“You snuck up on me.” Devin shook Bren off and spun around, glaring.
“I came to find out what the hell happened to you. You mean you didn’t hear me coming in the middle of a Force Ten gale? Can’t understand why. Or maybe you were too busy doing your impression of a tortured cat. What was that tune, anyway?”
Devin struggled to answer, his mind as numb as his fingers, the spell lingering. “The wind. I was copying it.”
“Of course,” Bren said. “Because that’s one thing we don’t hear enough of around here. The sound of the wind.” He brandished the fiddle case. “Found this where you left it. You scared the crap out of me, leaving our gear and taking off like that.”
Bren wrenched the fiddle and bow from Devin’s frozen hands and returned them to the case, snapping the clips shut before shoving it towards him.
“Don’t handle it like that! It needs to be dried first,” Devin protested.
“Yeah, because playing it in a downpour isn’t bad for it at all.”
Taking him by the arm, Bren began herding him away from the cliff. Devin dodged out of his grip, a strange sense of urgency unnerving him.
“Bren, wait! I saw… I don’t know what I saw. Down there. Aileen’s. And something was in it. Someone. Well, more than one—”
“Are you having me on? No-one in their right mind would be out there today. Of course,” Bren mused, “I’ve never met a big wave surfer who was in their right mind.” His startling blue eyes searched Devin’s. “Fuck it. Alright. Grab on to my geansaí. And whatever you do, don’t let go.”
Devin wedged his case carefully behind a rock as Bren jumped the wall. With Devin clutching his shoulders, he inched towards the edge, whistling at the sight of the churning swell.
“I’ve never seen it this bad.” The wind surged, batting them forwards and backwards like a cat toying with a crippled bird. Bren almost slipped from his grasp and a wave of panic hollowed out Devin’s stomach before he caught hold of him again.
Steadying himself, Bren pushed against Devin, forcing them both backwards behind the wall. “That was close. It’s getting worse. Let’s go!”
“But… can… can we not… I mean… if there is someone—”
“There’s no one there!” Bren snatched up the fiddle case. He leaned in, his voice low and firm, his breath warm on Devin’s chilled ear. “What is up with you, Dev? I know it’s a Donovan thing, throwing yourselves into the ocean, but guess what? It’s not fucking compulsory.”
Bren’s words scorched Devin, lighting his anger. But before he could respond, Bren pinned his arm in an iron grip and yanked him bodily inland, away from danger.
They moved off, fighting the storm, huddling together so closely that Bren’s flying hair stung Devin’s eyes. He forced himself to follow, even as the three dark shapes echoed in his mind like a siren’s call, urging him back towards the edge.
Chapter 3
Fintan
Spluttering, Fintan surfaced, the briny water burning his nostrils and Cap’s hand heavy on his shoulder. Beside him, Airech was muttering darkly, his blue-black hair plastered over his striking face. He swept it back with an impatient hand and turned to the hulking man treading water behind him.
“Was that really necessary, Cap, you overgrown circus pony?”
“By all means, insult the demon horse shifter,” Fintan said. “If he decides to take his animal form now, you’ll be going under again. Permanently, this time. Anyway, he couldn’t help his reaction. Aill Na Searrach holds painful memories for him.”
Airech glared at Cap. “You’d think after a couple of millennia you’d be over it, big guy.”
Eyes narrowing, the muscle-bound god answered him with a stony stare.
“Tóg go bog é, Capall Donnrua.” Fintan unleashed his calming powers, his face glowing with gentle warmth, and he felt Cap’s iron grip relax. Tilting his head, he listened into the wind, waiting for it to carry the music to him. But the gale was an empty howl, with no other sound except the slapping of the waves.
He scanned the imposing wall of rock. Cap had towed them around the next headland, putting some distance between them and the stretch of coast where they’d surfaced. Unfortunately, he’d also taken them away from the mysterious musician on the cliff.
