He pulled her hand away. "It was the closest to normal that my magic could make orange look."
She ignored him. "And I know some of the other guys here think you're gay—"
Padraig frowned. Blinked. "They do?"
Her smile returned. "It's because you're pretty, Padraig. Prettier than any white girl that works here. Look at you." And she stood back to look at him.
Padraig stood up. "But that's what I'm trying to tell you. I look like this because I gave up half my magic to look as human as I could."
"Opposed to?" Shonti crossed her arms over her chest. "Padraig, I'm not Irish, you can look at me and tell that," she smiled. "And it's that wonderful accent you have that first caught my attention. But Leprechauns are supposed to be like really small, with red hair and big beards, smoking pipes, drunk and have pots of gold stashed everywhere."
He smiled. "You just described my father."
Shonti pointed at him with a long, pink nail. "That's it! This is about your daddy not coming to the wedding, isn't it? Because you're marrying a black woman? Baby," she sighed. "Making up stories about your own ethnicity isn't going to make me feel better or worse. I'm marrying you, not him."
Padraig smacked his hands to his face. How was he going to explain the truth to her. He'd held off confiding in her for too long, and now that their wedding was two months away, it was definitely time to come clean.
Only this wasn't the way he thought it would go.
"Baby, I'm not making it up," he walked the few steps to her, their height exact. He was aware of how he was midday to her midnight, and he loved her for it. He was maybe five foot seven barefoot, with metallic colored hair, pale eyes and pale skin. Her skin was warm against his own. "But what I am trying to tell you is that his not coming to the wedding has nothing to do with you. It's me. I'm sort of a black sheep. I haven't made him that proud over the years."
She stepped back. "Not proud? Padraig—look at what you've accomplished. You work at a law firm, you help people—"
"And I'm always broke. I don't drink. I have never touched a brew in my life. It makes me physically ill. There are plants in Ireland that make me sneeze. And he's never approved of me because I don't save money. I don't have any pots of gold hidden at the foot of a rainbow, and the single pot he gave me when I moved out, I donated to charity."
"And he's angry at you because of this?"
"It's not exactly what he had planned for me," Padraig sighed. "I don't have a lot of magic. I have the Irish luck and my Shillelagh, which stays in my desk. But I don't even have enough to give you any kind of demonstration. About the only thing I can do is—" he paused. "Look out the window."
"Why?"
"Humor me."
She did.
And Padraig vanished. He reappeared behind her as she turned to look to where he'd been standing in front of her. She stepped back and looked around before she noticed him behind her. "I didn't know you could move that fast."
"It's not moving. It's something like teleporting, only we call it Walking Between. The only problem is that I can't do it if someone is watching me. If they keep their eyes fixed on me, and they know what I am, their eyes can not only prevent me from Walking, but they can also paralyze me."
She pursed her lips. "That's kind of convenient Padraig. You say you can vanish, but I can't watch you do it. And now you're saying that if I stare at you, knowing what you are then you can't move—"
His muscles locked as she watched him. She was doing it and didn't realize it. Even as she scolded him for telling whoppers she had no idea what she was doing. She never noticed that he didn't blink, he didn't breathe and he didn't move.
Finally she looked away and he was gone, his self-preservation instincts taking him out of danger. The only problem with this was that he wasn't sure where he would reappear.
Unfortunately, it was on the roof. In the rain.
He looked up, letting the drops hit his face. "I thought I had the luck of the Irish."
Three days later…
His apartment was small, a basic one bedroom, and with New York prices, that was little more than a room with a bathroom. But he'd done pretty good decorating it, over-using his Ikea card to make everything match.
Padraig still hadn't paid that bill off. He was down to less than forty dollars in his account. And savings?
Oh there was no savings. Not even an account to pretend with.
Dinner was on him that night, and Shonti was coming straight to his place with wine for her and a Coke for him after she got off work. She managed an art gallery down on 3rd Street, not far from her own much larger place. But she said she always enjoyed the quaintness of his apartment, and though she had the nicer place, he had the better view of the park, and of Manhattan.
He was cooking shrimp scampi, with whole-wheat angel hair pasta, and non-fat butter garlic bread. He was a pretty decent cook and she always cleaned her plate. He also had some good news—the senior partner was going to increase funds to his department and he'd be able to take on a few more cases, and maybe even a night class or two.
The doorbell rang and he checked the clock. Shonti was early—but he was just that much happier to see her. With a quick look at each cooking item, Padraig called out, "Aye—I'll be there in a minute."
With a towel over his left shoulder, dressed in his holiest pants (as in holes in the denim) and T-shirt (Shonti's favorite because it made his eyes bluer), Padraig opened the door without looking through the peep hole.
He wished he'd looked.
Standing in the doorway was the last creature he'd ever thought he'd see, and the last he ever wanted to see.
On the outside he looked like any other normal, late-in-life human, with slicked back salt and pepper hair, long face with gaunt cheeks. He wore a pair of worn black pants, white shirt and cardigan sweater, and in his right hand was a cane.
This wasn't any normal cane, though. This was a branch of the rowan tree.
And this wasn't any normal man.
