by Megan Chance
“We should be careful about chasing after things that don’t matter, lass. There’s not much time. This might have nothing to do with the archdruid.”
Not much time. Samhain. It was nearly August already. But I felt that the stick had something to do with me. “My grandmother said these same words when she told me to find the archdruid. And I’m dreaming them too. It seems too big a coincidence.”
“We could puzzle over it for years. ’Tis what they meant mere mortals to do. Without a key, we’ve no hope of deciphering it.”
“But it could be a clue.”
“About the archdruid? It might have something to do with the veleda, but it’s the archdruid we need just now.”
My throat tightened. “What if we don’t find him? What if we never discover the right incantation? What will happen then?”
He was so quiet that the thud of our footsteps on the boardwalk sounded thunderous. We were coming back onto the beach. I saw Derry’s reluctance to tell me, but finally he said, “If the ritual isn’t done on Samhain, the Fianna die. Never to return to any world.”
I felt a distress I didn’t want to look at too closely. “And the veleda too?”
“I don’t know. I never heard what would happen to the veleda if the ritual doesn’t happen, but ’twill be nothing you can just walk away from.” He gave me a small smile. “We’re not the only ones looking. We’ll find him, Grace.”
I wasn’t reassured, not until I looked at the edge of the ogham stick poking from his pocket. Not until I thought of what Lewis Corley and my grandmother and my dreams had all said. I knew the stick could tell me where the archdruid was. I didn’t know how I knew it; only that I did. The key would unlock it. Once I had the key, I would know what to do and where to go.
All I had to do was find it.
That afternoon
Grace
The cries of the vendors became louder as we approached the rail depot, along with the shouts and squeals from the water. The sun beat on my shoulders and my face, reminding me that I had no hat, that my skin was no doubt turning pink, and my mother would have my head for it—
Homesickness washed over me. Oscar’s news last night had eased my worries over my family somewhat, but I still wished I could see for myself that they were all right.
Just then Derry said, “Let’s not go back yet. We’ve done what we meant to do, and the whole day’s still ahead of us. Why don’t we get something to eat and walk along the beach for a bit? Let’s just forget it all. The archdruid and the stick and who you are and who I am, and just . . . be. You and me at the seashore. Just for the day.”
The thought of spending the day here without worrying over burdens I didn’t want and couldn’t carry sounded wonderful. To just be myself, to forget . . . I wanted it almost more than I’d ever wanted anything.
“Yes, let’s,” I agreed.
His smile was so dazzling I could not help smiling back.
“Come on then,” he said.
He bought a paper cone full of roasted clams, and we headed toward the water, accosted all along the way by men begging us to try our hand at cards. At one point Derry pushed a man hard in the chest and said, “Leave us be,” and the man retreated as if he’d seen something that frightened him; I knew what it was: Diarmid Ua Duibhne, Fianna warrior.
I reminded myself that we were forgetting everything, and let it go. We walked along the shore, sucking the salty, peppery clams from their shells—I’d never tasted anything so good in my life—and dodging children who rushed dripping and laughing and screaming from the surf. I knew I’d never forget this: the hot sun and my hair blowing into my face, the sand squishing beneath my boots, licking the clam juice off my fingers; Derry walking beside me, his hands shoved in his pockets, his collar fluttering in the breeze; the roar of the waves and the whistles of the steamers and the shouts of swimmers.
We dodged a dead possum washed ashore, and steered clear of something a group of children poked at with a stick. Sandy seaweed tangled in clods, drying in the sun, buzzing with sand flies. It was best not to look too closely at it, I realized, when I bent over one only to see it glistening with what looked like a horse liver, probably dumped into the bay from a rendering plant.
Mostly, though, it was beautiful. Seagulls dipped and cawed, and when we were done with the clams, Derry emptied the shells out on the beach and the birds flew down in a mass to fight over them.
“Do you want to swim?” he asked. “I think they rent bathing costumes, if you want.”
