by Megan Chance
“I know it.”
“And I believe you’d do anything for me.”
Diarmid nodded. It was true. It had always been true.
“Very well then. I’ll say nothing to Finn. For now. But if I see you falter”—there was the voice that belonged to the best warrior of the Fianna, the one Diarmid trusted at his side in battle—“you know I don’t want to do this, but there’s too much at stake. Think of me. Think of the others. None of us want to die.”
“I understand.”
“The next time I see Grace I want to know she’s mad for you. Make her forget Patrick Devlin. Use the ball seirce. Make it easy on yourself.”
“She has a mind of her own,” Diarmid warned. “And she’s not convinced we’re the best choice. Love might not be enough to sway her.”
“We have her brother,” Oscar said. “And the rest of us can be charming enough when we want. If she loves you, she won’t want to see you die. Or your friends.” He clapped a hand on Diarmid’s shoulder. “I expect it will be only a few days before we can guarantee her safety and Finn sends for you. Don’t disappoint him—or me.”
“I won’t,” Diarmid promised.
The same day
Patrick
Patrick had done everything he could think of to find Grace and Aidan. He’d had hundreds of ‘Wanted’ posters plastered on every telegraph pole in the city, and in Brooklyn too. He’d kept Grace’s kidnapping in the paper. They’d planted a story about receiving a ransom note from Finn’s Warriors. The mayor decried the growing lawlessness of the city gangs: “We WILL bring these enemies of peace to justice!” The New York Times and the World had both published Mrs. Knox’s pleas for citizens to be watchful and vigilant: “Please return her to us. Grace, if you’re reading this, try to escape them. We love and miss you. Please, my darling, I am praying for your safe return.”
But there had been nothing, not a single sighting. How was it even possible? Where could they be that no one saw them?
His anxiety wasn’t helped by his dreams, which had grown more intense. In them, Patrick strode through unfamiliar halls painted with Celtic symbols, into a room filled with smoke from oracle fires, searching for a woman who wasn’t there. Her peril grew every moment. He must find her. Aidan will know. Find Aidan.
Patrick woke every morning more confused than ever. Find Aidan. Bres had little advice. He told Patrick it was just a dream and that there were other, more important concerns. Lot agreed: “’Tis only that you’re worried, my darling,” she’d said. “He’s a stormcaster. He can take care of himself.” Patrick hadn’t bothered to explain that it wasn’t worry that drove him, but a compulsion he couldn’t ignore.
“Patrick?”
Grace’s mother looked strained. He knew her fear for her children ate away at her, and he wished there was some way to relieve it.
“Mrs. Knox,” he said, trying to smile. “It’s still early. You should be sleeping.”
“I couldn’t.” She came into his study. “Patrick, if you wouldn’t mind . . . if you have a few moments. I’ve wanted to speak with you before now, but you’ve been so busy. It’s about Grace.”
“I’m doing everything I can to find her.”
She nodded weakly. “I know that, but I wanted to tell you about a conversation we had before she disappeared. I think it may matter. She’s under the delusion that she’s living some legend. One of her grandmother’s Irish tales. The myth of the veleda—do you know it?”
Patrick remembered Grace telling him that her mother didn’t believe it. “Yes. The legend of the Fianna. The prophecy.”
“She’s convinced she’s this veleda. She claimed that you believe it too.” She looked at him imploringly. “I must tell you—in the last month before she slipped into this state, Grace’s grandmother was quite mad. The stories she told Grace . . . I’m afraid they affected her strongly. I’ve told her none of it’s true, but she’s determined to find—oh, I know this sounds ridiculous—an archdruid. I fear she set off looking for him.”
Patrick was silent.
“I hope you can understand. It’s been a difficult time for her, what with her father’s death, and Aidan, and . . . and our troubles. I know she’ll be fine, but . . . I thought it might provide a clue as to where she’s gone. Perhaps this Druid she imagined might have something to do with it.”
