04 Sphere Song - The Isle of Destiny

by Tricia O'Malley

  “Come by the shop in the morning. I’ll have a few chores for you and we’ll call it even,” Neala said.

  “Aye, miss, I appreciate that,” Jack said, but his eyes weren’t on hers. They were now centered decidedly on where her blouse gaped open and her generous cleavage was cupped in a midnight blue silk bra. Sighing, Neala straightened and cuffed Jack upside the back of his head, sending his cap flying and his mates into another peal of laughter.

  “Keep your eyes proper now, young man,” Neala strode away, nodding to where the bartender worked behind the long wooden bar tucked under a beamed ceiling. “Pints are on me tab, Stephen. I’ll settle up this week.”

  Stephen waved a hand in acknowledgement, and Neala slipped out with barely a word of goodbye, knowing she’d be stuck for hours chatting with everyone in the pub if she didn’t just leave at once. A perfect goodbye, done the Irish way, would be to slip out without anyone noticing, but that could be hard to accomplish when there was a tab to pay.

  Neala nodded at a few regulars smoking outside and strode on her way, barely noticing the people who called for her to wait. They all knew she had to get up at four in the morning. It was rare she stayed out past eight in the evening, unless it was a Sunday, as her one day off a week was Monday.

  Ah, Neala did love her Mondays. Not that she took much of a day off – oh no, but when a body loved what they did for work it was barely a hardship. Neala smiled as she stopped at the storefront of her bakery, Sugar & Spice, and looked up at the delicate gold letters, etched in a swirly antique script on the tall glass windows. Her bakery, housed in a beautiful stone building close to Kilkenny’s main drag, ran a brisk business and soon she’d need to hire more employees – if, that is, she went ahead with opening the second location she’d been eying up on the other side of the city. Maybe, just maybe, if she budgeted well, she’d be able to swing it by the end of next year.

  Unlocking a door with a thin column of etched glass in the middle, Neala slid inside and locked the three locks on the door behind her – a girl living in the city could never be too safe – and clambered up the stairs that led to the two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of her bakery. She loved living above her shop. When the apartment had opened up for lease, she’d hounded her landlady until she’d promised not to show the place to anyone else before Neala had walked through it. It had taken but one look around the apartment – high ceilings with old tin inscriptions, large windows, and exposed stone walls – and she’d been sold. Neala had put down a deposit and moved in that very day. Since then, she’d formed a friendship with her landlady; there was even talk of Neala one day owning the building she now lived and worked in.

  Neala sighed as she dropped her keys in a little flower dish on a shelf by the door. So many dreams, so little time. But it was how her mind worked. Why dream small when she could dream big? Wasn’t that the entire point of dreams? She tossed her purse on the floor and moved into the small galley kitchen so she could get started on her favorite part of the day – the one hour a day where she didn’t need to talk to anyone or answer to anyone’s demands but her own. Pulling out her pan, she poured oil in it, tossed some popcorn kernels in, and covered it. Typically her favorite time also included stove-popped popcorn, a glass of red wine, and an hour of salacious television that required none of her brain cells to think about.

  It wasn’t a bad life, Neala mused, keeping an ear out for the kernels as she all but bounced to her room. She pulled off her jacket, shirt, and pants and tossed them on the ever-growing and endlessly full armchair that stood next to her bed. Snagging an old t-shirt, she pulled it over the midnight blue silk panties – just because she wore an apron all day didn’t mean she couldn’t be sexy underneath her clothes – and sauntered back into the kitchen just as the pot was filling with popcorn.

  Thinking about sexy underwear made her think about sex… which reminded her that it had been entirely too long since she’d had any fun in that department. But who had time for complications when she had a fun and prosperous business to run? And as far as Neala was concerned, relationships always equaled complications. She liked her life just as it was – hectic, satisfying, and rich with friendships. Anything above that could be a bonus, but typically ended up being nothing more than a headache.

