by Jodi McIsaac
Rohan interrupted. “Enough questions, I said. Finn, go ahead and call Brighid.”
“Speaking of charming,” Murdoch muttered.
Finn blushed and gave Murdoch a dirty look. “She was fond of me for a while,” he said to Cedar. “But nothing ever happened between us. She knew my heart belonged to someone else.” Their eyes met for a heartbeat before he looked back at the group. “I’ll give her a call. I’m sure she’ll be willing to help.”
Finn disappeared into the kitchen and they all sat in silence, waiting. A few minutes later, he came back out, looking nervous.
“Well?” Murdoch demanded.
“She says she’ll tell us what she knows about depictions of Tír na nÓg. She wouldn’t say more on the phone, but it sounds like one exists and she knows where it is.” He hesitated and looked at Cedar. “She wants me to go see her in New York. And she wants me to take Cedar with me.”
“Why me?” she asked.
Finn’s cheeks reddened, but he held her gaze. “She says she wants to meet the woman who nearly drove me mad.”
Blood streamed down Maeve’s arms and dripped off her elbows. She ran her hand through her hair distractedly, leaving red streaks in the disheveled gray. The butchered remains of a cat lay on the floor in front of her. She was in the small workshop in the front yard of her house in the country, just outside the tiny town of Chester. It was the home Cedar had grown up in, and though Maeve had an apartment in the city so she could be close to her daughter and granddaughter, she still kept the country home for weekend getaways—and for the memories it held.
Maeve picked at the entrails, moving them around the floor for the dozenth time, examining them as she consulted faded charts and diagrams stained with bloody fingerprints. She shuddered, not at the gruesome display in front of her, but at the thought that she might fail, that she might not find Eden in time. Like a lamb to the slaughter, she thought, looking into the cat’s sightless eyes. Then she shook her head sharply. She needed to stay calm, to think clearly. She breathed deeply, trying to push her fear down, but it clung to her like a desperate lover. Nothing she tried was working as it should. She shuddered again and rolled a strand of cat intestine between her fingers, wondering what on earth she could try next.
Cedar’s betrayal had cut her like a knife, but she had not been entirely surprised. Despite all Maeve’s warnings, Cedar had loved Finn with all her heart, and she loved him still. Maeve could see the anguish of it on her face whenever anyone said his name. Cedar had chosen him once, and now she was choosing his people over her own mother, even though she had only known them for a day.
“You’re not one of them, Cedar, and if you have to learn your lesson twice, so be it,” Maeve muttered. And maybe there would be a silver lining to all this. If Cedar was with them, she could keep Maeve informed about their movements, helping her stay one step ahead of them.
She looked at what remained of the cat and sighed. She had not used her skills as a druid for many years, and she had grown rusty. The Ogham sticks had told her nothing about Eden’s whereabouts, nor had the runes. She had spent the entire night in the woods surrounding her country house, communing with the earth and the trees, begging them to speak to her, to help her find the child. Silence had been the only response.
She cursed herself for not anticipating this, for not doing more to keep Cedar and Eden away from these people. Nevertheless, Cedar had made her choice, and now it was up to Maeve. She had to find the girl, and find her before they did. And then she had to discover a way to protect her from them—forever.
CHAPTER NINE
Cedar hated taking the red eye. Usually she couldn’t sleep on planes, but she was so exhausted she managed to doze for nearly the whole flight from Halifax to New York. She was glad, because it meant she didn’t have to talk to Finn. For the past seven years, she had been desperate to know why he had left, but now that he was sitting next to her, she was terrified of finding out. It was easier to ignore him.
When they got off the plane, she called her mother. Maeve sounded tense, and Cedar assumed she was still upset that she had chosen to accept the help of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Maeve listened quietly as Cedar filled her in. Then she asked several questions, but brushed off Cedar’s own questions with more promises to tell her more later.