“Wherever Grace is, she didn’t go there of her own accord,” he said. “She was kidnapped, Mrs. Knox. We have Rose Fitzgerald as a witness. But we’ll get her back, and then she and I will be married. Did she tell you that we’d set a date?”
“A wedding date? Oh, no, I—”
“She hadn’t the opportunity, I suppose. December first. It’s soon, I know, but I believe she’ll return long before then. Perhaps you could begin planning things in her absence? It would be a help to me if you would.”
Mrs. Knox frowned.
“Does the date not please you?”
“Oh yes,” she said, though her frown didn’t ease. “But if it is a gang who’s taken her . . . everyone’s heard of how ruthless they are. Of what they’ve done to innocent girls . . .”
It occurred to him what she was really saying—she was talking about gossip, and rumors, of what people would think. She was afraid he would abandon Grace. He had to remind himself that she didn’t know the truth.
“I don’t believe they’ll hurt her,” he said. Not yet. “They won’t be able to collect the ransom otherwise.”
Mrs. Knox looked relieved. “I pray that’s true. But”—worry crept into her voice again—“even so, the things that will be said about her when she returns . . . I would hate for anything to come between you.”
“I would never abandon Grace. Never. I love her. If I have to take her away for a time until the rumors die, I will. We’ll go to Ireland. Perhaps you could come with us.”
“Ireland? Oh no. Thank you, but . . . no. You must understand, Patrick. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to escape Ireland. When I was a child it was very difficult to be Irish. You couldn’t know, of course. Your father worked hard to make certain you and Lucy would never feel the struggle, just as my husband did for Aidan and Grace. But for me . . . well, Ireland holds nothing but pain. Though I suppose Grace might enjoy visiting. She’s always had such an affinity for the tales . . .”
Patrick took her hand, squeezing it. “Please, Mrs. Knox, I’d be so grateful if you would let me worry about this. Plan a beautiful wedding for us.”
“Thank you, my dear. I will. Hope is so much better than fear.”
But as Patrick watched her leave, his own hope wavered. He felt as if things were moving beyond him, things set in motion he couldn’t predict or control. He told himself that with the Fomori on his side, everything would turn out for the best. He had to believe it. Any other thought meant only despair.
“Mr. Devlin?” It was the maid, with an envelope. “This just came for you, sir. The messenger said it was important.”
The handwriting was unfamiliar to him, but when he tore open the envelope, he saw the note was from Aidan.
Battery Park. Two o’clock today. I’ll meet you at the flagpole. Tell no one.
Aidan
Patrick broke out in a cold sweat of relief. Aidan was all right. Thank God. But that relief was followed closely by anxiety. Patrick glanced at the clock on his desk. It was nearly noon. He hurried to dress in his oldest suit coat and a hat that hid much of his hair, and called for his carriage. He didn’t want to be recognized or for word to get back to anyone. The urge to protect Aidan was so strong it was easy to follow his order to say nothing.
He had the driver wait with the carriage blocks away and walked the rest of the distance to the park, which was full on this hot summer day, women lifting their faces to the cool breeze coming off the water, children playing. Most of the men were of the poorer sort, homeless, jobless. Patrick scan
ned the crowd, the people standing at the seawall, staring out over the water.
Then he saw him. Aidan leaned over the wall, his back to Patrick, his dark hair fluttering in the breeze. Patrick realized he’d been looking for the Aidan he’d known, the one in decent dress, wearing a top hat and shined boots. His childhood friend. But this Aidan looked like any immigrant—no hat, worn pants, a too-small coat stretched at his shoulder blades.
Patrick walked as casually as he could toward the seawall. When he was past the flagpole, Aidan turned, looking over his shoulder. Patrick saw when Aidan recognized him. He leaned back against the wall, waiting as Patrick approached.
“Coming down in the world a bit, Patrick? I haven’t seen that coat in a while.”
“I wanted to blend in.”
“You’ll have to do better than that. Perhaps you could try not eating for a couple of days. Or selling that watch chain.”
“Where’s Grace?” Patrick asked.
