by Lila Dubois
Trajan, exhausted, gaunt, and worn, started to laugh.
“Trajan?” Nim looked unsure.
He opened his arms, and even as confused as she looked, Nim slid into his embrace. Harris joined her.
“What happened?” Trajan laughed. “We solved one problem at a time.”
Epilogue
Nim’s fingers trembled as she dialed. It rang twice before a woman answered; her voice was shaky.
“Hello?”
Nim squeezed her eyes shut and passed the phone to Trajan. She couldn’t…she couldn’t do it.
Trajan tapped the button to put the satellite phone on speaker. “Baron Mahkah?”
Nimue’s mother cleared her throat, and when she spoke again her voice was level. “Mr. Dixon,” she said. “I’ve told you to call me Igraine.”
Trajan looked at Nim, who was huddled against Harris. “Igraine,” he conceded. “Your daughter, Vivien?”
“She’s fine. She’s…she’s fine. There’s no curse.”
Nim started to sink to the ground, and for a moment Trajan thought she’d fainted. Harris sat, pulled her onto his lap, and cradled her cheek. Nim’s eyes opened, and he realized she’d collapsed in relief.
“Thank you,” the Baron of the Mahkah coven continued, “for helping my daughter. I hope that now you and Harris are able to return home.”
Trajan looked at Harris, then at Nim. The grief in the woman’s voice was palpable, and there was no need for it. Nim was right there. She was alive
Yet she made no move to take the phone.
“Perhaps you’d be willing to talk sometime. I’d like to know…excuse me, I’m a bit emotional.” There was a pause. “I’d like to know what my daughter’s last days were like.”
Trajan thrust the phone at Harris. He could not do this.
Nim snatched it. “Mom.”
There was a shocked gasp. “Nimue?”
“Mom, Viv is okay, she’s really okay?”
“Nimue Mahkah, what…how?” Her voice shook, and the hope in it was almost painful to hear.
Nim squeezed the phone, eyes shut. For a moment it seemed she’d start crying, but then she cleared her throat and used an almost wry tone. “Well, there’re some things I haven’t been telling you.”
“You’re alive?” A happy sob. “You’re really okay? Alive?”
Now the tears spilled down Nim’s cheeks. “Yes, Mama.”
“Goddess bless and protect me. You’re alive.”
There was a rustle and then a younger woman spoke. “Nim? Nim!”
“Viv!”
“How did you do it?”
“You don’t feel anything?”
“No.”
“It would be like a pressure on the back of your neck.”
“Nim, there’s nothing. Everyone has checked me.”
Nim let out a watery laugh.
“You did it, sis,” Vivien Makah said. “You broke the curse.”
Nim looked at Trajan and Harris. “I had some help.”
“Uh, well, just so you know, Mom is drying her eyes and now she’s started to look kinda pissed. Hold on, I’m trying to run—ouch! She tripped me.”
Her mother’s house had slate floors, which moved at her mother’s command. It was very hard to run from Igraine.
“Nimue Mahkah, I am the Baron of your coven, and your mother. Enough secrets. You are going to tell me what you did and why you’ve been lying to me.”
“Ly…ing?”
“Yes, Nimue. Lying about a sinkhole when really there’s a massive chunk of forest that is radiating magic, and one of the mountains on our land is nearly thirty meters taller than it was before.
“Um.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“No, Mom, and I’m not lying about this. I can’t leave.”
“Then I’ll come to you.”
“It’s not safe.”
“I’ll use the same route your non-communicative friend Robert uses.”
“He told you?”
“No, I stuck a GPS tracker in that backpack he always wears.”
Trajan and Harris stared at each other, then back at Nim.
She smiled tentatively. “You’ll love my mom.”
