by Megan Chance
I tried to read the book of Irish poetry that Patrick had given me so long ago, full of blood and thunder and anger. But I kept remembering tiny tenement rooms and boarders filling every space on the floor, swill milk and rotten cabbage and children playing in cesspools, and I wished the Ireland that Patrick worried about wasn’t the one so far away from here. I wished he could see . . . but then Mama’s words: “Those immigrants the Fianna care so much for—they’re not where your future lies.”
I closed my eyes and saw Diarmid standing in the street outside the pawnshop, his hair falling into his face, his confusion and pain stinging as if it were my own.
No, I can’t think of him. I won’t.
I listened to the house growing hushed, searching for reassurance in its music. There was Patrick’s, those lovely bass notes, subsiding into sleep, and then . . . then a song I’d never heard before. It was an uncomfortable melody, distorted as if notes had been torn apart and scattered. Nauseating. I didn’t know where it came from, or who it belonged to, and I tried to push it away and find something else—
A music I knew as well as my own. Fear and love. So close. So . . . close. No, it couldn’t be. I’d told him to leave me alone. My eyes flew open just in time to see my bedroom door open.
Diarmid slipped inside, closing the door behind him.
I sat up in surprise. Had I wanted him so much, I’d conjured up an illusion?
“Sssh.” He put his finger to his lips. “Quiet, unless you want me to be caught. I doubt I could escape this time.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came in with the coal delivery. I’ve been in the basement the last four hours.”
His face and clothes were streaked with coal dust. Yes, he was real. Very real. “Four hours?”
“’Twas the only way I could get in to see you.”
I put down the book and rose. “Did you not hear me this afternoon?”
“When you told me you didn’t want to see me again, you mean?” His expression hardened. “Aye. But I’m a bit slow, you remember. Best to explain it so I don’t get it wrong.”
“You have to go. Patrick’s just down the hall—”
“Sleeping like a baby. Snoring like a giant too.”
“Patrick doesn’t snore.”
“Now, how would you know that, lass? Don’t tell me I’ve reason to be more jealous than I am.”
“I want you to go. I want you to stay away from me.”
“The last time I saw you, you were declaring your undying love and promising to wait. You’ll pardon me if I’m wondering what happened between then and now.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You changed your mind.” He laughed shortly, advancing, and I backed up against the bedstead. “I came back to Governors Island to find you missing and no clue where you’d gone. For all I knew, you were abducted or dead. I’ve been searching for you for months.” He came close, nearly touching. My pulse, which was already racing, went wild. But his eyes were cold. He was every inch a Fianna warrior now. Ruthless and angry and threatening. “Tell me what happened.”
“Don’t try to intimidate me. You can’t frighten me. I know you too well.”
“Then you must know I went half-mad when you disappeared. I’ve never been so afraid in my life. You owe me an explanation, Grace.”
I supposed that was true. “I was in that pawnshop almost from the moment I left the island. The ogham stick told me it was where I would find the archdruid.”
Diarmid looked puzzled. “How?”
“I told you, when we . . . after we . . . my power felt changed. Stronger. I understood that part of the prophecy. It was as if it wanted me to find him.”
“But you couldn’t have been there. I was in that shop. Twice.”
“Twice? I only saw you the one time.”
“You saw me? And you said nothing?”
“I tried. He held me in a glamour. No one could see me. I tried to talk to you. I touched you, but . . .”
“That was you? I felt something, but . . . I don’t understand. That old man had been drained. How could he build such a strong glamour?”
“He isn’t the archdruid anymore. One of the sidhe drained him, and kept the power.”
Diarmid frowned. “Patrick said something about a sidhe archdruid. I didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“I’ve been studying with him. I’ve learned so much. And there’s still so much more—”
“But the ritual.” Diarmid’s voice was low and urgent. He grabbed my arms, and at his touch, my blood fired in recognition. “Is there another spell?”
