by Mary Morgan
“You two an item?” asked Mac.
Conn turned his attention to the man. “Yes. She is mine.”
“Ivy was right about you.” Erin smiled knowingly.
He arched a brow, probably in question, at the woman. “Do tell.”
She stood, placing a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Ancient.”
Conn chuckled low and stood. Giving Erin a wink, he added, “If only you knew.”
Striding from the place, he tempered his anger before encountering the person responsible for this mess.
Hours later, frustration clawed inside of Conn as he surveyed Eric Dunstan’s home. Not only was the massive place overgrown with brush, weeds, and trees, but the house was also in dire need of repairs. Anyone could see from the dismal façade. Cracked pottery lined the front, along with abandoned vehicles.
No wonder Dunstan was after Ivy’s land. Hers would be a boon to his dull estate.
He continued to pound on the front door. Conn’s fury was barely containable after the incident with Ivy. If Dunstan did not agree to leave her alone, he might be forced to take other measures to convince the bastard.
Peering inside the front windows, Conn scanned for any signs of the man. His irritation grew when he realized the man wasn’t at home. Clenching and unclenching his hands, Conn fought the urge to roar. The man should be taken out into the woods and thrashed for frightening and hurting his beloved.
Beloved. The mere word slammed into his mind with a force to halt him where he stood. From the moment he had whispered the binding vows and pledged his soul—his blood to Ivy, an overwhelming desire to protect her consumed him. He sealed his fate. But would she be willing to open her heart to him? The circle could not be complete without her own vow.
Tossing aside the thought, he sniffed the air. A foul scent tainted the area.
“Have you found him yet?”
Conn glanced over his shoulder. Glaring at the man, he replied, “Not here. Why are you here, O’Reilly? What of your dealings with the man?”
“I never cared for the way Dunstan treated my sister when he came into the pub. I tossed him out the last time. He was trouble the moment he returned to claim his land,” his voice hardened ruthlessly. “To hear what happened to Ivy—”
Conn arched a brow in warning. “Ivy is my concern.”
Mac raised his hands up. “I understand. My reasons are purely of friendship. You both have made it perfectly clear. But that won’t stop me when my friends are threatened.”
Inclining his head toward the woods, Conn asked, “What is beyond the trees? The stench is one of flesh burning.”
“Sweet Jesus. The old forge.” Mac shoved past Conn and ran into the trees.
Conn followed the man cautiously, pushing aside limbs and stepping over fallen logs. Smoke filled his lungs the closer they approached. His Fae senses were reeling by the time they stepped into the clearing.
“Damn! There’s a body in the fire pit. It could be Dunstan. Help me get him out,” shouted Mac between fits of coughing.
Rushing to the man’s side, Conn pushed him back. “It’s nothing but charred flesh and bones, but we need to put out the fire before it spreads.”
Flames snapped to life as the embers danced off the pit—capturing a nearby brush.
Mac pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth. “The stream is on the other side. How are you going…no time,” he stated, wheezing. “Bloody hell.” He pointed to a wallet and keys nearby.
Rubbing his eyes, Conn pulled him away from the smoke-filled area. “Get some help. I’ll attempt to bring water to the fire. There has to be something around the forge.” Picking up the wallet, he looked inside. “They belong to Mike Banister.”
“Sweet Jesus,” he coughed out.
Conn motioned for him to leave. “Go fetch the Garda and firemen.”
“I’m not leaving,” barked Mac. “You need help.”
“Worried something will happen to me?” Conn coughed, dragging Mac along with him.
“Miracles have been known to happen,” he said smiling and then coughed from the effort.
Conn finally pushed him through the trees. “Go!” he ordered.
Hearing the man’s footsteps receding, Conn collapsed onto the ground and took in large gulps of air and energy.
Standing, he sprinted through the thick smoke, his eyes burning by the time he made it to the water. Quickly bending on one knee, he held out his hand over the water. “From the depths of the ocean, to the zenith of the clouds, let both be joined and fall over the land burning brightly. Let the water cleanse, soothe, and wash away the fiery embers.” Dipping his fingers into the water, he glided them in a continuous circle, until the storm clouds gathered. When the first drop of rain landed on his face, Conn sat back on his heels and waited.
