Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1

by Rachelle Ayala

  “Only a writer, not a witch.” He shook his head and snickered softly. “Too bad. I could have used your services.”

  “Who says I want you to use me?” Clare huffed. “You’re a liar and not that handsome. Quite useless to me.”

  “Ouch,” the man said. “It might come in handy to be friends with a man who can’t die. Think of it. You can send me through a fire to save something precious to you. You can use me as a suicide bomber or an experimental patient for new drugs.”

  “I’m sure I have no use for you since you’re not vampire, Fae, giant, or demigod, and you don’t follow any of the rules for magical creatures. Readers need to know the rules. Otherwise, me bringing you back from the dead for any reason whatsoever is called cheating.”

  “That’s fine with me,” he said. “Your loss. I’ve lived so long, I’ve seen it all. Frankly, I’m quite jaded. Nothing excites me. The stakes are always too low.”

  “That must make your life very dull.”

  “Duller than dishwater,” the man admitted. “But I forge on.”

  “Right, you have no choice. Suicide’s not even an escape for you. How sad. You must carry all your faults and disappointments from lifetime to lifetime.”

  The man patted her arm so suddenly, Clare didn’t have a chance to jerk her hand away. A zing of energy raised goosebumps over her skin, and sparkling heat seared her to the bones.

  “Don’t be sad for me,” he said. “I instantly forget everything and wake up as a clean slate.”

  “That’s even worse,” Clare exclaimed, not believing a word out of his mouth. He hadn’t seemed like the coo-coo type when she first boarded the plane. “To forget who you are. Do you write notes to yourself before you die? Or ask people to record your history?”

  The man unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt. “What do you think?”

  Clare swallowed. The well-muscled chest had a hint of a suntan, but what had her gasping for breath was not the sexiness of the man’s pectoral muscles, but an amulet in the shape of a heart—not a Hallmark heart, but bearing a rough similarity to a four-chambered human heart. It was deeply colored, dark purplish-red, and made of some type of stone or mineral she’d never seen before—a cross between a crystal and a ceramic.

  It was secured in a web of leather thongs, giving it the weird appearance of being surrounded by blood vessels. The leather net was clipped onto a lanyard, like the type used for conference identification badges.

  “What’s that?” Clare asked, her mouth dry and throat raw.

  “It’s the Heart of Brigid,” the man replied in the woo-woo tone of a storyteller. “It leads me to my true love.”

  “For each of your lifetimes?”

  “No, there is only one Brigid and one life. As long as I wear this Heart of Brigid, I shall never die.” He flashed her a mocking smirk, as if she should believe his fairy tale.

  “I thought you said you couldn’t die.” Clare caught him in a plot hole. “You always came back the next morning, poof.”

  “Right, but the Heart of Brigid brings me to my true love whenever I come back.”

  “Which must be very confusing to you since you claim you forget everything from one life to the next,” Clare said. “The rules for your mythological, deathless existence don’t make sense.”

  “I’m just telling you what silly, lovesick girls who believe in magic want to hear. I’m sure your stories are full of wimpy vampires, nice fairies who don’t play tricks, and brainless centaurs with bulging muscles and even bulgier nether regions.” He sniffed with his nose high up in the air. “Am I entertaining you?”

  “Hardly.” Clare also turned her nose up. “I doubt you even know what a true love is, and that phony piece of clay is your vapid attempt at picking up women. As if you’re dangling a sausage in front of a hungry hound in heat.”

  “You certainly have a way with words, if not fashion and style.” He pulled his shirt closed over the amulet but neglected to button it. “Who upgraded you to first class?”

  “I paid every penny.” She gave him an appraising once-over. “As for you, I didn’t know it was Upgrade an Inmate Day. Who are you, and what asylum did you spring out of?”

  “I can assure you I’m entirely sane.” The man stuck his hand out to shake. “Griffin Gallagher. I’m one of the richest men in the world, and frankly, I don’t have to make sense. Who are you?”

  Right, so rich he had to fly commercial.