Aidan glanced away.
“At least tell me she’s safe.” And not under the spell of the ball seirce. Please.
Aidan laughed. “Safe? Are any of us?”
“We’ve been worried for you. For both of you. Your mother—”
“My mother is willfully blind,” Aidan said bitterly. “She’s brought all this on herself.”
Patrick thought of Mrs. Knox, frail and fearful. “You’re being cruel. If you could see her as I do—”
“She’s not sleeping. She’s despairing and wan. Yes, I know. It’s how she’s been the last two years, while she’s had Grace handle everything.”
“Because you wouldn’t.”
“I had other things on my mind.”
“Like what? Lightning coming from your fingertips?”
“Aye.”
“Aye. You sound like Diarmid and the others. That’s where you are, isn’t it? You’ve joined with the Fianna.”
“I have.”
“Why? They’re greedy and arrogant. They’ll bring this city to its knees.”
“They didn’t call themselves, did they?”
“I was wrong about them,” Patrick admitted. “Why did you ask me here?”
“To tell you it’s the Fomori you’re wrong about.” Aidan’s long, shaggy hair blew into his face. He shook it back. “There’s still time for you to change sides. We could use you.”
“This isn’t the fight I wanted. It’s because of the Fianna that we’re enemies. They were ready to fight for Ireland until they learned of the Fomori. They refused to join with us. They’ve created this mess.”
“You should have waited for them to find you.”
“I waited three weeks. Three weeks.” From the corner of his eye, Patrick saw a lean boy approach. He was pale and dark eyed, dark haired. He stopped only a few yards away, watching them. Patrick lowered his voice. “I want only Irish independence. I don’t want this gang war in our city streets.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re so wrapped up in your idealism you can’t see what’s really happening.”
“I can see it well enough. Do you think I don’t worry over it every day? Do you think I don’t know how much danger I’ve put Grace in? We’re looking for an archdruid to save her life. Will the Fianna do the same? Or are they interested only in her choice?”
Aidan cast a sideways glance at the watching boy, and squinted as if the sun hurt his eyes. “You really think you can save her life?”
“I hope so. It would be easier if she were here. Does Diarmid have her? At least tell me that. Has he . . . ?” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
“She’s safe enough. Stop looking for her.”
“No! I can’t just leave her to him—”
“She needs him, Patrick. Right now, she needs him more than she needs you. But I don’t know if that will always be true.”
“I don’t understand. How does she need him?”
Once again, Aidan glanced past him. He paled and put a hand to the wall to steady himself. He looked ready to swoon.
Patrick followed his gaze to the boy. Now there was another one, a blond, but with the same eerie dark gaze. They were doing nothing, only standing, only watching, but Patrick felt danger like a creeping fog.
Aidan put his hand to his eyes and swayed. “Ah. Patrick.” It was a sound of pain. “Don’t let me—”
He took a lurching step toward them, as if weakness had overtaken him.
Get him out of here.
Patrick grabbed Aidan’s arm, looking for a place to hide him—
Hide him?
Aidan stumbled. Patrick tightened his grip, pulling Aidan after him. Those boys—“The sidhe,” Aidan gasped. “They’re all over.”
The sidhe. The key to finding the archdruid.
Do your job. Keep Aidan safe. The thought exceeded everything else. Patrick whispered urgently, “We have to get you out of here. You’ll have to run. I’ll keep them from following. Run, Aidan. And don’t look back.”
Aidan nodded tensely. “I’ll find a way to get in touch with you again.”
“Just go.” Patrick pushed him.
When Aidan dashed off, Patrick spun, blocking the path of the two boys following. “Leave him alone.”
The boys—the sidhe—smiled at him, and Patrick felt their magic, the terrifying pull of it, as he’d never felt anything in his life.
“You cannot stop us,” said the dark-haired one, dodging him.
Patrick gripped the boy’s arm. He felt a rush of adrenaline; he threw the sidhe to the ground as if he weighed nothing. The boy cried out as he tried to get up, then collapsed again, his leg twisted beneath him.