I shook my head. “But I would like to go wading.”
I plopped down on the sand and unlaced my boots, drawing them off. Without thinking, I pulled up my skirts to roll down my stockings, and when I looked up, he was watching me with an expression that made my stomach do a funny little flip. I pushed my skirts down again and unrolled my stockings from beneath the fabric, and he grinned.
“Aren’t you going to wade?” I asked.
“Water makes me nervous.”
“You’re worried about sea champions and monsters, is that it?”
“Nothing good ever came out of the sea.”
“Fish,” I said. “Lobster and clams. Crab and salmon and cod.”
“Sea serpents and kelpies,” he said, playing along. “Cliodna’s Wave, which swept everything away. Fomorians.”
I looked at families lounging on the sand and women tiptoeing into the surf and men plunging in with gusto and tried not to think of the mythical tidal wave he’d mentioned. “I don’t see any Fomorians. Do you?”
“Not a one.”
“Take off your boots. Wade with me.”
I stared pointedly at him until he surrendered and pulled off his boots. I piled my stockings and boots on the sand, and then I lifted my skirts to run into the surf, squealing when the cold water hit my calves and splashed up to my knees. I stood there while the ocean sucked at my toes, my feet sinking into the sand with each retreating wave.
Derry came up beside me so tentatively it made me laugh, his trousers rolled to just below his knees. “Look at you—where’s the brave Fianna warrior now?”
“I’d rather go up against Lochlann’s entire army.” He looked disdainfully at the surf foaming over his feet. “It’s cold.”
“Don’t be a baby.” I kicked, splashing his trousers.
He jerked back. I saw him open his mouth to protest, and then this look came into his eyes—this teasing, calculating look—and I knew what he was planning the moment before he bent to splash me, and I turned and ran through the water, tossing over my shoulder, “Oh no you don’t!”
He caught up with me before I’d gone more than ten feet. He grabbed me around the waist, lifting me until my feet were free of the water and my skirts dragged wetly against my legs, swinging me around to face him, pulling me close. “Shall I drop you?” He grinned evilly, loosening his hold just enough that I gasped and grabbed onto him.
“Don’t you dare,” I said.
“Or . . . ’tis a little deeper out there. What d’you think? D’you fancy going home soaking wet?”
“Let me go right now,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Or I’ll scream.”
“Everyone’s screaming. No one would care.”
“All right—I’m sorry I splashed you. I won’t do it again. Now put me down.”
He laughed. “You think I’m so easily fooled? If I put you down, you’ll soak me.”
“I promise I won’t.”
“Ha!”
“Derry, put me down this moment.”
His arms tightened around me. “Ask me nicely.”
“And then you’ll let me go?”
“Aye.”
“Please. Please let me go.”
And he did. He released his hold so suddenly that I plunged into the surf. A wave swept up to smack me, and I was soaking from the wais
t down, my sleeves wet to the elbow. I glared up at him, and he laughed so hard he doubled over. I jumped up and pushed him, and Diarmid Ua Duibhne, pride of the Fianna, went down like a sack of potatoes, flailing in the water, sputtering in surprise. It was so comical I burst out laughing too.
He rose, looking down at himself, his soaked shirt clinging, droplets of water sparkling in his hair, and then before I realized his intention he strode through the water and pulled me into his chest, and he shoved his other hand into my hair to anchor me, and then he kissed me in a way that turned me inside out.
The kiss was just like the one before, a leaping, pulsing fire, a force that rushed into me, breaking me apart, and all I wanted was more. I told myself to push him away—but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I felt myself sigh into him, and his mouth urged mine open as he deepened the kiss. It was as if every touch and glance between us had spiraled down to just this one thing, as if we were fated for this. I tasted saltwater and clams and the grit of sand, and before I knew it I was curling my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
I heard a catcall, someone hooting and laughing, and I sprang away. I felt myself go red as two young men thrust their hips suggestively as they walked by us.