  Nevertheless, a lead was a lead, so Clare shook the solid hand. At least he was flesh and blood. “Clare Hart. I’m a writer of love stories crossing supernatural boundaries. I’ve been raising funds to make my screenplay into a movie. If you’re interested, I can write you and your Heart of Brigid into one of my stories, and we can see it on the big screen someday.”

  Griffin held onto Clare’s hand a moment too long, then set it down on the console and cupholders between them. “I’m actually very rich and eccentric, but I have no need to invest in a movie when I’ve lived many love stories better than anything you could ever write.”

  “Humpf. I doubt it.” Clare turned away from the Irishman with the tongue full of blarney. “You’re villain material. No love there.”

  “You’re too young to know anything about love. Once you’ve lived a thousand years, we’ll talk.” He leaned his seat back and closed his eyes, shutting her out cold.

  I'll get money from tall, dark, and crazy before this flight is over, Clare thought while eyeing the lump under his clothing.

  Chapter 2

  Griffin closed his eyes and blocked out Clare’s chatter by focusing on the steady hum of jet engines. He knew the type—silly women who wanted to draw attention to themselves by wearing outrageous costumes and playing with magic.

  She fancied herself an author of romance and wanted to make a movie. Imagine that. Excuse him for being just a little jaded with all of the same-old storylines being parroted and retreaded in today’s “creative” world.

  People’s lives were dull and boring, and everyone looked for a stimulant to get them up in the morning. Chasing wealth, fame, and beauty did it for most people, but the ultimate thrill came from taking the biggest risks.

  He smiled to himself as he concentrated on the weight of the treasured Heart of Brigid resting on his chest. It was one of the rarest uncut natural diamonds in the world: shaped like a human heart with a blood-red tint.

  It was one of Ireland’s legendary relics, said to be the actual crystalized heart of a pre-Christian goddess, Brigid, of the Tuatha Dé Danann, a mythical race who fought the evil sea elves for control of the Emerald Isle. They were eventually subdued by newer invaders who forced them to retreat into the green hills and forests, living underneath fairy mounds, known as the Otherworld.

  It was cursed, of course.

  All objects of great antiquity and legend were cursed, if only to cow the meek and frighten mortal men. It had certainly played with the imagination of the obnoxious winged woman sitting next to him.

  Not that she was unattractive. That was definitely not her problem. She was intrusive, feminine in a strange way, and her wings made his nose itch.

  Wings aside, she had a clean fragrance of linen and sweet apple blossoms with a touch of the sea, and her entire presence evoked memories of the wild Irish countryside caught between wind and waves.

  She was pretty, in that peculiarly Irish way. With sea-green eyes and dark-copper auburn hair, full of flames neither red nor brown. As to why she’d want to mar her head with a crown of black thorns made of spray-painted twigs was beyond comprehension—unless she loved torture, or more likely, showcased her prickly personality.

  On a brighter side, her skin was milky, with a scattering of freckles over her upturned nose and heart-shaped face. Cute.

  He stopped at cataloging the no-doubt shapely body underneath her baggage of armor, leather, belts of berries and nuts, and the wilted vegetables she wore like handkerchiefs on her hips. Those long legs of hers were unfortunately en
cased in the most hideous lime-green lace-up boots made of worn suede. How long would it take to slip the ties from every one of the many eyelets?

  Stripping her naked would be a full day’s work, akin to trimming hedges and deadheading rose bushes—not to mention plucking feathers off her back.

  It could be worth it, assuming he was interested in such a fanciful creature. He was too old for her juvenile prattle about fairies, witches, and vampires.

  What did someone so young know about love stories, much less be so arrogant as to write them?

  Griffin was on his way home with the most powerful piece of magic in all Ireland. And the funny thing was …

  No one knew it, and the one person he showed didn’t think it was a big deal. True, a diamond in the rough looked like a glassy, melted, misshapen crystal, and she had no reason to believe it was anything more than a glass bauble, especially given its unusual purplish-red color.

  Neither had airport security thought anything when he put it through the X-ray. It wasn’t metal, and it wasn’t a plastic explosive.

