by Megan Chance
He felt her press closer. He kept his eyes closed, afraid of what he would see if he opened them. Afraid to find that she didn’t want what he wanted.
He felt her lean over him, her hand on his chest. It was all he could do just to let her, to not demand, Kiss me, Grace—
She swept the hair from his forehead.
And then she said, “What is that?”
The next moment
Grace
Diarmid jerked away, scrambling to his feet. I fell back, catching myself just before I went sprawling. He was already pushing his hair over his forehead, his eyes blazing. “Why did you do that?”
“You had a twig in your hair. I was just taking it out. What—” I broke off, suddenly understanding.
The ball seirce.
That was the mark I’d seen. The legends said it was there, on his forehead, and yet . . . I’d never seen it before. It was a distinctive scar; I would have remembered. Which meant—
He’d never used it on me.
No. No, I wouldn’t believe that. I couldn’t. I must have seen it. Dully, hoping against hope, I said, “Did you get that burn in the fire?”
He was frighteningly tense. “It’s the ball seirce,” he ground out.
No. No, no. “But . . . I’ve never seen it before.”
“Of course not.”
“I thought—I thought you’d used it on me. Before. The first time you kissed me, I thought I was compelled—”
“To slap me?” He laughed. “Aye. That’s what I do. I go around compelling girls to make me miserable.”
It’s real. Everything I felt. I was drawn to him and I wanted him and I loved him. I didn’t know which was worse—feeling that I’d been compelled to love him, or knowing I’d been so foolish as to fall for him on my own.
My words spilled out. “I love you.”
“Now you do.”
“No, I felt that way before . . . before I saw it. I don’t feel any differently.”
He slid down the wall, drawing up his knees, burying his face in his hands. “You think it’s real, Grace, but it’s not. It’s the spell.”
I was stung. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”
He lifted his head. “Yesterday you told me you didn’t want me touching you. No talk of love, you said. You tried to escape me. Only a few moments ago you told me you were afraid of me. And now you’re telling me you love me—after you see my gift.”
“I’ve been frightened of what I feel. I’ve been running from it.”
“And now you’re not.” Flat disbelief—no, more than that, as if he expected the lie.
“I’m still afraid. I don’t want to be in love with you. It’s stupid and it’s dangerous. You belong to the Fianna and I can’t trust you and . . . oh, I know better than this! But I’m not compelled. No more than I was before.”
“They all say that. They all like to think their minds are still their own.”
“My mind is still my own.”
“No it’s not.”
“How do you know? Have any of them . . . any of the others”—how I hated to say it—“been in love with you before they saw the lovespot?”
“What do you mean by love? D’you mean, did they look at me? Did they think I had pretty eyes? Did they kiss me? Did they want me?”
“You make me sound like a fool.”
He sighed heavily. “Not you, no. I’m the fool. I should never have let myself . . .”
“Let yourself what?”
“Nothing.” He climbed to his feet. “I’ll see if I can find us something to eat.”
I caught his arm. “I’m not hungry. We still have the food Annie gave us. You don’t need to go anywhere.”
“Grace—”
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I should do. I love you and . . . and you said you loved me. Just yesterday you said it. Was it a lie after all?”
“No. But what you feel for me now isn’t real. And I wanted it to be real.” He paused and then said bitterly, “It will fade eventually. You can take solace from that.”
“It’s not a spell,” I said desperately. “It’s not going to fade. Dear God . . . what do I do?”
“Grace, listen to me. Listen.”
His words echoed Battle Annie’s, the way she’d told me to find the truth. He took my arms as if he meant to shake me, and the touch lit my blood. His gaze locked to mine as if he felt it, too, holding me prisoner so I couldn’t look away. Touch him. I stepped closer. He didn’t move. When I kissed him, he shuddered, and I knew he felt the fire that ignited between us. His arms went around me; he kissed me as hungrily as I kissed him. The fire consumed me, the light of him pouring in. Give in. Give in. Whatever else was between us, whatever lies, whatever obligations . . . we were bound to each other. When I was in his arms, I knew it was true. I could not keep denying it. Give in.
