Blood Moon

by KB Anne

  “I promise I will never hurt you. Do you believe me?”

  Spellbound, I manage to nod along with him.

  “Good,” he says, resting me back against his chest. “It’s not every day a siofra comes into my life.”

  “Shee-fra? What’s that?”

  “A Celtic fairy. You are exactly what I envision a fairy to look like.”

  I relax into his embrace, finding comfort and peace with a complete and utter stranger.

  After a few minutes, he shifts away from me. “Better?”

  “Better.”

  “Now,” he says, reaching for my hand, “let’s get you some breakfast. You’re but a wee little thing.”

  I allow him to pull me to him, before stiffening my arm. “Seriously, you are going to start cracking short jokes.”

  “I would never joke about my fairy queen, especially after all we’ve done.” He raises an eyebrow suggestively.

  “We did have sex, didn’t we.” I don’t know why that would mortify me, but it does to my very core. My cheeks glow with embarrassment—also new to me.

  He lets me sweat it out for far too long, before he grins. “We didn’t. I was a gentleman. You, on the other hand, were a complete banshee.”

  I punch in the arm. “Oh, shut it. I was not.”

  He rubs the spot. “For a wee little thing, you pack a punch. Now, what would my siofra like for breakfast?”

  “You keep calling me your siofra. Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?” Although I’m actually kinda thrilled at his term of endearment for me.

  “Did you not dance with me all night?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Did you not stay here last night?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Are you not crazy about me?”

  “Yes, but . . . Hey, you tricked me!” He catches my hand as I swat at him—as if he already knew what I was thinking.

  “You were merely answering my questions honestly.”

  I’m about to protest, but he places his finger across my lips. His confidence greatly underscores my desire to argue, and I realize I’ve hooked up with dozens of guys and girls, but I’ve never interacted with them after our physical exchange. My boots were on, and I was out the door before they could ask for my number or if they could see me again. Even with Breas, we never actually talked. With Alaric, everything is different. I want it to be different.

  “Now, let’s get my siofra some breakfast, and then I’ll take you home.”

  Home. Shit. Dad and Amorin must be going out of their minds. “I really should go . . .”

  “I’ll take you after you eat. No arguments,” he says, leading me down the hall into a kitchen remarkably similar to Amorin’s. He ushers me over to a round oak table and pulls out a chair for me.

  “Help yourself,” he says, sitting down next to me.

  Someone—Was it Alaric?—set out a pitcher of orange juice, a pile of scones, and a bowl of fresh fruit.

  “Were you expecting company, or do you always have company?” I pick up a blueberry scone, trying not to sound possessive or interested, but I am definitely both.

  “I wish I could take credit. My nan laid out breakfast for us. And, no, I don’t always have company. Normally, I stay at the girl’s place.”

  The scone crumbles in my hand.

  He hands me a new scone, then brushes a lock of my white hair behind my ear, leaving a length of black hanging down in front. “Kidding. Sometimes Nan just knows when good things are coming around the corner. Eat! You need your strength.”

  He adds some fruit to my plate and pours me some orange juice before getting his own breakfast ready. With his attention placed on the scone, I consider his features. His green eyes have almost a supernatural glow to them, even in the low light of the kitchen. His black hair, gently tousled from sleep, makes me want to run my fingers through it. His jaw is strong and well defined, and he has the most kissable lips I’ve ever laid eyes on. In all definitions of gorgeous, he’s it.

  “Have I satisfied your appraisal?” he asks as he swallows his bite.

  I reach for the orange juice. “Excuse me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He turns the full power of his gaze on me. “Were you or were you not checking me out?”

  I tear apart my scone. “I wasn’t checking you out.”

  “I studied you last night while you slept. I figure you should have a few minutes to do the same. Do you like what you see? And be honest.”