“I don’t care if they love me. What they will do is answer my questions, and as long as they live on my land, they will answer to me.” There was noise in the background, and she heard people shouting in excitement as the coven, which had no doubt gathered to help mourn, were told that Nim was alive. There was the sound of a door closing. “I’m hanging up now because I’m in the car,” Igraine said. “Nimue?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“I love you, baby, and I’m so, so proud of you. I will thank the Goddess every day until I pass on that you’re still here with me.”
Igraine hung up, and Trajan blinked back the tears that filled his eyes.
Harris kissed Nimue’s head, then drew Trajan into their embrace.
Second Epilogue
“How far’d you get?” Robert asked as he hiked up the hill.
Trajan was sitting just inside the border on the ground, leg stuck out in front of him. It was stone from knee to foot. “Thirty feet.”
“Getting better,” Robert said. He handed over their mail.
A month had passed since they’d saved Nim. They’d been right—they’d managed to burn away the curse. Mercifully Nim remembered very little of that hellish night when they’d forced her to endure hours of agony in order to keep her alive.
At least when she was awake.
Trajan and Harris would never forget, and never really forgive themselves, for what they’d done to her, the pain they’d caused. They paid their penance by not being able to leave the forest. Nim could leave, and had many times to visit her family. Trajan turned to stone if he got too far outside the border, and the plants around Harris started to die once he was out for more than ten minutes. The first time it had happened he’d had to sprint for the border, leaving gray swathes of death in his wake.
Nim spent most nights poring over books and drawing up spells, trying to figure out how to enable them to leave. For now there was plenty to explore, and time seemed to be lessening the effects. Trajan was sure some day he’d be able to leave. Harris was less sure, but more content to stay in the forest.
Robert came to visit most days. The enchanted forest was the only safe place for him to practice with his new, intense powers. He was now a fire witch as great as any the Salachar cabal could boast. With Harris and Nim there, the damage he could do when he lost control was limited—she could smother the fire and Harris could regrow the plants.
Nim’s mother was a frequent visitor too. After she’d seen the forest, she’d forbidden anyone from crossing into the enchanted area without her permission. There were too many unknown factors to allow even the members of Nimue’s coven to access the forest, though both of Nim’s sisters had come to visit. No one had said anything about the fact that Nimue, Trajan, and Harris were clearly engaged in a relationship. Honestly, a ménage was the least interesting thing happening.
It had been idyllic. Peaceful.
But they knew it could not last. What’d they’d done here could not be kept a secret. The magic of the forest itself, the ability to touch one another, and the power to use magic together was too important to be hidden. There would be a day of reckoning—when the rest of the magical world would have to know the truth.
And on that day, everything would change.
The End
Preview another book by this author
Redemption
The Irish Castle
The Glenncailty Ghosts, Book 1
Lila Dubois
Prologue
Glenncailty Castle appeared between the trees, the road to its front door following the curve of the land, sweeping visitors down into the embrace of the three-hundred-year-old estate. Stone and glass were silver and diamond against the woodland green of the glen. The three-story castle rose strong and square from
the shadows of the valley, flanked by shorter east and west wings. The structure was sturdy but elegant as anything that could be found in this wild part of County Meath, the ancient seat of the Kings of Ireland. The wood tumbled down the sides of the valley and pressed in on Glenncailty, casting long shadows and reminding those who came to the front doors that this valley was still more wild than tame.
Glenncailty’s history was lost, the name of the English lord who’d built it to oppress the people of the glen erased. Stories of families who’d owned, held and eventually squandered the power of the castle were gone too, but whether forgotten or erased, no one knew. Now the castle had a master as shadowed as its walls, but he hoped for its future, even as he’d given up on his own. The time had come for Glenncailty Castle to throw open its doors, invite the world in, and let life and laughter drown out the shadows.
What the master did not expect was that the castle would draw those who bore shadows of their own—that in the end, perhaps Glenncailty would save those who entered, rather than them saving Glenncailty. There is a place for everyone in this world, and for some who search, who wander, who carry heavy sorrows, there is Glenncailty—Valley of the Lost.