His fingers were at my bodice, unbuttoning, shoving it over my shoulders, down, dragging at the drawstring of my chemise, stumbling over the armor of my corset, and my old dream flooded back, brutal and insistent. Screaming and a knife flashing.
I froze. What was I doing here? Why was I letting him do this? The choice I had to make, the ritual and the geis—none of those things had gone away.
“Fate is ever-changing.”
The words reassured me. Yes, fate could be changed. And I could change my own. I would change it.
But he’d felt my hesitation and pulled away. “I can’t do this. I’m . . . I’m taking advantage and I shouldn’t be. ’Tis only that I’ve wanted you for so long . . .”
“I want—”
He shook his head. “When the spell fades, you’ll hate yourself for letting me touch you this way. You said you don’t trust me, and nothing’s happened to change that. Nothing but the lovespell. I want you to trust me, Grace. I want you to love me. But not because a spell has stolen your will.”
I was so much in love with him I felt stupid with it. I wanted him to keep touching me. But he was right—now was not the time for us to be together. Not because a spell had changed the way I felt, but because of what I needed to do. Perhaps I could change fate, but until I had, it would be best not to trust him. Best not to love him.
I forced myself to step away. I pulled my sleeves up over my shoulders and buttoned my bodice.
“I’ll be back.” He went to the door. “I won’t be far. Call if you need me.”
Then he left me there alone.
I sat against the wall and stared up at the light streaming through the slats, watching it change to gold with sunset. The evening was so quiet I heard the lap of water on the shore and the whistles of steamers in the distance.
I spent the time building barriers against him, wanting to be strong enough to resist him, wondering if I could. The words from my dreams played through my head, and I resisted those too. I wished I knew what to do.
The ogham stick rested on the floor where Diarmid had left it. Such a small thing, yet I knew it held the answer if I could only find it. Carefully, I touched it. The burn was quick and intense. I jerked my fingers back. How was I to discover anything if I couldn’t even touch it? We need the key. But there wasn’t a single clue—
I heard a sound, the cracking of branches, the brush of brambles beneath a foot, and the door pushed open. Diarmid came inside, looking weary. I reached for the leather bag and fumbled for an apple. I held it out to him. “I promise I won’t ravish you.”
His smile was small, his eyes haunted. He came over and took the apple, squatting, close, but not too close.
“You remind me of a wild animal who’s afraid to get near,” I teased. “Perhaps . . . a stag.”
His laugh was small too. He looked down at the apple. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For the ball seirce. For trying to . . . tempt you. I
had no right. I should never have told you how I felt. ’Twas wrong, and I’m sorry. But I’d thought . . . What if we start fresh? I’ll keep you safe and try to persuade you to choose us, but honestly. With talk alone. Without all the rest of it.”
My heart sank into a dark and lonely place, but this was what I wanted too. This was best.
I said, “Well, then, convince me your Fianna are in the right.”
He was visibly relieved. He sat beside me and began to tell me the stories. Many of them I knew already, but there were new things in them, the world from his point of view, and before long we were laughing, and his arm came around my shoulders as if it were the most natural thing to do, as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it, and I forgot the reasons he was telling me these things. He was only a boy I loved who was telling me about his life.
But that moment didn’t last long. It was too familiar: his laughter, his warmth, and the lapping of the water against the shore. It was my dream. Except in my dream, I was touching him, I was kissing him, and the need to do so now came over me like a fever. In my head, the words circled around and around: Give in.
July 26
Patrick
The things Aidan had said preyed upon Patrick. What troubled him most was that the Fianna believed Grace had the threefold power of a goddess.
The possibilities had tempted him—and he loved her. If the Fomori knew this . . . would it change their efforts to save her life?