Fintan sighed softly. He was not having a good century. Which was saying something, considering he’d lived through more of them than most.
Trapped in his study, spending hour after hour combing through ancient texts, he often wished he could be somewhere else. But it was another thing to suddenly be somewhere else. Especially if that somewhere was in the middle of a forty-foot wave in a churning ocean. From the moment he surfaced it had been one icy shock after another, finding Airech beside him and the stranger serenading them. Before being dragged through deep water, courtesy of a fractious Cap.
Recovering his cheerfulness, Airech gave Fintan a brash grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Fintan looked at him quizzically. “I don’t believe this is accidental.”
Airech rolled his eyes. “I know. That was actually a joke. How long has it been, since we were all together last? Two months?”
“Two years,” Fintan replied. “You said you were going to the mortal realm to follow up on something promising, and that was the last Cap and I saw of you.”
“I guess I lost track of time.” Airech’s forehead creased. “Two years ago? That was probably Seán from Sligo.” He grinned again, wider this time. “He did live up to his promise. Though he was a dead loss as far as our quest was concerned.”
Distracted by his thoughts, Fintan hardly heard him. “The three of us, being called together like this. The very same thing happened the day we formed our band.”
A century ago, Fintan had been seized from his peaceful retirement in the Otherworld and catapulted through various dimensions, crashing into the mortal realm. Seconds later, two other gods had landed on top of him—a flirty, audacious Milesian and a murderous Tuatha Dé Danann shapeshifter. It had been a bruising start to an often painful relationship.
Raising his eyebrows, Airech shot Fintan a look. “The day we formed our band? You mean, the day our band was reluctantly thrown together by some incomprehensible force.”
“At least on this occasion,” Fintan said, “we can identify the force.”
He tried to temper his rising hope, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from shining as he smiled at Cap. The god responded with a grunt that could be interpreted as excitement or apathy. It was hard to tell the difference—Cap wasn’t known for his emotional range.
“You mean the young guy on the cliff? You seriously think that mortal is the one who summoned us?” Airech’s feelings were obviously less ambivalent.
“We don’t know he is mortal,” Fintan reminded him.
“Come on, Fintan. Did you get a proper look at him? Because I did. He’s exceedingly lovely, but he’s no god.”
“I try not to be blinded by how things appear, but how they are,” Fintan responded mildly. “And at this moment, you can’t deny we are treading water in the middle of an ocean. So, we can logically assume someone summoned us, and on the balance of probabilities, that person is the one who was there when we surfaced.”
“It’s not like I want you to be wrong, old man. I’m as anxious as you are to find the one we’re looking for, and fulfil the prophecy.” Airech shrugged. “I was ready for this to be over ninety-nine years ago. I’m only saying he doesn’t look very godlike to me.”
“Yes, but he’s…” The depth of Fintan’s knowledge might have been unfathomable, but he still found himself searching for the right words to describe exactly what the man was. His flying hair and tormented song had lodged themselves so deeply in Fintan’s mind he was finding it hard to concentrate. And for the oldest and wisest man in Ireland, that was a worrying development.
Airech gave a knowing grin. “He is captivating, in his way. Any idea who he is?”
“You’re the one familiar with the
mortal realm. I was hoping you could tell us,” Fintan said. “Have you never come across him on your travels?”
“There are nearly five million people in this land these days, Fintan.”
“Yes, and every time you return and recount your adventures to us, it seems you’ve become familiar with another large swathe of them.”
Airech winked. “I haven’t even reached the million mark. Not yet. Give me time. And I definitely haven’t seen this one before. This one, I’d remember.” His face turned serious. “Let’s hope he is who you think he is. I’m looking forward to spending the rest of my immortality without you and Black Beauty here. No offence,” he added, as Cap closed in on him with a mutinous expression.
Giving an impatient snort, Cap raked the water restlessly with his powerful arms as Airech regarded him warily.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m not too keen on being violently submerged against my will again.”