“No. You were right. There’s no other spell.”
“The geis?” His voice was barely there.
I had to look away. “The geis too. It can’t be changed.”
“No,” he whispered. He pulled me to him, holding me so tightly, I heard the rapid beat of his heart.
I wanted to stay there forever. I wanted to breathe him in. But I gave him a light push. He resisted for one moment, and then he let me go.
I said, “You mean to do it, don’t you? You still mean to . . . kill the veleda.”
“By the gods, how can I?” His voice and his eyes were raw with misery.
“You’d refuse it? You would choose death?”
He looked racked with uncertainty. But I knew what his decision would be. He’d chosen love over duty once before, and it had nearly destroyed the Fianna. I knew how he regretted it. He would not choose love again.
“Please, go now. Don’t come near me again.” I wanted to be firm, but my voice cracked on the last words.
My hands were still pressed to his chest. He captured one, wrapping his fingers around mine. “What if I don’t believe that’s really what you want?”
“Diarmid—”
“We have so little time,” he said fiercely. “Why not spend it together? I don’t want to be apart from you, not even for a moment. Together, we can find some way—”
“There is no way.” It was so hard not to give in, not to say yes, yes, and tell him everything. Diarmid knew Druid ways, sidhe ways. Perhaps he would know what to do about the curse. But Iobhar’s warning kept me silent. Even an archdruid didn’t know what the effect of the split might be. How would a Fianna warrior? And if Diarmid could kill me, the girl he claimed to love, how much easier would it be to kill my grandmother, the vater?
“I don’t want to be with you,” I said. “I don’t love you.”
“Look at me,” he said.
“The lovespell is gone. The archdruid took it away when I asked him to.”
“You said it wasn’t the spell that made you love me. You insisted on it.”
“I was wrong. You were right.”
“Grace,” he said. “Kiss me.”
The words. His deep voice. The spell of him . . . “Why should I do that? I just told you I don’t care for you any longer.”
“If you want me to believe you, then kiss me. I’ll know then if what you say is true.”
“I don’t want to kiss you.”
“Are you afraid?” he challenged.
I was. I was afraid of how much I wanted to kiss him, of everything he would know once I did. I could lie well enough with words, but this . . . I couldn’t hide the way my body responded to his.
He leaned close. I felt the warmth of his breath as he said, “If you want me to go, you’ll have to show me you don’t care. Otherwise I’ll never leave you. Not until we’re both dead, and even then, if there is an Otherworld, I’ll follow you there. I can promise that.”
I felt the hand of fate—how was it I could still want him so much, even knowing what must be? Remember what’s at risk. The choice you have to make. I had to lie to him and make him believe it.
I took a deep breath, gathering my strength, setting my mind against him. And then I kissed him.
I willed myself to feel nothing. I meant it to be a quick, nothing kiss, but even that brief touch sent my blood singin
g. I drew away. “There, you see? I—”
He dragged me back and kissed me again, and I was lost. My mouth opened beneath his, and his tongue played with mine; his hands were on my hips, keeping me in place, and in the kiss was everything that had passed between us—every other kiss, every touch, lying with him in a storehouse on a bed of straw. He trembled. I felt his longing and love, and it matched mine.
“We have so little time. Why not spend it together?” Oh, I wanted to. I wanted to . . .
But no. No. I forced myself to go numb. I made myself think of the lie I wanted him to believe. I didn’t love him. I didn’t want him. What was between us was over.
It is. It has to be.
I knew when he felt it. He pressed deeper, trying to get me to respond. I wouldn’t let myself. He drew back, frowning, and then he kissed me again, fluttering little kisses at the corners of my mouth, my jaw, my throat. I stiffened in resistance.
Finally, he drew away. He looked bewildered and hurt and disbelieving, and I hated it. I hated how wrong it felt.
I made myself say, cruelly, “You see? Does that prove it to you? Now will you go?”