Cedar hung up, frustrated, and she and Finn hopped in a taxi and headed into the theater district. The last time she had been to New York they had been together, on a spur-of-the-moment road trip. They had been sitting around on a Friday night, debating which movie to go to and bemoaning the lack of cheap theaters in Halifax. Finn had reminisced about a great hole-in-the-wall movie theater he had been to once in New York that showed classic films around the clock. Cedar had never been to New York, and as he told her about it, her eyes had started to twinkle, a cheeky smile spreading across her face. He knew her well enough to know what she was thinking.
“Really?” he asked, starting to grin. “It’s…seven o’clock.”
“Which means,” Cedar started counting on her fingers, “if we leave in an hour we can be there by ten in the morning, spend the day seeing the sights, go see a show or something, spend the night, and drive back on Sunday. It will be perfect!”
And it had been. They had crammed as many touristy things as they could into one day and collapsed in exhaustion at the Banana Bungalow hostel in the wee hours of the morning on Sunday. After breakfast at the greasiest spoon they could find, they had started the fifteen-hour drive home. It had been one of the best weekends of Cedar’s life.
Now, seven years later, Finn made a few attempts at conversation as they rode through the city, but Cedar’s answers were so stilted he soon gave up. They spent the rest of the ride in silence. When the cab pulled up in front of the café where they were meeting Brighid, Finn paid the fare and they got out. Cedar stood for a moment under the awning before following Finn inside. She told herself she didn’t care about him anymore, but that didn’t lessen her desire to break this other woman’s legs, goddess or not. She told herself she was being juvenile, that of course Finn had dated other women since her. Maybe he was even seeing someone now. It didn’t matter, she told herself. All that mattered was finding Eden. She quickly silenced her inner dialogue and walked into the café, where Finn was waiting for her just inside the door.
“This won’t take long, don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll just ask her our questions and then we’ll decide what to do next.” He turned and searched the room, stopping when his eyes rested on a woman in the corner. The woman saw him, too, and stood up to greet them. She was tall, with black hair and a regal bearing not unlike Riona’s. But this woman was designed to stand out. She had dramatic, prominent cheekbones; dark, deep-set eyes that framed a long, straight nose; and a full mouth that was stretched into a wide, expansive smile. When she held out her arms in welcome, several folds of silky black material fell from them. Under her flowing top, she wore tight leather pants and platform shoes, adding another three inches to her already impressive height. She had an ageless beauty, and she could just easily be twenty or fifty. Cedar couldn’t tell.
“Fionnbharr,” Brighid said, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on both cheeks. “You came.”
“And you,” she said, taking a step back and looking Cedar up and down. “You must be Cedar.” She clicked her tongue and made a hmm sound that Cedar couldn’t interpret. “Well, she’s certainly attractive, I’ll give you that,” Brighid said to Finn.
“Er, yes,” Finn said, holding out a chair. “Cedar, this is Brighid,” he said.
“So I gathered,” Cedar said dryly as Brighid settled herself dramatically into the proffered chair. Cedar pulled out her own chair and sat down across the table. A young woman appeared with a pot of coffee and took their breakfast orders.
“Brighid is one of the leads in the musical Jezebel here on Broadway,” Finn explained once the server had left.
“Seriously?” Cedar asked. Finn and Brighid looked at
her. “I mean, I guess I just didn’t expect that’s what someone like you would be doing. No offense. I’ve heard the show’s great.”
To Cedar’s surprise, Brighid threw back her head and laughed. Her voice boomed across the café, and several people turned to stare.
“Well, you’re probably right,” she said when she had stopped laughing. “I’ve done a great many things, some important, some not. But the nice thing about being around for as long as I have is that you get to try a bit of everything.” She gave Finn a sly look. “Well, almost everything.”
Finn blushed but smiled. “You don’t need to make Cedar jealous. She hates my guts, and rightfully so.”
Brighid raised an eyebrow at Cedar. “Really?” she said. “Well, isn’t that a shame. He’s a very nice boy, you know. He was absolutely miserable when he had to leave you. Sulked in a corner of my flat for a week. Or was it a month? At any rate, you shouldn’t be too hard on him. He’s very useful to have around. And now that the cat’s out of the bag, well, you should really give him a second chance.”
