. No lovely old couple is wringing their hands with the excitement of meeting their granddaughter, no limousine driver in a black hat holds a sign with my name on it—Cumhaill or mac Cumhaill—okay, I’ve watched too many RomComs with that one.
Still, I regret my lack of impulse control.
I’m in a foreign land with no idea of my destination, no luggage, no cell package, and no idea where to start.
I am as alone as alone can be.
“Och, stop the lights. Yer not the weepy sort, are ye? Ye look like yer ready to fall to bits, and I’m not the man for tears and carryin’ on.”
I blink at the crusty Irishman stepping inside the gla
ss entrance. He wears the same impenetrable scowl I’ve seen every day of my life, and it doesn’t matter that I’ve never met the man, I rush forward and hug him tight.
The stiffness in his frame tells me he is as uncomfortable with PDA as his son. The tingling in my skin tells me whatever weirdness is taking hold of me is getting stronger.
Ouch. Like, really strong.
Is he triggering it, or is it this place, or is it me?
The lights flicker and hum above us. I glance up, and the fixture bursts into an explosion of sparks. I pull away from my grandfather while ducking the raining fireworks. “What the hell?”
“Come. That’s our cue to leave.”
Another light hums and flickers. It bursts and explodes the same as the first. My cells fire with energy and I feel it building inside me. “Am I doing that?”
Granda places a firm hand on my back and shoves me outside. He seems more anxious about the pyrotechnics than me. When we stop, twenty feet from the building, he scans me with an assessing gaze and his brow pinches.
I finger my hair and straighten my shirt. “Sorry. I’m a bit crumpled and frazzled by exploding lights. Not the best first impression.”
“Arragh,” he mutters. “Forget the lights. I’ll take ye, crumpled or not. By the fates, ye have the look of yer gran, that’s fer sure.”
“I look like her?”
“A great deal. My Lara is a wee russet beauty with a fire burnin’ inside her, too.”
I study the nuances of my grandfather’s features and try to see myself in him. He’s classically handsome in a worn leather jacket sorta way and has my bright blue eyes. “Except for the dark hair, you’re the spitting image of Da.”
He chuffs. “One might say he’s the spit of me.” There’s an awkward pause, then he huffs. “So, how is yer father, then?”
“Grand. A pain in my ass every day.”
“So, moving across the world changed him none.”
“I don’t suppose anything could.”
“Ye have a point. That boy was always stubborn as rocks.” Granda looks me over again and offers a sad smile. “I wish things had been different, Fiona. Yer gran and I ached to know you kids.”
And now you’re dying. I pat my bag, thankful I kept my most important possessions as a carry-on. “There’s still time. I brought pictures, and the boys sent quick notes of hello.”
He looks at the concrete walkway around my feet, then scowls toward the building. “And is that all ye brought? Ye seem to have forgotten yer bits and bobs.”
“There’s a problem with my luggage.”
He nods. “I’m sure we can make do. Come, we should strike off. We live a fair whack away, and yer gran will be bustin’ her buttons until I get ye home.”
I take one last look at the airport and can’t say I’m sad to leave it in the rearview. Between lost luggage and the ebony angel and exploding light fixtures, I’m ready to put some distance between us.
It’s not an auspicious start to my quest for answers.
I have more questions than ever.
Chapter Five
Granda and I leave the terminal and venture into the deep, darkening dusk of the Emerald Isle. Sixteen hours ago, I entered an airport surrounded by the cacophony of a metropolis, the hum of cars on the highway, and city lights as far as the eye could see.
Emerging from Kerry Airport is like stepping into an alternate reality. The rolling green and beige hills stretch off into the distance, the only cars are parked neatly in one large lot out front, and there aren’t enough people here to fill Shenanigans on a Friday night.
“This is us.” Granda points at the dust-covered blue Land Rover parked in the lot.
“Ah, ye found her,” an elderly man shouts from a few rows over.
“That I did,” Granda shouts back with a wave.
For the third time in an hour, my skin tingles with awareness like I’m becoming some kind of freakish energy antenna. My reaction stems from the little man. Why? What is it about him that has my Spidey-senses tingling?
He’s incredibly short, with snowy hair tucked under a crooked hat. His chinstrap beard outlines a round face, mischievous blue eyes sparkling behind rimless glasses, and ends on each side of his face at his noticeably small ears.
If it weren’t totally cray-cray, I’d say he’s one of Ireland’s fabled old leprechauns.
Granda opens my door and shoves me inside the truck.
“Hey,” I say, “enough with the shoving.”
He leans into the open window, so close, his two eyes merge into one. Scowling cyclops is not a good look for him. “It’s not polite to stare, young lady. Or did yer da fail to teach ye basic manners?”
Before I respond, he pulls out of my window, rounds the hood of the truck, and offers another wave. “Take care!”