Welcome to Glenncailty Castle. Céad míle fáilte.
Chapter 1
The Fiddle Meets The Harp
At the edge of the castle grounds, where the gardens gave way to mowed grass, but before the wild tangles of bramble that skirted the tree line, a large stone barn with a pitched roof and dovecote stood tall and proud in the afternoon sun. It was called Finn’s Stable, though no one knew or remembered why. It simply was. It had been half fallen down when Caera took on the job of special events manager at Glenncailty Castle. Two years ago, the castle had been a crumbling and dilapidated private residence. Now the castle was renovated and the outbuildings of the estate were coming to life, starting with her love, Finn’s Stable.
Today the gravel and stone path than led to the concert and event venue was clogged with trucks from RTE, Ireland’s national broadcaster, as film and sound crews hauled equipment in through the heavy wood doors. RTE was going to film a special event in Finn’s Stable tomorrow night. Free Birds Fly was a concert with some of the best young Irish musicians in the country. They’d be performing traditional songs as well as their own original music. There were even guest musicians coming from America and Australia, both countries that owed much of their musical inheritance to their Irish immigrants.
Between now and the doors opening tomorrow night there were plenty of details for Caera and her team to oversee, not the least of which was the layout.
“I could change it to a smaller stage in the middle and have the audience seated all around. They’d be the background.” Caera eyed the space as she mentally set up the theater in the round.
“I don’t want to be forever editing the tape looking for someone with fingers in their nose.” The producer from RTE looked both bored and irritated. He’d made it clear that he thought it was a waste to bring the event out to Glenncailty, rather than hosting it in Dublin.
“What if you took down the drapes and filmed during the day? The glen is beautiful.”
When they repaired the crumbling walls and added a new wood roof, she’d opted to replace one of the short walls with glass, offering an unrestricted view of the woods behind the stable. She wanted a way to let in the late summer sun and allow people to see the wild beauty of the unmanicured wood. Normally the windows were a prized backdrop, providing either a view of the green glen or the black of night. Finn’s Stable had become the choice for ceilidhs and parties for those not only in the local village, but in the surrounding parishes. Currently, the stage was placed in front of the windows, opposite the stable doors. It had never been a problem, and Caera had been applauded for her choice, but according to the producer, windows were a difficult backdrop. The RTE team had put hideous matte black curtains over the windows on a frame of PVC pipe. Caera had to bite her tongue as they dulled her sparkling gem of a venue.
“Neither of us wants the headache of changing the time of the concert.” The producer for RTE, the national broadcaster, crossed his arms. Caera pressed her lips together and took a few steps to the side, resting her hand against the stone wall of the stable-turned-event space. She was working very hard to be polite to the man who hadn’t had a good word to say since he got here.
“Maybe we can use the windows.” The producer considered the pipe and drape. “We could light the trees outside and angle the interior lights to minimize the reflection.” The producer wandered away to talk to the lighting director he’d brought.
Caera hesitated, wanting to go with him and give her input, but knowing that to the Dubliners—Dubs—she was just a country girl and what she said wouldn’t matter. It was hard to step back and let them decide what to do. Tomorrow would be Finn’s Stable’s first time on TV. She didn’t want them painting her baby in a bad light.
“How’s it?” Rory Mac Gabhann, Caera’s assistant director, asked. He was carrying two chairs, and behind him his younger brother, Gerard, carried a few more.
“They’re going to take down the pipe and drape over the window, I hope.” Caera pointed to where she wanted the chairs. It seemed they’d be using the regular stage, so it was time to get the chairs in place.
“Just as well, those black curtains look hideous.” Rory smiled, his brown eyes sparkling.
“You’ll be quiet,” Caera said, giving him a push towards the storage area, a strange cone-shaped addition off one side of the stable that had once been a dovecote.