  Humming, Neala took her popcorn – sprinkled liberally with salt and Kerry gold butter – and her glass of wine, and made her way to the bedroom, shutting the door on the outer room – and the unadorned windows therein.

  Closing out those who watched from the outside.

  Waiting for their orders.

  Chapter Four

  Neala had already been baking for at least an hour when her assistant baker and counter girl, Sierra, waltzed in. With electric blue hair and tattoos running up her arms, Sierra was a lightning bolt in motion. Neala always appreciated her energy in the mornings; it was like a jolt of espresso when she walked in bubbling over with whatever story she had from the night before.

  “You look well.” Sierra paused and looked Neala up and down where she stood at the counter, pouring flour into a professional mixer.

  “I do?” Neala asked, glancing down at herself: fitted denim pants, a loose white shirt tucked into her pants, and her hair, contained in a braid and hairnet, over her shoulder.

  Sierra moved closer and studied Neala’s face.

  “Did you shag someone?”

  Neala laughed and shook her head no as she concentrated on measuring out sugar.

  “Just a good night’s sleep is all. Oh, and I tried a new face polisher – plus a new plum eye shadow.”

  “Ach, that’s it. You don’t usually wear makeup. Not that you need it with those green eyes and dark lashes,” Sierra pouted.

  Neala smiled. “I’d kill for your high cheekbones and sunny blue eyes, my friend,” Neala said. They’d had this conversation many times before. Sierra was slender, with a smattering of freckles and brilliant blue eyes, whereas Neala was her polar opposite – curves for days, a bosom that would make any man look twice, and rich auburn hair, which made her emerald green eyes pop. It wasn’t uncommon for both women to get their share of compliments and phone numbers across the shining glass display case at the bakery. Sierra took every number that was slid to her across the glass, reasoning that it was best to sample the goods widely before settling down, while Neala rarely took a number or an invitation, deciding it was best not to lose a customer over the complications of an intimate relationship.

  Content to work while Sierra chattered about her failed date from the night before – a horrible kisser, from the sound of it – Neala pulled scones from the oven, prepped dough for rising, and spooned chocolate chips into a cookie batter. Sierra worked on presentation, filling the bakery shelves quickly and moving any aging breads to the discounted basket. When it got just a touch stale, Sierra would take it with her to donate to any shelters that were in need, or to offer it to the swans swimming the river that wound through Kilkenny’s lovely downtown.

  In no time, the sun had risen and Neala’s first customers of the day – her regulars – were already not so patiently waiting at the door. Neala checked the clock; it was a few minutes shy of opening but, never willing to turn customers away, she unlocked the door and ushered people in.

  “Coffee’s just perking and we’ll be with you shortly,” Neala called over her shoulder, swinging behind the counter. She’d set her shop up so that people could linger over a tea and a scone or read the paper if they weren’t in too much of a rush in the mornings. Several small tables hosted cheerful pots of flowers and the large windows allowed the customers to people-watch. Neala had picked a warm gold paint for the walls, then covered them with a mishmash of mirrors, funky artwork, sculptures – pretty much whatever suited her and Sierra’s fancy. It looked both vintage and modern at the same time, striking a balance between homey and fun, and Neala quite simply adored her space.

  It was several hours before Neala looked at the clock again, when the morning ru
sh had finally quieted and there was a lull before her next group of regulars arrived, a group of mums who met for morning coffee. Stretching her arms over her head, Neala turned to Sierra.

  “I want to try out a sweet potato muffin recipe I was reading about. I think I can add some nuts and maybe raisins to it.”

  “Sounds yum. I’ve got the mums crowd. Go for it,” Sierra said.

  Neala was almost back to the kitchen when she heard the door slam open, rattling the window. A mirror fell to the ground and shattered. At Sierra’s shout, she whirled and raced back to the counter.

  A man – or ‘warrior’ was the word that came to mind – stood just inside the door. He towered over the glass display case, his black hair wild, and his piercing blue eyes scanned the shop until they settled on Neala.

  “You. With me. Now,” the man ordered.