This was an Aos Sí, one of the elders of the Tuatha Dé Danann and one of their last kings. He was the record keeper. No creature on this earth lived and breathed without him knowing, and recording their passing. His day job was a librarian at the New York Library.
Well, one of his day jobs.
Mac Cuill.
He liked for "family" to call him Cully.
And having him show up at the front door—that couldn't be a good thing.
"Hello Padraig—you look amazingly human."
Padraig bowed out of respect and stepped back. "It's good to see you Cully. Please, come in."
The tall man glided in, his feet never really touching the barely cleaned tile floor. Once he was through the kitchen Padraig shut the door and followed him in. "So…what do I owe the honor?"
"Oh can it, Padraig," Cully said and gave a surprising grunt as he sat down on the edge of Padraig's couch. "You don't think this is an honor."
Padraig sighed and glanced at his food. The noodles were done so he strained them over the sink into a colander and then turned the sauce and shrimp off, removing them from the heat so the shrimp wouldn't continue to cook. Once that was done he removed one of the beers Shonti kept in the refrigerator and moved to Cully before giving it to him.
The elder smiled and took it, the cap vanishing. "Ah…for a non-alcoholic Leprechaun, you always offer me the best brew."
Padraig moved to sit on the coffee table in front of the elder. "Why are you here? Is it my father? Is it the wedding?"
"Your father has contacted me, yes. But only to see if you've done what he asked you to do."
With a sigh, Padraig slumped his shoulders. "You mean he wants to know if I've buried gold and started drinking?"
"Oh Padraig—there's more to it than that. There's the meaning of tradition, don't you understand?"
"No. I don't. I never asked to be a Leprechaun. I never asked to horde gold, or to keep my life in a drunken stupor. There's so much more out there."
"You mean like getting married and having half-breed babies?" Cully sighed and swigged back a half of the beer.
Padraig was amazed.
"Kid," the elder said. "Do you know how many Leprechauns there are in the world today?"
"No."
"Neither do we. Because we can't find them. We know of two…maybe three? Though the third one's been a little quiet. He could have passed out in Underhill and then well," he shrugged. "There's no helping him then."
Padraig stood and turned to the windows that made up the farthest wall of his apartment—the reason he loved the place so much. He put his hands to the glass and felt the vibrations of life that pulsed from the park. There were two cairns in the park, as well as a ring of fairy stones. There was always a gate there to use to go home.
He was sure Cully used it often.
"Son," Cully said and Padraig could sense him stand as he made his way toward him at the window. "Shill Donaghue is getting old, and he needs someone to keep his pots of gold safe from the world."
"Why?"
"Because each of those pots of gold represents hope—the promise of what may be ahead of us. Prosperity. The survival of Ireland."
Padraig turned and searched the old elder's eye. "Cully, I can't do it. I'm not cut out to be a Leprechaun. I'm a lawyer. I want to get married and have children, and I want to help people."
"You could help more people if you had his gold. It's not just the wealth it represents, Padraig, but the wishes."
"I know about the wishes, Cully. I'm not interested in the wishes. If I didn't know that man was never meant to actually achieve the wishes things might be different."
"Not even to wish yourself into a better position to help more people? Your father wouldn't even miss one pot of gold, he has so many."
That wasn't exactly the right thing to say and Cully's words instantly irritated Padraig. "I will never steal from my father."
"Never say never," Cully said and vanished from where he stood. Padraig stepped back, a little taken aback by the elder's bold show of magic. "But to answer your original question, I'm here to pass on a message."
"Yes?"
"He's not coming. To the wedding."
Padraig sighed. "I knew that."
Never say never…
A month ago…
"Stage four, I'm afraid. It's terminal."
Padraig closed his eyes, wishing the tears back, forcing himself not to cry. He stood in the doctor's office, his fiancée resting quietly in a room two floors above him. A half finished dinner of mu shu pork and house fried rice sat in his apartment, the candles long extinguished the moment Shonti got sick and could not hold her food down.
That was three days ago.
Today the prognosis was defined.
Cancer.
He didn't dare speak—afraid the timber of his voice would reveal his weakness.
The doctor cleared his throat. A nervous sound. Uncomfortable. He's already called Padraig ma'am once. "We can do everything within our power to make her comfortable until—"
But Padraig didn't want to hear it. "What about chemo?"
"She's refused it. And frankly, even if we started today, it would only buy a month at most."
He sniffed. "She knows?"
"She knew before we did. She's been very calm about it."
Padraig did turn then and fixed the doctor with the coldest stare he could. "Calm? She's calm? Well I'm not calm. How…how could this happen and it never be caught? How did it move into stage four and no one noticed?"
"Because this type of cancer is hard to diagnose," the doctor said and kept his voice and timber even. He was used to dealing with high emotion. "I've looked over her previous checkups and there was nothing—nothing that could have signaled to us that she had cancer—"
But Padraig wasn't listening. He was moving, through the door, away from the doctor's eyes, away from anyone's gaze so he could escape…
Within seconds he stood on water's edge, the Kylemore Abbey behind him. The cool winds that buffeted him. He felt the magic slipping, seeking out the natural rhythms of his birthplace here in Connemara as his ears grew longer and his eyes took on an almost feral appearance. He felt the hair on his chin spring forward and threw back his head and screamed to the gods and goddesses of history, beckoned to them to take him and not his fiancée.