If he heard the tremor in my voice, he said nothing. He gave me a long, considering look. “Aye. I’ll go. I won’t trouble you again.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He turned toward the door, and then he turned back. “You know I’ll never stop loving you, Grace.”
This was so much harder than I wanted it to be. “Just go, Derry.” When he reached for the doorknob, I said, “Don’t get caught. Please. Be careful.”
He looked over his shoulder and flashed that arrogant, cocky smile. “Why, lass, you sound as if you care.”
The words echoed—he’d said them before, the last time he’d sneaked into my room, so long ago now that it seemed another lifetime. I was caught in that memory as I watched him slip out as silently as he’d come. I stood there for a long time, listening to the clock on my mantle, the ticking of the minute hand. One and two, then fifteen, then twenty—until I knew he was truly gone.
He wasn’t coming back. I had sent him away, and it was best.
It was best.
It is best.
The next moment
Diarmid
She’d tried to fool him, but he’d seen the love in her eyes and felt it in her kiss, no matter that she’d tried to hide it. Even so, Grace had done something no lass under the lovespell had ever done. She’d sent him away.
Diarmid hadn’t thought it possible. The ball seirce bound too tightly. It stole a girl’s will. Grace should not have been able to refuse him. And yet she had.
How? More importantly, why?
The question nagged at him—along with everything else she’d said—as he made his way back to the others. A sidhe archdruid. No way around the prophecy or the geis. He told himself that was why she wanted him to go. She was afraid.
But it was more than that. She was changed. She seemed settled in her power, with a newfound confidence he liked. And whatever Cannel said, Diarmid knew she was no goddess. He knew what that kind of power felt like; he’d beheld the Morrigan on many occasions. Such power was terrifying, no matter how well meant. Grace had something, but not that.
But what to tell Finn? How to tell him the veleda was not only found but in Fomori hands? Diarmid doubted Aidan had said anything. Why would he? He’d been working with Patrick Devlin in secret. He’d practically given Grace to Patrick. Diarmid didn’t want to think of what Finn might do if he knew.
The basement flat was swarming with people. A party. A fiddler was playing a jig, and everyone who wasn’t drinking was dancing, including Oscar, who whirled with some pretty lass. Clapping and shouting and whistling filled Diarmid’s ears. At the far end, Conan worked a keg, his bald head shining in the lamplight.
It was the last thing Diarmid was in the mood for. He made his way through the crowd, nodding greetings as he looked for Finn. The music stopped, exhausted dancers left the floor while others took their place, and the fiddler began another song. Some lass grabbed Diarmid’s arm and said breathlessly, “Come on, Derry. Dance with me!”
He shook his head and tried to smile. “Later, maybe.”
He spotted Finn at last, talking with Keenan. Diarmid headed over. He didn’t know what his captain saw in his face, but Finn frowned and clapped Keenan on the back so hard, he nearly choked. “Go on now and look to that lass you’ve been eyeing.”
Keenan left. The music and noise were too loud. Diarmid saw Aidan across the room. Grace’s brother looked worried. Of course he does.
“What are we celebrating?” Diarmid asked Finn.
His captain eyed him sharply. “Nothing. Just relieving tension. What is it?”
No point in delaying. Diarmid said bluntly, “The veleda’s been found.”
“When? Who found her?” Finn asked.
“She was in that pawnshop with the drained Druid. Oscar and I couldn’t see her because she’d been glamoured by one of the sidhe who has taken on the archdruid’s powers.”
“Taken on . . . how is that even possible?”
Diarmid shrugged. “’Tis true, that’s all I know. Patrick Devlin found a way to release her. She’s with him now.”
“She’s with Devlin?” Finn’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“You remember Glasny? Neasa’s protector?”
“I’m unlikely to forget the bane of my existence.”
“Patrick is Grace’s Glasny.”
Finn groaned. “That is not good news.”
“Not for us, no.”