  Sierra slid a look to Neala. “I’m calling the Garda,” she whispered, her hand already reaching for the phone.

  “Do not move,” the man shouted and both Neala and Sierra froze, waiting to see what he would demand.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you, sir,” Neala said, trying to use her best customer-service voice, though her body was beginning to tremble. The man was radiating anger so palpably it was as if they were being seared by his rage.

  “You will come with me now. Or I will take you against your will. It’s not about you – it’s, I have to save…” Neala was shocked when the man’s voice cracked, his eyes looking for a moment like he wanted to cry. “Clare. She needs us. Please, I beg of you.”

  Sierra looked at Neala once more, unsure of what to do.

  Realizing that the man must be a nutter, Neala rounded the corner. She stood back from him but tried to appear soothing.

  “I’m sorry that Clare needs help. I’m sure if we just call the authorities we’ll be able to help her in any way you need. Why don’t we do that?”

  The man laughed, running his hands through his hair, and shook his head. “The authorities can do nothing. It’s not their world to handle.”

  Neala shot a worried look over her shoulder, where Sierra was making a ‘he’s crazy’ face at her and motioning for Neala to step back behind the safety of the counter.

  “Neala!” Sierra gasped as Neala was wrenched by the arm and hefted over the man’s shoulder as though she weighed nothing. Screeching, Neala began to beat his back, terrified by what was happening.

  “Stop it,” the man ordered. “I’m not going to hurt you. This isn’t about you. It’s about something so much bigger.”

  “Put me down!” Neala shrieked, determined to make a horrible scene as he carried her through the door and past the shocked group of mums with their strollers who immediately began to shout as well.

  But it wasn’t the mums who caused the man to pull up short. Oh no.

  Neala craned her head to look, but all she could see was a pair of dusty leather motorcycle boots, worn denim pants that fitted legs as large as tree trunks, and was that…? Well, if it was what she thought it was, the man certainly had done something to be on the right side of the angels when he was made. Neala figured the blood must be rushing to her head if she had time to think about any of this as Motorcycle Boots spoke.

  “Blake. You overstep yourself.”

  “I don’t give one damn. My woman is in mortal danger and yours needs to save her. We don’t have time for pussyfooting around waiting for Neala to figure out what she is. Clare will die.”

  Wait… what?

  Neala began to struggle again, refusing to be discussed as if she weren’t there, refusing to be subjected to whatever indignity this was – right in front of her own shop, no less – when the wail of the Garda’s sirens broke through the sounds of the crowd gathering.

  Thank goodness, Neala thought, an instant before everything surrounding them went dead quiet. Neala peered around, trying to see what had happened, then real panic set in, and she began to hyperventilate.

  For everything was gone. Where, moments ago, they’d been standing in front of her shop, now they stood silently in a field.

  Held captive by a madman, with only Motorcycle Boots to save her.

  Neala closed her eyes and tried to breathe.

  This had to be a dream.

  Chapter Five

  Neala gasped as she was unceremoniously dropped onto the ground in a heap, and the man called Blake turned to face Motorcycle Boots. Pushing herself up, Neala scrambled backwards on hands and feet – a fast crab crawl – to try and distance herself from the two, but also to see what was going on. When her eyes took in the full glory of Motorcycle Boots, she froze.

  “Dagda,” Blake bit out, crossing his arms as he glared at the man wearing motorcycle boots.

  Dagda, Neala whispered to herself, caught in the moment, completely mesmerized by the specimen of man… warrior… otherworldly whatever that stood before her.

  She’d thought Blake was large, but this Dagda, this man, towered above him. With deep brown hair shot with hints of gold and warm red, a ruddy beard, and shoulders easily double the size of Blake’s, Dagda was a force of nature. He reminded Neala of depictions of warriors from days past. His hands alone looked to be the size of her head, and she shivered to think of the harm he could cause her.

  Although, from the looks of it… he seemed to be trying to protect her?