Fintan nodded, forcing his razor-sharp mind to slice through the haze conjured up by the fiddler’s tune.
“There’s an ancient refuge nearby. Kilcornan caves. That’s where we will gather. Cap is familiar with it—he’ll guide you.”
“I’ll make my own way. I have some unfinished business in Dublin first.” The words were barely out of Airech’s mouth before Cap lifted him bodily. Ignoring his loud protests, the burly god began carrying him to the shore, leaving a churning wake behind them. Airech’s powerful fists bounced harmlessly off his expansive back. He looked to Fintan for help, but the wise man met his indignant look with an apologetic shrug.
“Your business, whatever their name is, will have to wait,” he called after Airech. The water rippled around Fintan as he shifted, taking his animal form. The faster he got to the caves, the better. And hopefully in time to prevent his immortal companions from somehow killing each other.
Chapter 4
Devin
A particularly cringe-worthy version of Danny Boy blared from the bedside table, getting progressively louder as Devin cursed and snatched up his phone to shut it down. Damn Bren. If he messed with his alarm again, it would be time for some serious retaliation. Maybe a ‘90s boy band at ear-piercing volume.
He debated whether it was worth untangling himself from his cosy duvet, considering busking was cancelled for the day. After such a fierce storm, management had closed the whole site until someone checked all the fencing and cliff walks. Apparently, Emer had decided visitors plummeting to their deaths would be bad for the tourism industry.
That counted as one vote for staying in bed. But that would set him on a collision course with the long-ago part of him that still thought like an athlete in training. After years of his Dad’s conditioning, he knew that guilty, nagging feeling was inevitable if he didn’t get up and at least attempt to do something with his life.
And if his conscience gave him the day off Bren was sure to take over, appearing in the doorway with his “Oh, what a beautiful morning” routine. He may as well skip the torture and haul his arse up now. Reluctantly he stumbled out into the sitting room of the small cottage.
Bren was sprawled on the sofa, phone up to his ear. His usual detritus of dirty mugs and half-read books lay scattered on the table, next to his open laptop. Glancing at it, Devin could see some old black and white film playing silently, Bren’s earbuds dangling from the jack. He was willing to bet his housemate had already seen it several times and inflicted it upon Devin at least once. Along with hundreds of documentaries and thirteen seasons of Supernatural.
It didn’t matter how many times Bren described himself as intellectually curious, Devin still preferred to call him a smart arse. From the very first time they’d met, in the backseat of the social worker’s car, Bren had known things. About everything. Even though he was so messed up it was clear ‘School of Hard Knocks’ wouldn’t begin to describe what he’d been through. ‘Academy of Arse Whippings’ might have come close.
Bren nodded in his direction as Devin picked up the empty mugs from the coffee table and moved to the ’80s-vintage kitchenette to prepare a fresh pot of tea. While it was steeping, he stepped out through the peeling front door into the anaemic winter sunshine, hardly noticing the sodden ground on his naked feet. The front garden was stunted and wind-scorched, one of the trade-offs for living practically on the edge of the world. Off to his left, in the distance, he could make out the two-storey farmhouse where his guardian lived.
He leaned against the wall of the cottage, the rough stone hinting at its humble beginnings as a farmhand’s hut. Now it was home to the two lost boys that Tom Kelly, bachelor farmer and all-round gentleman, had taken in on the same night all those years ago. It was an arrangement that suited everyone, especially considering the never-ending jam sessions that went on there. Since Tom had retired a few years ago and started spending more time in the States with his cousins, the shenanigans in the little house had gotten increasingly wilder.
When Devin came inside to pour the tea, Bren was saying his final goodbyes, which in the typical Irish fashion lasted nearly as long as the call itself. He dropped his phone on the table.
“That was Flaherty. He didn’t tow any surfers out to the wave last night because as I suspected, he’s not a madman. I thought I’d better check, though. Oh, thank you, domestic goddess,” he added, reaching to take the tea from Devin’s hands. Devin retaliated by keeping a hold of the handle, forcing Bren to grip the hot mug and set it down hastily.