The downpour of rain slashed across the land.
Rising slowly, Conn shook from the energy. He lifted his face to the pelting of water, breathing deeply. Hearing the sound of fire engines, he blinked. Shaking off the last residual power, he bolted back to the forge.
By the time he emerged, there were men surrounding the place, adding additional water to the outlying areas. He spotted Mac speaking with one of the Garda. Making his way to them, he raked a hand through his hair as he approached.
“Conn MacRoich. Strange how you should be here so soon after the break-in at The Celtic Knot.”
“Inspector Flynn, my reason was purely one of a verbal warning,” countered Conn, handing the man Mike Banister’s wallet and keys.
The man jotted down a few notes. “I’ll need to speak with you both later.”
“You can find me at the pub,” responded Mac.
Conn ignored the Inspector as he walked away. Lightning splintered overhead, and he frowned. He was in no mood to sit and answer feeble questions about a man he’d never had contact with. His concern was now finding Eric Dunstan.
“Great timing for a storm.” Mac kept his stride even with his as they emerged out of the trees.
“A true miracle,” replied Conn, smiling.
Mac shook his head, pulling out his car keys. “Come by the pub later. Drinks are on the house.”
Conn eyed the man warily. “A peace offering?”
He snorted. “A temporary truce.”
Conn watched the man drive off and rubbed his chin. “He would have made a great warrior.” Getting on his motorcycle, he took off down the road.
Lights from The Celtic Knot glimmered as he made his way down the street. The rain had turned to a light drizzle as he veered off the road toward the cottage. As soon as he checked on Ivy’s garden, Conn would kiss his beloved goodnight and head to the pub. He would watch over her from afar. In the morning, he would resume his mission on finding Dunstan.
Parking his bike, he made his way to the garden. Halting in front of the place, he cast his hands outward, filling the place with a touch more magic to help the growth. The light shimmered over the ground, hovering over those that needed extra tending. He lifted his hands higher, chanting the ancient words.
“What…what are you doing?” Ivy’s demanding tone sent a chill down Conn’s spine.
“In order to move out of the darkness, one must see the light,” he stated in a clear, calm voice.
Ivy stood near his side and gasped. “They’re much bigger. How?”
Turning fully toward her, Conn dropped his hands and let her see the power around and within him. No more shadows. No more darkness. He loved Ivy, and he wanted her to see who he truly was—the man and the Fae. He tossed aside the risks and prayed the woman who stood before him would accept the knowledge he was going to divulge. Had he not planted the seed already? Now was the time for truths. “I’ve encouraged them along with magic.”
Her gaze snapped to his, never wavering. “Who are you?”
Conn took a step closer. “You already know the answer, remember? You said the words the first night you saw me enter the Seven Swans.”
Fury shown in he
r eyes. “Ancient Celt, but that’s only because I recognized an old soul.”
“No. I am an ancient. Far more than you can imagine.” He swept out his hand. “Older than the land we are upon, older than some of the stars.” He took another step closer. “I am a Fenian Fae warrior—bound to this world and the realm of Fae below. We are the Tuatha De Danann—the Shining Ones.”
She shook her head, stumbling backward. “Not true. Not real.”
Conn reached a hand toward her. “Listen to me Ivy. I speak the truth. You know this to be true in your heart.”
“Don’t touch me!” Her breathing became shallow. “Is this your way of saying goodbye? Or are you insane? You’re using everything that has happened to me recently and fabricated this story. You’re twisted.”
He withdrew his hand. “Then explain your garden. Explain how certain people have unique gifts and talents.”
“I can’t, but that doesn’t mean I’ll accept your nonsense. You’re expecting me to understand that you’re some kind of mythological creature. For all I know you planted chicken manure to help the plants grow, and you’re only sputtering this story about yourself to scare me away.”
Clenching his fists, he snapped, “I do not utter nonsense. I do not jest. I speak the truth. And I am not a creature.”