“It does look stupid, Miss Cassidy.” Gerard tossed his head, the floppy waves of hair that covered his face flipping back for a second, revealing eyes as melting as his older brother’s. At fifteen, he was gangly and awkward, with none of his brother’s finesse and smooth talking. Something for which all the teenage girls in Cailtytown should be grateful.
“Well, don’t be saying that so loud,” she admonished, tapping Gerard on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “We wouldn’t want to offend them.”
“Offend the Dubs? Impossible. They’re so thick nothing gets through to them.” Rory carried two more chairs in.
“Rory Mac Gabhann.” Caera looked at the television crew, who were a safe twenty feet away. “What would your mammy think to hear you talk like that?”
“Want me to tell on him, Miss Cassidy?” Gerard said, helpfully.
“Watch yourself, boy-o.” Little brother darted out of the way of Rory’s swat, grinning.
“You watch, or I’ll tell Ma.”
“Both of you, stop.” Caera crossed her arms, wishing once again that she were taller and more commanding. At five-foot-four, she was shorter than everyone, even teenage Gerard, and Rory towered over her. “Can we pretend we’re running a real event venue, and not some country tra-la-la?”
Gerard had the grace to look sheepish, while Rory just grinned. His gaze lingered on her a second too long, his smile a fraction too intense. Caera turned away from it, as she always had.
“Caera?”
The wide double doors opened and Elizabeth Jefferies, manager of Glenncailty and Caera’s boss, slipped in. Cold winter wind whirled in the door along with Elizabeth, catching a few pieces of her blonde hair and making them dance.
Caera checked the TV crew, then made her way to Elizabeth. As always, her boss carried what looked like an old, hard-backed book but was really a case hiding her tablet computer.
“Is everything in order?” Elizabeth’s words were clipped, her English accent pronounced.
“We’re getting on well enough.” Caera checked her watch. “We have twenty-four hours before the doors open.”
“And ticket sales?”
“Sold out this morning.” With ten brilliant musicians participating, selling the three hundred tickets Finn’s Stable could seat shouldn’t have been a problem—if Glenncailty was in a major city. They were in the countryside, two hours from Dublin despite the new motorway, with only small
villages nearby. Cailtytown was the local village, and had a population of only five hundred. Finding three hundred people out of those five hundred who would pay the nearly €100 ticket price would be impossible. Caera had thrown a lot into local advertising and marketing, and it had paid off, with not a moment to spare.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Elizabeth zipped open her book-like case and started tapping on the flat screen of her tablet. “Are there any other details I can assist you with?” With her head bent over the tablet, Elizabeth seemed older than the thirty-five she was rumored to be. Caera didn’t know much about the Englishwoman, who never shared anything about herself or her life. Whatever her personal story, she was a brilliant hotel manager and had, in two short years, overseen the renovation and grand opening of Glenncailty. She was also, as far as Caera knew, the only person to ever have an actual conversation with Mr. O’Muircheartaigh, the owner.
“Everything’s ready. Parking, signage, photography for our website and promotional materials, and accommodations for the musicians. The TV crew is handling the tech work.”
“I spoke with Sorcha—it seems most of the musicians have arrived and are checked in.”
Caera nodded. “Paddy Fish and the American, who Paddy is picking up, are the last two. They should be here—” Caera looked at her watch, running through the mental timetable she’d been working out for months, “—in the next hour.”
“Brilliant job. I’m going to check with the kitchens. I want everyone to have a choice of eating in the dining room or the pub. If you see any of the performers, please apprise them of our amenities. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth.”
Caera watched her boss heave the one-hundred-year-old wood door open, letting in another swirl of February wind. It would rain tonight. She could smell it. She turned back, tipping her head to the exposed rafters two stories above. A combination of nerves and sadness filled her—nerves that the event would go smoothly, that Finn’s Stable would show well on television. Sadness because she could almost hear the music that would fill it—the rill of fiddle, strum of guitar and the passion of voices singing of times both good and bad, lost and hoped for. Singing of the free birds that fly beyond prison walls.