He was disturbed at his own lack of trust. They said they wanted to spare her. They said they were looking for the archdruid. Just because they’d let that sidhe boy escape and seemed loath to confront any others . . . but they knew the sidhe better than he did. Why should he doubt them? Still, something nagged at him. Better to keep his own counsel until he knew what it all meant. Aidan was right—it was Grace who mattered now.
Patrick strode into the dining room, where Mrs. Knox picked at a late breakfast of coddled eggs and toast. The circles beneath her eyes were deep, purple shadows. Her lips were dry and chapped. Her usual elegance and delicacy now looked beyond frail—she looked as ready to topple as a house of cards.
Aidan had said, “My mother is willfully blind.” Perhaps. But Patrick felt he was failing her. “You’re not eating.”
“I’m not hungry, Patrick. Truly, it’s fine. My headaches . . .”
“Should I call the doctor? Is there a medicine you need? Something I can do?”
She shook her head. “It’s only worry.”
Patrick wondered what he should tell her. He wanted to ease her concerns without creating more. Finally, he settled on one thing he thought he could say. “I’ve some good news for you.”
Her eyes lit. “Grace?”
“Not Grace. Aidan. We’ve found him. That is, I found him.”
“Aidan? Oh thank God! Is he all right? Is he home?”
“He’s fine. I’ve spoken to him. And no, he’s not home. He’s . . . helping us look for Grace.”
Mrs. Knox asked warily, “Is he drinking?”
“No. He seems . . . good. I don’t think you need to worry about Aidan.” At least not just yet. “I’m keeping in contact with him.”
“He is safe?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Knox sighed. “I wish I could tell you how grateful I am for you, Patrick. I wish there was some way to thank you for your kindness to my family.”
“You’ve given me your daughter. I’ll spend a lifetime thanking you.”
The butler appeared at the dining room door, followed closely by Bres, who said jovially, “Ah, breakfast! Good morning, Devlin. Rather a late start to the day, don’t you think? ’Tis nearly eleven.” He bowed to Mrs. Knox. “Mrs. Knox—you’re a vision this morning. Simply glowing.”
“Because I’ve just heard some very good news,” Mrs. Knox said.
Oh no. No, no.
“What news is that?”
“Patrick’s heard from my son. Aidan’s safe!”
“Is that so?” Bres looked at Patrick curiously. “Well, that is news.”
“And I imagine you’ve some of your own,” Patrick said, uncomfortably changing the subject. “Else you would not be visiting me this morning.”
Bres sobered. “Aye. We’ve word of Finn’s Warriors at last.”
“You’ve found them?” Mrs. Knox looked anxious again.
“We believe so, madam.” Bres pointed Patrick to the door. “Will you please excuse us, Mrs. Knox?”
Patrick followed Bres into the hall.
“Where are they?” Patrick asked.
“In a stale beer dive on Bleecker. We’re heading over there as soon as Balor can rally a force.”
“Not without me.”
“This could get ugly, my friend.”
“I’ve spent the last three years raising rebellions in Ireland. Do you imagine I just stood back and sent men to their deaths? Believe me, I can hold my own.”
“Against the Fianna?” Bres raised a brow. “Need I remind you that they were the High King’s elite warriors? Finn knows how important you are to us. He would target you. No one doubts your ability or your zeal, but I’m afraid I must order you to stay.”
“Order me?” Patrick laughed. “Have you forgotten where you are?”
Bres’s answering smile was grim. “I have not, but we can’t afford for something to happen to you. It’s for the good of the cause that I ask it.”
“I’ll stay out of the way, then,” Patrick insisted. “But I’m going. Your men let Grace and Diarmid escape on a fairy sloop, for God’s sake. Now I want to see to things myself.”
Bres sighed reluctantly. “Very well. I’ll post you a guard.”
“I don’t need a guard.”