She rubbed a shaky hand over her forehead. “Get out of here Conn. I don’t have time for faerytales in my life. They’re best left for children and apparently this thing we have between us is not real for you any longer.”
A torrent of pain slashed through his soul. She refused to listen to her heart, instead sealing it with fear. “Don’t send me away, Ivy,” he pleaded.
Tears streamed down her face. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
His body shook. Was it so impossible to accept? “Then let me help you see the light of truth. I will show you wonders that will take your breath away.”
“No! Leave,” she sobbed and ran off down the path.
Conn collapsed onto the ground. When he lifted his head up to the sky, he couldn’t determine if the wetness on his face was the rain or his tears. In all his lifetime, even in times of true sorrow, Conn MacRoich, Fenian Warrior, Prince of the Fae had never shed a tear.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Loneliness and revelations are often times parallel paths.”
~Chronicles of the Fae
“Rubbish. Utter crap. Coward.” Ivy’s lip trembled as she rocked back and forth in front of the fire, clutching the pillow to her chest. Deep pain and sorrow engulfed her. She had fallen in love with a lunatic. Her bedroom was now sealed off—sheets stripped with his smell had been tossed into the laundry room. His leather jacket was propped over one of the chairs, but she refused to go near the item.
Neala, sensing her pain, had curled up beside her.
Tears that she had kept at bay, now threatened to spill forth. He did not deserve them, so she squeezed her eyes shut. Never would she again fall prey to his dazzling silver eyes. “It had to be a trick of the fading light. Yes, that’s why they glowed.”
Yet, it wasn’t the first time she’d witnessed the transformation in the man’s eyes. Ivy assumed he was special—gifted like her. He made her feel safe, treasured, loved.
She bit her lip. “Oh, Mom…it hurts. I loved him. How do I separate the real from the fantasy?” Her fingers dug into the soft material. “What a mess I’ve made here. I’m confused. I want to leave. This isn’t home anymore.”
Dropping her head onto the pillow, Ivy let the tears fall freely. Weariness cloaked her like a heavy blanket. Images from another time floated through her mind as sleep beckoned her.
“Dearest, why do you weep out here in the garden?”
“I don’t understand my visions, mama. They can’t be real. I see people who don’t look like us. They are diff…different.” She hiccupped and rubbed her eyes.
Her mother cupped her chin. “My sweet daughter, what you see is real. You have a gift.”
“Father says it’s a curse.”
“Bah! He knows nothing. It’s fear he speaks. But you, darling, have the capacity to look into the past and capture what others cannot.”
She pouted and lowered her head. “What good are they? I don’t want them.”
Her mother sat down next to her. “You never know, Ivy. One day, you might come to help another, or use them for research. You must trust in the visions, not fear them. Do you truly believe that God and the Goddess would grant you a horrible gift?” Touching Ivy’s heart, she added, “Always listen here. The mind has a way of trapping the fear inside.”
Ivy nodded her head in agreement and wiped her nose. “Saint Brigid had visions, right?”
Her mother smiled. “And let’s don’t forget, Hildegard von Bingen. Many sought her counsel, including a pope.”
Sighing, Ivy plucked a dandelion from the ground.
“What are you going to wish for, sweet child?”
Ivy smiled wistfully. “For a faery guardian to help me when I am lost.”
Bolting upright, Ivy rubbed her bleary eyes. Stretching out her body, the pain in her neck radiated down to her legs. Neala had moved to a blanket on the couch, and the fire had dwindled to embers. One hand was numb and Ivy winced, trying to bring some blood back into her fingers.
Looking up at the photo on the mantel, Ivy smiled. “Thanks, Mom for making me remember.”
Finally standing, she tossed the pillow onto a chair. Gazing out the window, early morning light stretched across the clear sky. Pink tinged the outer edges—a promise of a sunny day and hope surged within Ivy. Fear had seized her last evening—blinding her to what Conn was saying. Yes, a small part of doubt continued to linger, but she was determined to speak with the man further. Glancing at the sketch she had drawn of Conn, Ivy traced a finger over the lines of his features. “Definitely a warrior.”