Finn cleared his throat and leaned across the table. “Brid, on the phone you said you’d be able to help us—that you know where we can find an accurate depiction of Tír na nÓg.”
“Mmm, yes, well, I must say I’m surprised that none of you have one.”
“Have one what?” Finn asked.
“A painting,” she said. “I suppose you haven’t been away long enough to want one for sentimentality’s sake.” Turning to Cedar, she explained, “I only get back to Tír na nÓg once every couple of centuries or so. It’s good to see the old place, but I must say I prefer the company here. It’s a beautiful country, though—I’ll give you that. Far more spectacular than anything you’ll find here, and believe me, I have seen the world. At any rate, a few years ago I commissioned a painting of the place—well, of one of my favorite little nooks. One of my lovers was a rather well-known landscape artist at the time. I’m no shabby artist myself, of course, but it was much more romantic to have it painted for me than to do it myself. And he was good—very good, in fact—once I had described the scene in detail and given him a few sketches. When he was done, I gave it the finishing touches, and I swear I could have almost walked right through it into Tír na nÓg. I couldn’t really, of course—I still had to use those silly sidhe, but the likeness was remarkable.”
“Do you still have it?” Cedar asked. “The painting?” She was thinking of the picture she had hastily sketched for Eden, and how it hadn’t worked. But if this painting was as lifelike as Brighid said, maybe it really would help Eden open a sidh to Tír na nÓg.
Brighid inspected her nails. “Well, no. That was…oh, I suppose it was a couple hundred years ago, now that I think of it. So it’s been a little while. I was loath to let it go. I was almost as fond of it as I am of Fionnbharr here.” She reached out a smooth hand and patted Finn’s cheek. “But Deardra had done me a great favor, and that’s what she wanted in return.” She shrugged. “I won’t bore you with the details of what she did for me, but let’s just say that after that I could hardly refuse her anything she wanted. And I suppose another artist will always come along sooner or later.”
“Who is Deardra?” Cedar asked.
Brighid looked at her in surprise. “Haven’t they told you anything?”
“Deardra is, well, I suppose you’d call her a mermaid,” Finn answered quickly.
“A what?”
“I think you’d be surprised by how many of your legends and fairy tales are based in truth,” he said with a small smile. “Only we call them the Merrow, not mermaids. Deardra is their queen.” He turned to Brighid. “I’m surprised she was willing to help you,” he said.
She smiled back at him. “Well, I seem to have successfully removed myself from the stigma of being Tuatha Dé Danann, at least in her eyes. The Danann and the Merrow aren’t enemies, per se, but neither are they the best of friends,” she explained to Cedar.
Cedar pinched the bridge of her nose and willed herself to just go with it. “Okay,” she said. “So the painting is with this Deardra. Is this common knowledge? Would Nuala know?”
They were interrupted by the arrival of breakfast. Cedar took a large gulp of coffee and nibbled on the edge of her toast. Her appetite had been remarkably diminished these days. Brighid and Finn tucked into their plates, both piled high with bacon, sausage, eggs, hash browns, fried mushrooms, and buttered toast. One of the benefits of being forever young and beautiful, Cedar supposed.
Brighid shrugged. “I wouldn’t say it’s common knowledge, no. But I don’t know who Deardra may have told.” A peculiar expression crossed her face.
“What is it?” Finn asked.
“I had the impression that there was something else I wanted to tell you, but it’s slipped my mind. Oh, well, not to worry. I’m sure it will come back to me if it’s of any importance.”
“So where can we find Deardra?” Cedar asked, impatient.
“Finn knows the way, don’t you, dear?” Brighid answered calmly.
He nodded and stood up. “Let me make a few calls,” he said, and walked out of the café and onto the street. Cedar could see him through the window, and wondered why he had chosen to make his calls outside.
“So this is quite a pickle you’ve gotten yourself into, isn’t it, my dear?” Brighid asked her.
“Excuse me?” Cedar said.