“The others would question my judgment if I allowed that, and I cannot have anyone distracted because they worry over you.” Bres’s tone was mild, but Patrick heard the underlying steel that had made the man a formidable king. “We would all feel better if you were protected. You do realize how much depends on you?”
“Yes, I know. I’ve connections here, and in Ireland—”
“Because of the veleda,” Bres corrected. “Without you, she has no reason to give us her allegiance. Your love for her is the strongest weapon we have. Please accept what protection we can offer.”
Patrick understood, but he hated the need for it. “As you wish.”
“Now tell me, what have you discovered of the stormcaster?”
“Nothing,” Patrick lied. “Grace’s mother was worried; I wanted only to ease her mind. We know he’s with the Fianna and that he’s safe. It seemed a kindness to tell her the latter at least.”
“So you haven’t spoken with the lad?”
“No. Shouldn’t we go?”
Bres’s carriage took them to the club where Balor waited. “My troops are on their way. We’ll meet them there. ’Tis certain to be a bad fight.” Balor clapped his fist into his hand and grinned, which made him look more frightening than ever.
The three of them crowded inside the carriage—Balor was so huge Patrick had to squeeze against the door.
“They’ll be rousted like rats from a fire,” Balor said gleefully.
As they neared Bleecker, Patrick pushed aside the leather curtain to peer out the window. He could see nothing out of the ordinary, but he smelled smoke. Oracle smoke. He glanced around, wondering if anyone else smelled it. Then, the smell was gone. The carriage turned a corner. “Where are the police? I don’t see—”
Abruptly, the carriage was surrounded by a swirling mass of people, police and gang boys, all holding clubs and shouting. The carriage stopped, unable to go farther. Patrick jumped out, hearing Bres call, “Patience, Devlin! Your guards! Hold up!”
Patrick didn’t wait. He pushed through the crowd, and there were the Fianna. Finn fighting like the very devil, twi
sting and swirling, his golden-red hair flying around him. Ossian with sweat pouring down his face. Keenan wrenching the club from a police officer’s hand. The mass of bodies surged and pulsed. Dust rose in a cloud. People shouted, “Leave ’em alone!” and “Get ’im, Finn!” The force of the crowd jostled Patrick. This fight was nothing like the ones he’d organized in Ireland, where there were guns and bayonets. This was a mob. The Fianna fought like dogs, lunging and dodging, biting and kicking and stabbing. These were the elite forces of the High King? These were heroes?
Balor pushed through into the fight. Patrick started to follow when a hand pulled him back.
Bres. Beside him were two Fomori warriors in police dress, Patrick’s guards. “Devlin—think of us. ’Tisn’t just the danger—the Brotherhood can’t be seen as a part of this. Think of your position. We have a plan and it must be followed.”
The Fomori king was right: the Fenian Brotherhood was too respected; they would never take part in a gang fight, which is how this appeared to anyone who didn’t know the truth. Patrick stayed. Bres stood beside him, the guards behind. The sky darkened. It had been clear and blue moments ago, but now gray clouds gathered. An unkindness of ravens lit on the telegraph wires, cawing and rasping, and Patrick thought, Is that all you have? Only a few birds? Where was the great Morrigan, who favored the Fianna? Her three aspects? Where were Badb the Battle Crow, Nemain the Venomous, and Macha the Hateful?
Lightning flashed purple. Again, Patrick smelled hemp smoke, so strong it burned his nostrils. The air shivered as if it spoke only to him, and he recognized the voice in it. Aidan. There was another flash of lightning, striking the pavement only a few feet away. The people near him murmured in fear, easing back.
“The stormcaster,” Bres breathed in Patrick’s ear.
Aidan was at the edge of the crowd. He looked as thin and haggard as he had the other morning, his eyes hollowed, his hair too long. Yet he looked more like Grace than ever—and Patrick realized why. Aidan’s usual distracted air had been replaced with the intensity and focus of his sister.