“You’ll have to find a way to bring her back to us.”
The music was irritating, the celebration grating. Diarmid’s head began to ache. “It’s over, Finn,” he said. “She’s asked me to leave her alone, and she’s well guarded at Patrick’s. I won’t kidnap her again. Aidan might be able to persuade her, but she’s done with me.”
“She’s still under the lovespell, isn’t she?”
“She’s not just any lass, Finn. She’s been training with the archdruid. She’s not as she was. She’s the veleda, and she has a mind not easily swayed by spells. Could you make Neasa do something she didn’t want to do? Because that is Grace now.”
He was relieved when he saw that Finn understood. “What about the goddess power?”
“I don’t think it is goddess power. She has power, but it’s surely not as strong as the Morrigan’s.”
“No doubt such things have changed over time. Perhaps more training—”
“I don’t think that will make a difference.” Diarmid struggled for the right words. “Cannel needs to look at those cards of his again, because he’s got something wrong.”
“You’ve suddenly become a Seer, have you?”
“I’m telling you, her power is like . . . like Aidan’s,” Diarmid insisted. “Not a stormcaster’s, but her power’s no bigger than that.”
Finn considered this. “You didn’t see Aidan’s power. Why should I trust you about hers?”
“Maybe I didn’t feel it then, but I do now. And I feel hers every time I touch her. D’you think Aidan is more than a eubages?”
“No. He’s a Seer and a stormcaster, but that’s all.”
“Grace is the same. Whatever Cannel’s divining isn’t what he thinks.”
Finn rubbed his jaw. “Very well. I’ll think on that. But we can’t leave her in Fomori hands, Diarmid. Tell Aidan I want him to persuade her.”
“Me? Why don’t you tell him?”
“Because there’s something between you two.”
“Aye,” Diarmid said dryly. “Dislike. And distrust.”
“Go talk to him.”
Diarmid sighed, uncertain why he was leaving it at that, why he hadn’t told Finn about Aidan and Patrick Devlin. Because of Grace, he supposed. Always because of Grace.
Smiling as best he could at his neighbors and skirting the dancing, Diarmid pushed his way through the raucous crowd to Aidan, who watched him approach wi
th obvious dread.
Well, good. Let him worry.
“I need to talk to you,” Diarmid said when he reached him.
“What did you tell Finn?” Aidan asked warily.
“That Grace was rescued, and that she was with Patrick. I didn’t tell him you were involved.”
“Why not?”
“I was hoping you could give me a reason not to.”
Aidan motioned for him to come closer. “You went to see Grace tonight.”
“What makes you think I did that?”
“I feel her, remember? Now the glamour’s been lifted, I can feel her again. I feel a connection to you too—and believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do. I know you were together.”
Aidan knew what Grace felt. It was disconcerting, and not just because Diarmid didn’t like Aidan Knox knowing his most intimate moments. The whole thing was odd, wasn’t it? That kind of bond? Feeling things as if they were one . . .
“Then you know she told me to leave her alone. Again.”
“Do you mean to?”
“I don’t know what I mean to do about anything. There’s still the geis. The archdruid said it can’t be changed. I never thought it could, but I hoped . . .” He let the words fall away, too weary to face them. “If I don’t do it . . .”
“What happens?” Aidan asked.
“We fail and die. Never to return to any world. But we’ll be the lucky ones.”
“Why?”
“If we lose, the Fomori will enslave everyone. They won’t kill you or Cannel—you’re too valuable—but you’ll wish they had. They’ll force you to use your power to help them until you’ve gone mad, but they won’t let you die, not until they’ve taken everything they can.” After the last war, the Fianna had found prisons full of Druids. Blabbering, reeking, helpless, fingers blistered and bodies racked from overused power. Their minds had been broken; they’d been unable to tell their Fianna rescuers from Fomori torturers. It had been a kindness to give them poison and send them to the Otherworld.