  I refuse to meet his eyes and fall under his enchantment again, but I decide to answer honestly—also new. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Likewise,” he says, mirroring my self-righteous act, which makes me giggle. Actually giggle. Me, Gigi Brennan, giggling. What the hell’s wrong with me? But giggling feels good. Great actually. I haven’t felt this light since . . . Lizzie died. I shudder at my realization.

  “Is everything all right, Gi?”

  Surprise. Pain. Anger. I latch onto these emotions. “Why did you call me that? How do you know my nickname?”

  He raises his palms to me. “You told me.”

  I throw down my napkin and stand up. “I didn’t.”

  He rushes over to block my exit. “Gigi, calm down. You told me your name last night right before you fell asleep. You’re not a very trusting person, are you?”

  I step away from him. “I have my reasons.”

  He folds me into a powerful embrace that dissipates all the hurt that once rushed through me. “I never want to let you go,” he whispers, breathing me in.

  I breathe him in too, and think to myself, I don’t want you to either.

  21

  Myth Busters

  Alaric dropped me off at Amorin’s cottage gate, leaving me with a sweet kiss on my forehead to last me until our next encounter, which cannot come fast enough.

  “Until we meet again, and I hope it’s soon,” he whispered, then lifted his foot back on the footrest of his motorcycle and sped off down the country road.

  I watched him until he disappeared around the bend then sighed. I have never felt so content, so at peace with my world. With Alaric everything feels different, and that should scare me, but for some reason, I welcome it.

  The front door swings open, and Amorin rushes down the path with dark circles under his eyes.

  “Gigi, dear, where have you been?”

  Guilt rakes through me. I thought only about myself last night. I forgot that Dad and Amorin would worry about me. Or I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anyone but myself and my own desires.

  Selfish bitch, step right up.

  “Amorin, I’m sorry. I went to a club and wound up staying at a friend’s house.” A very sexy friend. “I wasn’t thinking. I was stupid. It won’t happen again.”

  “Gigi,” he says, “you are a sixteen-year-old girl who has had a tremendous burden placed upon her. You are allowed to be stupid sometimes. You are allowed to act on your impulses. It’s the reason why you’re here.”

  My eyes fill in response. His belief in me is overwhelming and misplaced.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Not here because he’s already at the library . . .?”

  He swallows as he sticks out his arm for me. “He hasn’t returned home since he left after breakfast yesterday.”

  “Did he say where he was going? Have you looked for him?”

  He ignores my questions—or chooses not to answer them. “Gigi, there’s someone I would like you to meet.”

  An old woman, the counterpart to Amorin, marches down the path toward us.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Gigi. The name’s Clarissa Radley.”

  “As in the Clarissa Radley from Vernal Falls?”

  “I don’t believe an article is necessary before my name but, yes.”

  “But you’ve got to be over a hundred and fifty years old. I mean, you look old but not that old.” Then I realize what I said and how insulting it
was. What can I say? I can be a real bitch, and backpedaling often causes more problems than just being truthful.

  She doesn’t appear the least bit offended though. “Oh, I’m much older than that, but how or why is for another time and place. We need to find your father.” She spins on her heel and follows a path along the side of the cottage.

  “Amorin, Dad is all I have left.”

  “We’ll find him. Have some faith.”

  I lost faith long ago, but maybe Clarissa and Amorin can aid me to regain some of it.

  * * *

  Clarissa’s waiting in Amorin’s ceremonial garden for us. When we enter, she grasps our hands so we stand in a tight circle.

  “All right, dear, I want you to concentrate on your father’s face and focus all your thoughts on him.”

  I consider his features. His sandy brown hair, his deep brown eyes, his suede-elbowed jackets, his love of old books, his dedication to Druidry, and his love for me—because I know above all else, he loves me. Without intention, though, Alaric’s face flashes into my head. His brilliant green eyes, his wavy black hair, his yummy, luscious lips . . . I try to focus back on Dad, but my thoughts keep shifting to Alaric.

  Clarissa’s warm hand pulses mine. “Who’s that boy, Gigi?”

  “Sorry. I met him last night. I don’t know why I can’t get him out of my head.”