Giving Neala a kiss on the head, she made her way upstairs to prepare for the new day.
An hour later, Ivy wandered along the path to the Celtic Knot. Breathing in the crisp autumn air, she walked into the store and waved in greeting to Roger. Entering her office, she checked on several incoming orders.
“Thanks for giving me a full shift today,” stated Roger, as he strolled in, handing her yesterday’s mail.
Taking the items, Ivy plopped them on her desk. “You’re doing me a favor, so thank you. Nan will stop by around noon to give you a break, but if you need anything, please call me on my cell. The order for the Thompsons should be here today. As soon as it arrives, please give them a call. Mr. Thompson ordered a rare copy of Pride & Prejudice for his wife.”
Roger saluted her. “Yes, boss.”
Smiling, she waved him away. When all her other tasks had been accomplished, Ivy left the bookstore in Roger’s capable hands and went in search of a Fae warrior.
****
Anxious and edgy, Ivy tried to steady her shaky nerves. Arriving at Sean’s, she didn’t know whether to bolt or storm into the house. Reaching for the knocker on the door, she tapped it twice and took a step back. “Oh, please be happy to see me, Conn.” Although she half-expected the man to slam the door on her face after the way she treated him last night.
When several minutes ticked by, Ivy slammed the knocker harder. Biting her bottom lip, she waited another full minute, fear snaking its way inside her. Peering to the side, she saw Sean’s car, but no sign of Conn’s motorcycle. Perhaps he’s heading back to my place?
“Good morn, Ivy Kathleen,” greeted Sean.
Ivy almost jumped out of her skin. Turning around, she smiled at the man. “How are you?”
Moving past her, he opened the door and gestured her inside. “Good, though my bones are aching with the morning chill. I have the kettle on. Care for a cup of tea?”
She glanced around, scanning for any signs of her Celt. “Sure. Would love some.”
Sean placed a gentle hand on her arm. “He’s gone. Left last night.” He walked quietly down the hall.
&nb
sp; Stunned, Ivy stared at the retreating man. Finally recovering her senses, she ran after him and into the kitchen. “What do you mean he’s gone?”
Her friend refused to meet her hard stare. Instead, he busied himself with the tea preparations. “Exactly what I said, lass.”
She swallowed, fearing to ask the next question. “Gone…for good?”
Sean shrugged, pulling out a chair for her to sit. “Yes. I believe so.”
Shock and grief ripped into Ivy. The blow of his words was akin to a hammer on her soul. Numbness slithered inside her, removing all her joy. Sean placed a cup of tea in front of her, but she didn’t have the strength to lift the item. Did Conn not understand I was taken aback, reeling from his announcement? Yet, you did order him to leave. She clutched her fingers tightly together.
“Drink a sip of your tea,” urged Sean.
Unclenching her hands, she placed them around the cup—the warmth spreading through her frozen body. “I’ve mucked things up,” she complained.
The man took a seat across from her. “No. You were unprepared for what he told you.”
Almost dropping the cup, she squeaked, “He told you?”
Sean took a sip of his tea and nodded. Placing his cup down, he leaned back in his chair. “I am one of the privileged few to know about Conn. He once saved my life.”
Ivy’s mouth dropped open. Snapping it shut, she took a gulp of her tea, grateful it wasn’t scalding. “Do you have anything stronger?”
Sean chuckled. “Aye, but you’ll need your wits to hear my tale of how I met the Fae warrior.”
Sighing, Ivy looked away. “You have to understand how fantastical this sounds.”
“The world is filled with many wonders.”
Turning her gaze back to the man, she put her cup down. “Before you share your story, can you answer me another question?”
“Ask me anything.”
“Did you know that I’m Thomas’ daughter, not his niece?”
Muttering a curse, Sean stood and went to the cupboard. Retrieving a bottle of whiskey, he returned with two glasses. Opening the bottle, he poured a small amount into her glass, but filled his substantially more.