Derry let me go with a smile, barely glancing at the roughs who’d teased us, and then he said lightly, as if he hadn’t just ravished me in front of everyone, “We’ll be here for hours now, you know, drying off.”
“The sun’s hot. Perhaps it won’t take so long.” I walked back to our boots, and he followed. The dry sand clung to my bare, wet feet. I glanced down at my skirts, my second-best gown, streaked with dirt and dust as it hung lank and wet, the hem encrusted with sand. “Oh no. My dress is probably ruined.”
“I like it better. You don’t look so untouchable.” He met my gaze. “Now you look like you could belong to me.”
The way those words hit me . . . I felt the spell of him strengthen and hold, that urge to touch him possessing me until it was the only thing I wanted to do. His hand came to my waist. His other hand cupped my cheek, and he brought me close and kissed me again. His mouth moved to my cheekbone, sliding to my jaw, my throat, and I went weak. I thought I might melt, just a puddle of desire and yearning shimmering on the sand.
I managed, “Not here. People are watching.”
He murmured against my skin, “No one’s watching.”
“They will if you don’t stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
“Please, Diarmid.”
His eyes were dark. “I like the way you say my name. Say it again.”
“Not if you don’t let me go.”
“Then I guess I don’t want to hear it that badly.” He grinned.
I grinned back. Like the most stupid girl alive. Which I was. I flattened my hand against his chest. The heat of him radiated through his wet shirt, and I didn’t want to pull away.
I love him, I thought.
It stunned me. For a moment, I couldn’t even breathe. I forced myself to think. No, it was the lovespot, I knew that.
No matter how real it felt.
He means to seduce you and kill you. That was the truth. And it was working. He was seducing me, and I was letting him. I was no different than Lucy—I’d seen him kiss her just this way. It meant nothing to him; she had meant nothing to him, a means to an end only. Just as I am.
He was helping me find the archdruid, and perhaps he did want to save my life, but if it came down to saving me or sacrificing me for his brothers, he would choose them. He belonged to the Fianna. He wanted to be one of them more than he wanted love.
I should be home, with Patrick, who truly meant to help me; with my mother and grandmother, who needed me. I shouldn’t be here, letting this enchantment grow. I had to find a way to escape before I stopped caring that it was a spell, before Diarmid completely bewitched me.
“I’m thirsty,” I said, as brightly as I could.
“You’d rather have a beer than kiss me?”
“Lemonade. And I’m very thirsty.”
He sighed, but he released me. “Lemonade it is, then.”
We put on our boots. He slung his arm around me as if he couldn’t bear to let me go for even a moment, and I liked it—which only frightened me more. We walked back to the crowds, to the wooden booths and bathing houses near the pier, and I saw the steamers loading passengers to take back to the city, and I knew how I could escape him.
I needed only a few moments and enough coin for a ticket. A few cents, which he had in his pocket. But how to get them, and how to get to the steamer . . . that was the problem. He would never leave me alone in such a crowd. Then, when we reached the booths and restaurants, the signs advertising clam chowder, ice cream, and lemonade, I had an idea.
I turned to him so suddenly he stumbled. I used against him what he used against me—I smiled up at him flirtatiously, feeling a surge of victory when he looked a little stunned. “I want to give you a surprise.”
“A surprise?”
“Yes. But you can’t look. And I . . . I need some money.”
“For what?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” I trailed my hand upward, curving it around his neck, tangling my fingers in the thick hair curling against his collar. “Go get the lemonade, and I’ll get this and meet you back here.”
“It’s too dangerous—”
“I haven’t seen a single fairy.”
“There are roughs everywhere. And the monte dealers—”
“I’m just going to a booth. Just over there. I won’t go near them.” I went onto my toes, me kissing him for once. I’d never been so bold, and I liked it a bit too much. It strengthened my resolve to escape him. I whispered against his mouth, “You’ll like it. I promise.”