Not the woman he loved.
The only woman he'd ever loved.
He became himself again as he appeared by her bedside. In less than seventy-two hours she'd seemed to shrink, her eyes sunken back, her cheeks gaunt. Her hair was pulled back and combed—her mother had been to visit. He could still smell her perfume.
"Padraig?"
Moving closer he slipped into the bed with her, on her right side. He propped his head up and touched her skin, kissed her cheek and her nose. She smiled and looked at him with watery eyes. Those eyes widened. "You look…your ears…"
"I dropped the façade, Shonti. I'm too upset to keep the magic trained."
She smiled. "I like the beard. And I like the fact your hair's still that funky metal color."
"Do you?" He kissed her lips softly. They were parched, once so supple. "Why did you refuse the chemo?"
"Because it's like closing the barn door after the cows get loose, Padraig. The damage is done. And I don't want to live in any more agony than I have to," she winced and he put his arms around her as best he could, aware of the IV and the tubes in her nose.
Finally she pushed him back and cornered him with her eyes.
He froze, unable to move, and she reached out and touched his ears, tracing them with her finger, then leaned up and closed her eyes, kissing his lips and releasing him. He kissed back and then pulled away. "You believe me now."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes. I do. No mortal man is as beautiful as you are. You know when we met, I actually looked up possible abnormalities that would make a man look so elven, so beautiful. And I found a condition they once called Donahue Syndrome."
He nodded. "I know of it."
"And your name is Donaghue ."
"I love you, Shonti."
"I love you Padraig." She looked at him. "Will you live forever?"
And he didn't want to answer that.
Two weeks later…
It was raining again. He'd finished two cases, won both, and his clients were beside themselves. But he refused their praises, only nodded, left and hid himself in his apartment. He still wore his suit, and in his hand he held a full, untouched beer, warm in his hands.
He wanted to be numb. He didn't want to feel the pain.
"There is a way."
Padraig didn't flinch when he heard Cully's voice. It wasn't a surprise he was there.
"You know why I called you."
Cully nodded. He was dressed in the same clothes as before. "Your human whore is—"
Padraig didn't remember moving, he didn't remember Walking, but he was beside the elder in seconds, his fist connecting with the Aos Sí's face.
Such conduct was punishable by banishment in the Fairy world—to touch the last King like that, but Padraig didn't care. He didn't live in the world of his father.
Cully's head snapped to the side and it remained in that position as he put his hand to his bruised cheek. "I do apologize, young Padraig. I have forgotten the passion of love in my years of celibacy."
"She is my fiancée. We were supposed to get married in a week, old fool. And I can't stop myself from wondering if you didn't have something to do with the cancer that's eating away at her body."
Cully looked horrified. He put a hand to his chest. "Me? Padraig, you know I have no control over such things."
"No but you know creatures who do. Which is why I called you. Tell me about the wishes."
The elder's expression brightened. "The gold wishes?"
He nodded. "Yes. How does it work?"
"You really should have paid more attention as a child, Padraig."
"I paid
enough attention to know that as a Leprechaun I am not bound by the rules of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and that means if I wish to take you with me into the night sky and drop you from the stars, I can do that. And that frail body nearly devoid of magic would never survive." He pointed at Cully. "And you who are bound to the laws cannot hold me."
The elder's expression shifted slightly. "You've given this serious thought."
"Tell me."
"Since you put it that way," Cully gave him a coy smile. "There are so many legends of the Leprechaun that most have found root in truth, or grown with the centuries. When a Leprechaun's gold is found, the finder is granted three wishes, unless the wish is mightier than the sum of the three, and then there is only one wish."
"I wish to save my fiancée's life."
"Then it would be a single wish, lad. Of the gold you need take only a single piece and touch that piece to your lady's soul. Once done, she becomes healed. But it must be done without the touch of the sun. If the sun touches the gold then it turns to coal, and the pot of gold vanishes forever."
Padraig nodded. "And my father has several pots?"
"He has the most, but no one knows where they are—save one creature."
"Who?"
Cully shook his head. "You don't want to strike up a bargain with her, she'll—"
"Who?"
"Padraig, you can find the gold yourself, given enough magic because he is your blood relative you could—"
"That would take too long," Padraig said. "And besides—I don't know how. Who else knows where the gold is?"
"Really Padraig, all you'd need to do is need—"
"Cully—who?"
There was silence for a second, then thunder struck as Cully spoke. "The Morrigan."
A week ago…
A Leprechaun's gold is hidden always at the base of a rainbow. But chasing a rainbow is like chasing smoke. A Leprechaun tuned to their comings and goings can do this.
Not Padraig. So he would need a creature to predict the appearance of a rainbow.
The Morrigan was such a creature.
She was once a great queen, a triple Goddess, but since the modernization of Ireland and the world, like the Leprechaun and the Fairy, the Morrigan had had to make adjustments to her lifestyle.
Pandora: An Urban Fantasy Anthology Page 15