  He suppressed a chuckle, and he resisted the urge to pat the Heart of Brigid, nestled securely between his pectoral muscles.

  He’d succeeded in getting it back from his half-crazed father, and it was going home to Ireland where it belonged.

  More importantly, this piece of Brigid would break the endless cycles of intense love and tortuous separation he endured away from his beloved fairy queen.

  Clare remained in her seat with the seatbelt securely fastened as the jumbo jet bucked and heaved like a sea monster mating with a humpback whale. Her hands trembled as she opened the airsickness bag and rested it on her lap.

  How could Griffin Gallagher sleep through impending disaster?

  She snarled at the smug smile curling his lips and rolled her eyes at how he sprawled his large body into the area between the seats, as if he, by right, should crowd her into a corner.

  Still, he’d given her a story idea, and if he were half as wealthy as he said he was, he could be talked into funding a movie deal for her novels—if she wrote about him and his Heart of Brigid. As hard as it would be, she had to write him as a tortured hero, maybe a misunderstood villain.

  She studied him. His nose had been broken, and he had a jagged scar on his forehead. His hands were not soft and well-manicured like she’d expect for a wealthy and idle man, and he had several scabs and healing wounds on his knuckles.

  She could imagine him an adventurer or a guy into extreme sports. A risk taker, fueled by adrenaline, and a loner who didn’t suffer fools.

  He thought her beneath him and showed it with every expression on his perfectly rugged face. What gave him the right to be so superior? As for that fake bauble he called the heart of his true love?

  Pure poppycock.

  He’d underestimated her. A fatal mistake to make with a writer who could torture, mock, and kill off characters in the most degrading ways.

  She imagined Griffin Gallagher as a druid, forever trapped in an endless circle of forgetfulness and stupidity, but it got boring, so she reformed him into a duke with a castle, perched on a wild promontory overlooking a harsh and foreboding sea.

  Clare gripped the armrests for what seemed like forever before the turbulence subsided and the captain turned off the seatbelt light. The cabin sprang to life as flight attendants rolled their carts up and down the aisles, offering cocktails, tea, and coffee.

  “I’m sure this one wants a whiskey, neat,” Clare answered for her seatmate after ordering club soda for herself. She nudged him for good measure. “I figured a real Irishman wouldn’t miss a good shot of whiskey.”

  Griffin’s eyes blinked open, and he trained a megawatt smile on the flight attendant. “Make that a double, and put one on my card for her.”

  That was surprising, or was it because he didn’t think she could afford it?

  “Sure your stomach can handle it?” Clare asked after the attendant moved on.

  “I’ve got an iron stomach. You look a little queasy. Should I have ordered you ginger ale?”

  Clare shoved the airsickness bag into the seatback pocket. “I’m good, and thanks for the drink. Now that you’re awake, tell me about yourself. How many lives have you come back to, and when exactly were you born?”

  “Nosy little thing, aren’t you? If you’re so interested, look me up on the internet.” He dismissed her with a snort, picked up an in-flight magazine, and readjusted his earbuds to make it clear he was not speaking to her for the duration of the flight.

  Clare slipped her phone out of her purse and connected it to the in-flight Wi-Fi system. Within minutes, she was up to date on the mysterious Griffin Gallagher.

  Which was a big nothing. He was the grandson of a wealthy Irish duke, partied his way through college, and dabbled in several failed businesses. He was a typical wastrel, with nothing to show for, even though he was rumored to be in his mid-thirties.

  Few pictures were leaked onto the internet, but other than being an heir to a country estate, he was neither notorious nor remarkable.

  Even more telling. There was nothing about the Heart of Brigid.

  The flight attendant returned with the mini bottles of whiskey. Griffin put away his magazine and drained one of his bottles in one gulp. He smacked his lips and smiled at her. “Your turn.”

  Clare couldn’t help imagining how those lips with the whiskey tang would feel against hers, so she also poured the whiskey down her throat to banish the thought.

  Ugh. It burned straight through to her gut.