  Neala gaped as Dagda leveled a glare at Blake, his hands clenched in tight fists and his shoulders shaking with barely restrained rage.

  “You will not touch my Seeker.”

  Dagda’s voice sent another shiver through her and awoke something deep within her… something she had been ignoring for a very long time. Surprised at herself, Neala reprimanded the baser side of her mind, and scrambled up to standing, her gaze darting between the two men.

  “Well, she needs to get off her arse and get moving. Everything’s changed – the rules have changed. Don’t you know? Domnu has the treasures. She’s kidnapped the Seekers, taken the treasures, and all will be lost. Clare… Clare’s gone,” Blake said.

  Neala heard it again, the sheer terror in his voice, and felt her empathy swell despite herself and this odd predicament she found herself in.

  “Um, I’m not certain what this is about. Would anyone want to clue me in?” she said, stepping forward, just a small step, but enough to draw their attention back to her. She shivered as Dagda looked at her, his eyes leaning more toward stormy skies than blue, and she felt herself warm once again. Even though he looked like he could break her in two with his bare hands, she wanted to lean in and wrap her arms around him – just to see if it would feel like hugging a big bear.

  “You see? She doesn’t even know. And we don’t have time for this,” Blake said, all but stomping his foot in the grass.

  “Having a fit is not going to speed up Neala’s learning process. It was not for you to interfere. It was meant for her to discover and learn in her own time,” Dagda said, his words measured, his arms now crossed over his chest. Neala’s mouth went dry as her eyes traced the thick muscles that bulged through the tartan shirt he wore.

  “Seriously, lads, I’m going to need you to fill me in here,” Neala said, exasperated that they continued to speak as if she wasn’t there. When they both ignored her and continued their little stand-off, Neala flung her hands in the air, turned on her heel, and stomped across the field. She had no idea where she was, or what direction she was going, but it wasn’t like the men behind her were brimming with information for her. At the very least, they’d be forced to go after her if she was so damn important to whatever it was they needed to do find this Clare person.

  What she wasn’t expecting was a flash of silver, ten glowing angry men, and her life zipping before her eyes as she crested the hill.

  With barely time to gasp out a warning, the men before her were torn in half by an enraged Dagda and Blake – both of whom worked in a blind fury – and the men, or whatever they were, melted into silvery puddles in the earth.

 
Stumbling back, Neala gaped at the silver drops, then up at the two men who towered over her, and back down to the puddles.

  “I… what… the… I…”

  “Lovely. The lass can barely speak,” Blake said.

  Dagda shook his head, quietly furious as he chastised Blake. “You would be confused, too, if you’d had the rude introduction you provided her. It’s best we go someplace safe. And soon.”

  “I know just the place. But let’s not tarry long. We’re needed.”

  Neala gasped as Dagda wrapped his tree-trunk arms around her – she’d been right; it was like being smothered, or trapped, by a bear – and in seconds the scenery around them changed.

  “Where… what…” Damn it, Neala thought. She’d once been convinced she was capable of handling herself in stressful situations. Running a business and working in customer service all day didn’t afford someone the option of being tongue-tied.

  “Magick,” Dagda said simply, his mouth quirking at the corner for a second as she slipped from his arms. They stood in front of what looked to be a castle, and a teeny tiny woman came out of the door, beaming and wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Come in, come in.” The woman gestured, and Blake rushed to hug her.

  “I am so lost,” Neala muttered.

  “Pay attention. We’ll get you up to speed soon enough,” Dagda said, leaving her side and striding to greet the woman, who barely came to his waist.

  “It seems I have no choice then,” Neala said. Remembering the scary silver men who had just tried to attack her, she scampered forward. These two may have kidnapped her, but they hadn’t killed her yet.

  Better the devil you know…

  Chapter Six

  The half-pint of a woman beamed up at Neala, and despite her misgivings, Neala smiled right back. It was impossible not to smile at the impish face, twinkling in delight at having visitors. Her white hair was bound in two braids down her back, and her small form radiated welcome.