Brighid waved her hands airily. “Oh, I’m not talking about your missing daughter, although that is tragic. I mean what are you going to do about Finn?”
“I’m not really thinking about my love life right now,” Cedar said through gritted teeth.
“One should always be thinking about one’s love life,” Brighid said.
Cedar thought it was time to change the subject. “What can you tell me about this guy named Lorcan?” she asked.
“Ah, well, there’s a cheery topic of conversation.” Brighid’s nose wrinkled with disgust. “Lorcan is the worst of us, I’m afraid. He’s old, very old, though not one of the Elders, or else he would have gone back with them. They told you about that, yes?” Cedar shook her head. “The Elders, of which I am one, were the first to arrive here in Ériu. We lived, we loved, we prospered, and we got our asses handed to us by those damned Milesians—you call them the Celts now, I suppose—and then relegated to Tír na nÓg. We were always at war those days, it seems. First with giants and half-giants and then the Sons of Mil came from over the sea and thought they’d rather well have our lovely green isle. Don’t get me wrong, Tír na nÓg is quite lovely, I assure you, but I, for one, didn’t want to spend all eternity there. And neither did the other Elders, apparently, because after a few years—or was it a few hundred? I can never keep the time straight—they decided to call it a day and went back to the Four Cities, our true homeland. Unfortunately for everyone else, only those who are originally from the Four Cities can ever return there. I’m afraid Tír na nÓg hasn’t been quite the same since the Elders left. Things went downhill very quickly. Which brings us to Lorcan. He is, in a nutshell, ruthless. Also, delusional. He has never accepted the fact that our people were defeated in war. He still believes this world should belong to the Tuatha Dé Danann. He and I are at the opposite ends of a spectrum, you could say. Some think I love humanity too much and have sought to re-create myself in its image, and maybe they’re right. But Lorcan’s hatred for humanity is unparalleled. All he has ever wanted is revenge and retribution for the insult he feels was done to our people. There are others who feel the same way—too many, to be sure—but they don’t have the power that Lorcan does, and are easier to keep in check.”
“What kind of power does he have?” Cedar asked.
“Almost every kind,” Brighid said. “That’s the problem. He’s like a sponge. His natural ability is to absorb the powers of others at the moment of their death, when their spirits are leaving their bodies. As long as he is close by, the powers of the dead attach themselves to him.”
Ceda
r stared at her, aghast.
“It didn’t used to be so bad,” Brighid said. “It was very rare, incredibly rare, in fact, for someone to die in Tír na nÓg during our centuries of peace. Oh, once in a while a hothead would go pick a quarrel with some giant or warrior and get himself killed for his trouble, but by the time we brought his body back to Tír na nÓg, his spirit and power had already left him, and there was nothing for Lorcan to absorb. So it’s a rather useless gift, really, when there is peace.”
“But then the war came,” Cedar observed.
“See, I knew you weren’t just a pretty face,” Brighid said, beaming. “When the Elders left, Lorcan started stirring up trouble, small acts of rebellion against the High King. A death here and a death there, and his power began to grow. The more powerful he became, the more trouble he was able to cause. He started building an army of supporters, telling them they would take back the world they had lost, exact revenge on their conquerors—everything they had ever dreamed of. So the High King had no choice but to go to war against him. It was all very dramatic, from what I’ve heard.”
“From what you’ve heard?” asked Cedar.
“Well, it’s not as if I were there myself, is it?” Brighid answered. “No, I only heard about the whole mess after I met your Finn.” She sighed dramatically. “Sometimes I think it’s a shame I’ve kept myself so separate. I would have liked to say good-bye to my sisters before they returned to the Four Cities. But, here we are.”
“How did the war end?” Cedar could see Finn looking in at them through the window while he talked on the phone, and she wanted to get as much information as possible out of Brighid before he returned.
“Apparently, it went on for quite some time, several years, I believe. Tír na nÓg was almost destroyed.” Brighid shook her head. “I suppose it ended when he killed Brogan, the High King. He was after the king’s gift, of course.”