“Slan,” the man says, his gaze locked on me.
I force a smile and wave, making certain not to stare.
Granda slides in, turns the key in the ignition, and pulls away with unveiled haste.
I grab my belt and buckle up. The smile pasted on my face fades away as the engine’s throaty growl pulls us away from the sleepy airport. “What’s your problem? What did I do?”
“Don’t play daft, Fiona. No matter how angry yer father is with what we are, I don’t believe that if ye have the sight, he hasn’t taught ye better than to slight a Man o’ Green.”
I blink at him. “That was a leprechaun?”
He chuffs. “Let one catch ye callin’ him that and ye’ll learn yer lesson quick enough. The proper term is a Tuatha De or Man o’ Green. The ‘L’ word will get ye cursed to dig earthworms with yer fingers for the rest of yer life or polishing beetles ye pick from dung.”
I run my fingers through my hair and try to focus. Whatever this energy is inside me, it’s much stronger here. I scratch the flesh of my arms and try to pull air into my lungs.
I can’t breathe.
Leprechauns are real?
What the hell was the woman at the baggage claim? Because sure as shit, she wasn’t human. “Wait. You said ‘what we are.’ What does that mean? What are we? What’s the sight? How did I make those lights explode?”
Granda pulls the truck onto the shoulder of the two-lane road and turns his full attention on me. It strikes me then that he’s awfully fit and muscled for a man who claimed to be dying.
Oh, gawd. I’m a fool. Da warned me not to come.
Liam’s words ring in my spinning head. He’s right, Da would never be tied to a man who’d attacked me in an alley…but maybe Lugh Cumhaill would.
I try to fill my lungs, but the oxygen doesn’t come. The inside of the truck swirls and my breath starts to hitch. I fumble with the handle on my door, but my hands are trembling too much to coordinate my escape. “What’s going on? Are you really dying? Da warned me this was a mistake. What do you want with me?”
The scenery spins and a firm hand presses on the back of my neck. Granda pushes my head down between my knees and curses. “Breathe, mo chroi. I’m sorry. I thought ye knew. I’ll explain everything once we get home. Just breathe. Yer gran will have my hide if yer in a state when we get there. I swear, yer as safe as safe can be. Just breathe.”
I’m not sure how long it takes before my breathing returns to normal and my world stops tilting. I’m in Ireland with my grandfather and leprechauns are real and “we are” something, and there’s more to tell me…
When I sit up, the countryside is full-dark, and the pitch surrounding the truck makes things that much creepier. I don’t want to talk about what’s happening while vulnerable in the darkness. Too late, I worry about venturing into Nowhereland with a man my father left behind without a backward glance.
Then again, da said his parents never mistreated him.
They saw his future differently. That’s not so bad.
I pull my shit together, straighten in my seat, and clutch my bag against my chest. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to meet my gran and have a cup
of tea now.”
Granda nods and gets us back on the road.
We drive along in awkward silence while I sort through things I need to address. Whether or not whatever’s happening inside me has to do with them, forging a relationship with my grandparents is important.
I’m in Ireland, meeting my father’s family—my family. That’s huge. “Thank you for coming to get me.”
Granda nods again, his eyes on the horizon. “We’re thankful ye came. And to answer yer question, I am, but I’d rather not be.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
“It’s a complicated situation, and we’ll get to the meat of it when we know each other better, but I didn’t bring ye here on a lie. If I don’t get the help needed, I’ll be dead within a month, maybe sooner.”
“Then get the help you need.”
He slows the truck and hits his indicator, taking us off the main road. “I’m trying. It’s complicated. We’ll talk about it more another time. Fer now, let’s celebrate yer arrival.”
We ride along for a while, and I watch the road illuminated in the pool of our headlights. “How’d you know what flight I was on? Da destroyed your letter, and I didn’t know how to contact you.”
He casts me a glance I recognize well. It’s my father’s “think about it” look. I do, and there’s only one explanation. “Da called you in a frantic fit.”
He dips his chin, his attention on the road ahead. “The neighbors, actually. We’re having some power troubles at our place at the moment, but he did manage to get a message to me, and I rang him back.”
“And? On a scale of one to ten, how furious is he?”
“Time and distance haven’t changed much with Niall. I’m still evil incarnate, but apparently, he is willing to deal with the devil to ensure his daughter is not lost and alone in a strange land.”
My guilt over sneaking off behind my father’s back increases tenfold. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
The tires of the Land Rover crunch over the dirt and gravel of my grandparent’s long laneway. Although I can’t see the landscape, I know they live in the remote countryside. Unlike in the city, where day or night lights lead the way, here it’s only the truck headlights and the light of the bulbous silver moon. It’s eerie, dark, and nothing I could ever get used to.
A Gilded Cage (Chronicles of an Urban Druid Book 1) Page 4