  She breaks the circle and sits down in one of the wooden chairs in the garden. “Not to worry, dear. The sight often comes to us in different ways, and it’s up to us to figure out what it’s telling us. Besides, as Amorin reminded you earlier, it’s the reason why you’re here. The boy’s awfully cute. What’s his name?”

  “Alaric.”

  Amorin takes a seat next to Clarissa. “Young love. What a beautiful thing.”

  I cross my legs and sit down in the grass. “Love? I just met the guy. I hardly know him. I’m not in love. Did you see Dad?”

  Clarissa nods. “I did, but I don’t know where he is. He does not appear to be in any immediate danger, so for the time being, I suggest we wait and see.”

  “You can’t be serious. I can’t wait for Dad to just show up. He could be in trouble.”

  She shakes her head. “Dear, he isn’t in immediate danger, and for now, that’s all we need to worry about.”

  I shift between anger and disbelief. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me we just wait for Dad to show up? Amorin, are you okay with this?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re suggesting. Life will unfold on its own over the next few days. Now, if I know you, I believe you have some questions for Clarissa.”

  “Spill it,” she says.

  I stare at her, trying to decide if I should push the issue of finding Dad, but her eyes hold a firm resolve I know better than to argue with, because it’s just like mine.

  “What happened the day the boys burned your barn down?”

  She blinks back the tears that begin to well in the corner of her eyes. “The day was like any other. I tended to the animals and gardens in the early morning before heading into the woods to collect medicinal herbs and other wildflowers. I remember sniffing a lilac tree.” She stops and smiles at me. “I love the smell of lilacs on a crisp, cool spring morning. But suddenly, as I was sniffing them, a sharp acrid smell rose from the blossoms. My body began to burn all over like it was on fire, and that’s when I knew something was wrong. I rushed through the woods to the barn, only to find it completely ablaze. I grabbed buckets of water and tried to douse the flames, but the fire was out of control. I ran to the barn door, but the flames knocked me backward. I heard laughing. Loud, joyous laughing. And that’s when I saw the three boys on the hill. I recognized the one boy. I had helped his mother during her pregnancy. He had given her a lot of trouble in the womb, and when I saw him fixated on the fire, I knew why. He was evil to the core, and no amount of love and understanding was going to change him. He must have sensed me staring at him because he turned to me. The sinister glint in his eyes chilled me to the core. At that moment, I knew I had to leave Vernal Falls. It was time to return to Kildare and continue training followers of the Order of Brigit.”

  “Before you left, did you curse the boys? Is that why they drowned themselves?” I’m curious about the true power of witchcraft.

  She shifts in her seat, her hands clutching the armrests. “Dear, I have never once in all my days used dark magic against another living being. Those boys drowned themselves as a result of their own guilt. I had nothing to do with their deaths. No upstanding witch or Druid pursues such a path. Death and destruction will follow evil into the Underworld, but in this world, there is nothing more dangerous than a malevolent witch.”

  The heat of her anger washes over me, and I know never to cross her, but there’s still so much I want to know.

  “Why didn’t you bring the animals back to life?”

  “Child,” she says with a heavy sigh, “I do not possess the ability to raise the dead, nor would I, if I did. Once a soul passes, it is best to leave the soul alone. Your grandmother asked that very same question many years ago when she was just beginning to follow Brigit. As you know, she was a seer who loved fiercely. The concept of the Otherworld was new to her, just as it is new to you. She was skeptical of the power of meditation and the ability to connect to those we lose in the Otherworld. I believe she had foreseen that many in her life would die, and she wanted to protect them.”

  Tears spring to my eyes. Gram’s love was equal to none.

  “Gigi,” Clarissa says, breaking me out of my daze, “I know you don’t believe you are Brigit reincarnated, but do you know anything about her?”

  I push myself up off the ground. “I think I’ll go lie down for a while. I’m a little tired.”