“I never said they were surfers. I knew they weren’t.”
“How come?”
“No boards, for a start.” Devin flopped beside him.
“Maybe the figments of your imagination left them in their non-existent vehicle.” Flashing one of his grins, Bren picked up his mug again and took a swig. “Needs more milk.”
“Could we talk about something else, preferably something that doesn’t make me sound like a complete stumpamadán?” Devin snapped.
“That does somewhat limit the topics of conversation.”
Bren jumped to his feet, tea sloshing, leaving Devin’s playful punch swinging harmlessly in the air.
“Since you’re up, you can get your own milk.” Devin put his feet up on the table with an irritable thump and crossed his ankles. Even though he knew it was pointless getting annoyed. Bren would pretend not to notice, as usual. He never got sucked into the black hole of Devin’s moods, even at their worst.
“Not only will I get the milk, I’ll even put on some toast for you, as long as I can have one last word.”
Devin sighed. “As if I have any say in it.”
“Finally you’re making sense.” Bren took a milk carton out of the fridge and sniffed the contents warily before splashing some into his tea. “Let’s start with the obvious. You didn’t see anyone, and deep down you knew that from the start. If you really thought there was someone out there, you’d be running to get help, not standing there serenading them with your deranged storm sonata.”
Devin had no problem admitting that Bren might be right. Saying it out loud was the part he struggled with.
“I… guess so,” he said after a long pause.
“Do you think…” Bren hesitated. “Is it some sort of memory from… you know… from that night?”
Devin scowled and shifted uncomfortably. There was only one thing he hated more than thinking about that night, and that was talking about it.
The mind was mysterious, they’d told him. As if that was any consolation for starting with a blank slate at the age of fourteen, after the sea chewed him up and spit him out. Though it hadn’t been a total reset.
When they’d discovered him at the bottom of the cliffs, dazed and coughing up half the ocean, he knew how to walk and eat and generally be human. And more advanced things, like the European capitals and basic algebra. He even remembered how to play the fiddle they found lying beside him. The rest of it had come back to him, eventually. Except for one thing.
How he’d survived in the first p
lace.
“Let me get this straight—you think my brain decided to randomly insert three hot guys into the memory of my almost-death?”
“You never told me they were hot.”
Devin felt his face flame under Bren’s questioning look.
“I couldn’t see much of their faces. There was just… something about the way they were looking at me. It’s too hard to explain. If you saw them, you’d get it.”
Bren gave a twisted smile. “Probably not. You know I’m hopeless when it comes to that sort of thing. I can’t flirt with someone a foot away, never mind a few leagues of ocean.” He took a slurp of tea and grimaced. “Too much milk.” He abandoned his mug on the cluttered counter and crossed the floor.
“Look, Dev. I wouldn’t worry too much about all this. That wave took everything from you. Is it any wonder it freaks you out? It’s perfectly understandable. And it doesn’t make you weird.”
Sweeping Devin’s feet off the coffee table, Bren sat on it directly in front of him, his expression more serious than usual. “I’m sorry. What I said about your family—that was out of order. I was pretty wound up, but that’s no excuse.”
“No, you were right.” Devin’s head dropped, his eyes tracing the patterns swirling in the garish carpet.
“Bren, I’ve not said this to anyone. But my mom, she… she saw my dad in that wave. Before she jumped. She told me he’d come back for her and the next second…” His throat was suddenly hoarse, the words clawing him on their way out. “Anyway. You know what happened after that.”
Devin was painfully aware everyone in the village had a version of that story. Young Donovan, promising body surfer, so much like his Dad. Scrambling down the cliff path, the rocks tearing at him as he half-ran, half-tumbled. Plunging into the treacherous water during a furious winter storm, trying to save his mother. They might be able to imagine it, but Devin was the one who had to relive it in his nightmares.
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