Patrick looked at the blond. “Care to try?”
The blond lunged. Patrick knocked the boy’s legs from beneath him with a swift, well-placed kick. The fairy fell, then scampered up again, loathing in his eyes, and ran. Patrick let him go—he was running in the opposite direction from Aidan.
A policeman approached, one Patrick recognized as a Fomori warrior put onto the force by the Brotherhood.
“What’s this?” the man asked. “A nasty fairy, is it?”
The dark-haired boy looked frightened now. “We didn’t mean any harm. None at all. We just wanted to touch—”
“Shut up,” the police officer said. He grabbed the boy, jerking him from the ground. “Should I be tossin’ him into the sea for you, sir?”
“Take him into custody,” Patrick ordered. “Question him. See if he knows anything about an archdruid.”
“Let me go!” the boy shouted.
“Come on now,” said the officer, taking him away, and suddenly Patrick smelled smoke and . . . and hemp. The smell from his dreams. But there was no sign of smoke nearby. He felt light-headed. He stumbled to a bench, trying to remember what Aidan had told him. The wrong side. No one safe. “Right now, she needs him more than she needs you. But I don’t know if that will always be true.”
The words that troubled him more were the ones that had been in his own head: Do your job.
My job.
Patrick looked up. The sun was blinding, the sky cloudless and hotly blue, the water beyond dotted with schooners and steamers and plumes of smoke. And Patrick felt the peril of the day sink into him, beautiful and deadly as the eyes of the sidhe.
July 24
Grace
I woke cradled in Derry’s arms. He was awake too; I felt it. I lay there as still as I could while my heart pounded. He touched my hair gently, as if he was afraid to wake me, and then he kissed my shoulder. I felt it like an electric shock—it was all I could do not to jump. A lie, I told myself for what seemed the hundredth time.
I pretended to stir, and he released me so quickly it was as if he hadn’t been holding me at all. I stretched and murmured, opening my eyes. When I looked at him, he s
at up, not meeting my gaze.
“It’s about time,” he said brusquely. “The morning’s half gone. You’d best get dressed. We need to be going.”
He grabbed his shirt and boots and brought me some of the water that Molly or one of the boys fetched daily from the public pumps. Then he left me alone to wash and dress. With him gone, I didn’t have to guard my emotions so closely, and it was too easy to think of last night, of the things I’d seen in him that I’d never suspected. His reverence of Tennyson’s words, the way he’d understood. It left an ache in my heart that lingered still.
When I went out to the main room, he was sitting at the table, talking with Bridget as she sewed.
“You two enjoy yourselves today,” she said. “Have a beer for me.”
“We will,” Derry said, smiling back at her, so charming and easy. We stepped into a simmering-hot day and a blue sky hazed by smoke from the gasworks and the rendering plants along the waterfront. Children laughed and yelled in the yard.
“It’s a bit of a walk at first,” he told me. “But then we’ll take the steam car.”
“A steam car? But won’t that cost money?”
“I’ve still some coin left. Grace, stay close, will you? I think Deirdre’s folk are finished with us, but there will be others. Tell me if you see anyone glowing.”
“I will.”
“The moment you see it. Don’t stop to wonder if it’s real or just the sun.”
I nodded. We went up one street and down another, through the alleys littered with offal and garbage to streets that grew wider, lined with houses now instead of tenements, and yards decorated with hedges and flowers wilting in the hot day. There was garbage here, too, and overflowing ash cans, but it was better than where we’d come from, and the streets were at least swept—there weren’t inches of soft silting dust covering everything.
When we finally got to the station, it wasn’t crowded, but there were still plenty of people waiting for the train. Derry slowed. “Anyone glowing?”
Ordinary people, every one of them, as far as I could see: Families with children and picnic baskets; men looking impatiently at their pocket watches; couples enjoying the day together. But mostly there were roughs smoking cigars and looking arrogantly about. One of them winked at me as we approached. “No one.”