  “Found you, party guy,” she said, waving her mobile phone at Griffin. “Tell me more about this trinket you have. You made up the Heart of Brigid, didn’t you? Are you a pick-up artist or what?”

  “Do I look like I’m trying to pick you up?”

  “You bought me a drink.”

  “I can tell you’re looking for true love and you want some of my magic.” He took the so-called heart out and dangled it in front of her. “You claim to be a romance author. Why can’t you make up something like this?”

  “At least I keep my magic straight.” Clare tried not to be mesmerized by the light glinting off the semi-transparent crystal. “If you’re so forgetful, how would you know your true love if she smacked you in the face with this rock?”

  “It’s the cursed Heart of Brigid,” he intoned in a low, undertaker voice.

  “What’s the curse? That you’re unlucky in love?”

  “Too trite,” he said. “I’ll leave it to your devious mind to figure it out. Suffice it to say, I’m about to get very lucky tonight.”

  “Gross! Too much information,” Clare said, covering her ears.

  He regarded her like she was an inconsequential gnat. “Your limited worldview is incapable of comprehending what great love I share with the owner of this heart.”

  “Brigid, I know,” Clare said. “She’s either the saint or the goddess—a Fae Princess and the triple goddess of healing, poetry, and metal-working or the beloved saint we all grew up praying to. There’s nothing in the legend or lore about her heart.”

  “The best things are kept secret,” Griffin said. “I’ve spent multiple lifetimes loving her, and every time, she’s eluded me. With this heart, I can find her and keep her bonded to me forever.”

  “Sounds like she wants to be free of you.” Clare stifled a giggle. “Warning. I wouldn’t mess with a goddess if I were you.”

  He kissed the crystalline matrix and tucked it back into his shirt. “What do you know? Nothing.”

  “I know you’re cursed, because you can never be with your true love,” Clare said, making a last-ditch pitch. “I can help break that curse.”

  “You’re a writer of fiction. How can you help?”

  “How many lifetimes have you wasted not spending it with her, and then forgetting her only to have to find her all over again?”

  His gaze faltered for only a moment. Then he reset his jaw and glared at her. “This Heart hasn’t
failed me yet.”

  “Must be frustrating.” Clare waved her hands with a flourishing movement, wishing she could snag the heart and whisk it away from him. “I’m a woman, a fiery female like Brigid. I even have a Brigid costume, complete with a skirt of flames, plastic flame halo, and a tunic of burning autumn-colored leaves—simulated, of course. Let me wear this heart and make your Brigid so jealous she will reclaim you and never let you go.”

  “It would never work. You are nothing like my Brigid. She would laugh at your feeble attempt at emulating her.” He uncapped the second airline-sized bottle of whiskey and emptied it, then looped a sleeping mask over his eyes and leaned back. “Now, leave me alone so I can dream about my lover of all ages.”

  Grrr… Clare let her upper lip curl and leaned back in her seat. With that kind of attitude, it served him right to lose his lover over and over, lifetime after lifetime.

  He was a liar anyway. An idle rich man with nothing to do with his money but to jet around the world in first class and insult women.

  He was probably the villain, a crooked treasure hunter who’d raided the ancient druid temple devoted to Brigid and stole her heart. Wait, he was the sorcerer who turned her heart into a rock and buried it in the slime pit of an underground river. He then brought her back to life and forced her heartless body to wander through the Otherworld, calling for her true love, a man most opposite of Griffin Gallagher.

  Fast forward many centuries. Brigid still walks, now a modern woman. She’s missing her heart, but she’s smart, educated, and has accumulated the knowledge of the centuries. She’s well able to pass through society without being noticed. Still heartless, she, nevertheless, has learned to feign the emotions people associate with having a heart.

  She’s never fallen in love, but being so beautiful, she doesn’t need to. Men fall at her feet to worship her, but without a heart, Brigid can’t respond. Instead, she uses her gift of poetry to spin love stories. She weaves magic into the strands of her multi-faceted plots and binds the very emotion she cannot feel—love—into the warp and weft of her soul.