  Amorin, remarkably fast for his age, stands up to stop me. “Gigi, we’re not asking you to believe anything. We just want you to hear her story. It’s time your learned about Brigit of Kildare.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to listen,” Clarissa says. “And it could help your Dad and your brother.”

  At the mention of Scott, I glance over at her. She smiles at me. She knows my weak spot and is not afraid to use it.

  I plop back down. “Fine, but it’s not going to change anything.”

  Clarissa winks at Amorin before handing me a delicate piece of fabric. “This tapestry has hung on my wall for many years. It is my most cherished possession.”

  I carefully drape it across my lap. Along the center, someone embroidered an old woman bent over backward. A young girl emerges from the old woman’s stomach, reaching toward a blue sky. Above the old woman’s head, the sky is gray and the trees are barren. Over the young girl, birds fly across a sun-shining day. The trees are filled with thousands of blossoms. Along the seams someone embroidered the verse, “As the crone takes her last breath before falling to Earth, the young woman springs forth from the womb, bringing with her the first sparks of life, signifying the end of winter and the return to spring.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Druidry believes that whatever is, was and shall be. Nothing exists today that didn’t exist yesterday that won’t exist tomorrow. We are all participants in a never-ending cycle. Birth. Death. Rebirth. This tapestry represents Imbolc, the only Sabbat celebrating the birth of a god.”

  “What day is that?”

  “February 1. Your birthday.”

  Coincidence.

  There are no coincidences.

  Great. So Clarissa can inject words into my head. Fan-fucking-tabulous.

  She looks at the tapestry as if it were a cherished member of her family. “Imbolc, the Festival of Brigit, marks the impending departure of winter and the promised arrival of spring. The days grow longer, and the sun brightens even the gloomiest of places. I spent many cold winter nights weaving the tapestry by firelight when I was a young girl just beginning my training with the Order.”

  “Following the birth of Jesus Christ,” Amorin says, “many areas of the pag
an world were plunged into a particularly dark and violent time. ‘Missionaries’ dispersed throughout the continent to spread the new world of God. Thousands of men, women, and children were killed, and their villages destroyed, because they stubbornly clung to their pagan beliefs. Druid priests and priestesses were beaten, tortured, or burned at the stake for practicing witchcraft. Times were perilous for non-Christians.

  “Around 400 AD, a Druid father had a vision he would bring forth a daughter who would shine like the sun and bridge the gap between pagans and Christians. His daughter, Brigit of Kildare, managed to heal the divide by blurring the lines of faith. With Brigit, there is no right or wrong way to honor her. There is only Her. The deaths soon came to an end as Christians and pagans alike embraced Brigit.”

  Clarissa shifts forward. “But just as the spring maiden grows into the crone, so too did Brigit’s time in this world draw to an end. Before she departed, she selected nineteen maidens based on their dedication to her and their adherence to the ancient traditions of Druidry. They became known as the Druid Sisters of the Gallicenial, or the Order of Brigit. On Brigit’s final night in physical form, she lit a fire in the sanctuary of the castle. As long as the fire burned, Druidry would continue to exist, thereby demonstrating to the world that her power can never be extinguished or dimmed. For nineteen nights, a different nun tended the Flame. On the twentieth night, they remained in their cloisters and Brigit stood watch. No one knows if she returned physically or if she came in celestial form, but the twenty-day cycle lasted indefinitely.”

  I didn’t notice any thousand-year-old firepit when I was at the ruins. “Does it still burn there?”

  “Ireland was invaded many times over the past fifteen hundred years. Much of Druid lore and legend was destroyed. Brigit’s Flame was finally doused in the mid-1700s during a Catholic invasion. The Flame was viewed as the remnant of a pagan tradition, which it absolutely was. The invaders refused to compromise their views. During those dark years, the Celtic faith was nearly snuffed out with that fire, but we Irish are a stubborn people,” she laughs. “We’ve managed to keep the faith alive by living on the fringe of society, even going to the new world, waiting for the opportunity to rise again.”