“I can’t let you go alone.” But I heard him wavering.
“It’s only for a moment. I’ll hardly be more than a few yards away. And if you let me do this, I’ll let you kiss me all you want. I won’t say a word to stop you.”
He swallowed, his warring emotions clear in his eyes. I felt guilty for doing this to him.
Then I thought of what he’d done to me, the reason I was here in the first place. I pressed against him. “It’s just a little surprise. What can it harm? Don’t spoil the day. It would make me so happy. Please, Diarmid.”
The name he liked to hear, and I knew by the look on his face that he was going to ignore his warrior instincts and let me go.
“All right,” he said. “But just a few moments, Grace. No longer. I’ll get the lemonade and meet you back here. Five minutes.”
“Of course.”
“How much d’you need?”
“I’m not certain.”
He reached into his pocket and gave me a few coins, which I clutched tight. “Five minutes,” he said again. “Right here.”
I nodded and then—only because I needed the ogham stick—I gave him a last, hungry kiss, pulling the stick from his pocket as I did so. It was hot within moments. I twisted it in my skirts before I drew back.
“By the gods,” he muttered, caressing my jaw. “I don’t want to leave you for a moment.”
I smiled and nudged him. The ogham stick was hot even through the fabric. “Go on. I’ll see you soon.”
He threw me a final reluctant glance as he went to the lemonade booth. I didn’t waste a minute. I dodged behind the booths, and then, when I was certain he couldn’t see me, I ran toward the ferry station and salvation.
Moments later
Diarmid
He didn’t like leaving her even for a moment, and before he’d walked three yards, Diarmid changed his mind. But when he turned back around, she was already gone. He craned his neck, searching, but the booths were crowded together and there were too many people. He told himself it would be all right. It would make her happy, and that was w
hat he cared about, because he knew now that she wanted to kiss him as much as he wanted to kiss her. He knew that she felt the same longing to keep touching, to never stop. He’d seen his hunger reflected in her eyes.
He strode to the nearest lemonade booth. He bought her drink, and then went to the booth next door to buy a beer for himself. He started back, passing a restaurant plastered with broadsheets and advertisements, some fluttering loose with the ocean breeze, some half ripped away.
And he saw his face.
Diarmid halted. The beer and the lemonade sloshed over his hands. A drawing of him, with large black letters banded at the top of the broadsheet. He couldn’t read it, but he knew what it was. A ‘Wanted’ poster. He remembered Oscar saying they’d been put up all over the city.
Then Diarmid realized what was tacked beside it. Another broadsheet, this one with a sketch of Grace.
He’d been a fool to come here. He’d been so distracted by her that he’d forgotten that the entire city was looking for them. There was a reward for their capture, and he had brought her to a place where there were a thousand people or more needing money, all of them passing these broadsheets.
He dropped the drinks and broke into a run back to where she’d promised to meet him. He pushed through the people, ignoring their startled looks and their hey!s. When he got there, she was nowhere in sight, but he scanned the crowd, telling himself not to worry. Had it even been five minutes yet?
There were roughs everywhere. Monte dealers and swindlers. He remembered how she’d been caught by Billy’s Boys in Manhattan and broke into a cold sweat. By the gods, he would never find her here. There were too many people, too many places. By the time he checked the booths and the restaurants and the beach, she could be—
Diarmid dashed into the crowd again. She wasn’t at the ice cream booth or the puppet stage. Not where they sold taffy or at the shooting range. He saw a crowd of young men shouting as they gathered around something, and his heart seized until he realized it was just a dogfight.
He raced to the bathing houses—there were hundreds of them, impossible to search and she hadn’t wanted to swim anyway. He went to the rail of the wooden platform overlooking the surf. There was no dark-haired girl in a green dress on the beach. Nothing. Only girls in bathing costumes and families and couples, and over there the steamer dock—