No way.
He, Griffin Gallagher, had no time for fancying women. He was on a mission to restore the Heart of Ireland and to bring in the reign of the true Queen of the Fae—Brigid the daughter of a god—to heal the land from centuries of environmental degradation. The green forests of Ireland would spring up dense and lush. The hills would be full of song and poetry. Every landscape would be rendered in brushstrokes of beauty, layered with brilliant flashes of color. Love and joy would flourish in every heart, and peace would rule in perpetuity.
“Welcome home, Master Gallagher.” Pierce bowed low but kept a squinting gaze on him. “Your grandfather expects you in his study for tea this afternoon. You should be refreshed and cleaned up from your flight by then.”
Pierce was ancient, with a full head of white hair. He had served Griffin’s family as far back as anyone could remember.
“Had a bit of a scuff-up on the airplane,” Griffin said, getting out of the limo. “Going to take a shower.”
“As you wish,” the butler said as two porters carried his luggage to his room.
Griffin couldn’t wait to be alone. The weight of the stone upon his chest urged him to complete the task first thing.
Would it work? Would he wake Brigid from her endless slumber? Was everything he’d painstakingly researched from his past lives true?
He had the Heart of Brigid, yes, but was it enough?
He should shower and dress himself up, at least change his club-soda splattered shirt. It would be only fitting for his beloved to see him groomed and clean. But he couldn’t spare another moment of not knowing—of not holding her in his arms, of not tasting her lips, and looking into those gem-green eyes of hers.
As soon as he was alone, Griffin locked the door of his suite. He turned on the hot water to give any listening ears the idea he was in the shower.
After opening and closing the shower door with a loud bang, he slipped out of the en-suite bathroom and slid into his walk-in closet. Wood-paneled drawers, shelves, and clothes racks covered every surface.
Griffin latched the door from the inside and pulled apart a panel behind the shoe holder. He activated a switch, and the main wardrobe full of suits turned aside, exposing a secret door.
He would soon meet his fairy queen, deep in the bowels of the earth where he’d buried her bones and set up a shrine.
Griffin rubbed his hands in glee at the secret meeting. He would preempt everyone and be the first one to greet the queen. He wasn’t going to even let his grandfather in on it.
But then, the glory was his, because he, only, was the one who’d returned the Heart of Brigid to Ireland. He pressed his hand against the stone tucked inside his shirt. Its weight was reassuring, but the stone hung hard and hot, so much that he imagined it would burn a hole through his skin.
Oh, how hard it is to keep a secret, he lamented, then kicked himself. He hadn’t exactly kept the secret, had he?
Why had he blabbed to that horrid bird-girl, and she, a writer of fiction—prone to lies and exaggeration?
Well, duh. He wanted credit for pulling off the most legendary feat of the millennium. The best-kept secrets never came to the light of day, and their anonymous heroes perished unknown and unappreciated.
It had been dangerous and foolish to expose himself to the black-feathered creature. But so well worth it to see her splutter speechless and chuck her club soda. What was she really doing hiding behind that outlandish costume?
A chill drew a shiver down his spine. Clare Hart claimed to be an ordinary writer. She looked young and acted foolish. Her facial features and coloring were typical Irish, wild as the green hills, and yet, he’d sensed a dark side to her. After all, what beautiful young woman would cover herself with feathers better used on a duster and wrap wilted lettuce and cabbage leaves around her waist?
Could she be impersonating the dreaded Morrigan? The terrifying goddess of war, destiny, fate, and death? She was the phantom queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann with her heart set at tripping up heroes and warriors. She alternated between seduction and trickery, and she, in the form of a large black raven, was a harbinger of death.
He was forgetting something. He knew it, but he couldn’t grasp it. There had to have been a reason for him to expose the heart to that Morrigan. There was a reason for everything he did, if only he could remember the script.
A shape like a notebook flashed in back of his eyeballs. Of course, he should review the Green Notebook. It contained the important instructions, and he was told he had to follow them to the letter.
Griffin whirled around, leaving the secret door ajar, and dashed back to his luggage. He was so close to success; he didn’t want to screw any of it up.
He unzipped his briefcase and dumped out the contents. Pens, pencils, slips of paper, tickets, and receipts fell out. Nothing said “Read Me” on the cover. It was green, wasn’t it?
When was the last time he reviewed the secret directions? Was it before or after he’d taken the Heart of Brigid? He remembered the cadaverous figure on the hospital bed—at least he thought it was a few days ago. The raspy voice gave him specific instructions, but had he written them down?
The Green Notebook was nowhere among his stuff. Griffin had no time to ask Pierce to look inside the limo. Maybe he’d left it in the last hotel room or lost it at the airport. He had read the contents right before he got onto the airplane, hadn’t he?
Or had he hidden it among the pages of the in-flight magazine? Think. Think. If he’d reviewed it, the contents should be somewhere in his brain. He needed to relax and let his subconscious guide him. At least that was what his memory therapist had said. Let the connections grow like vines. Don’t force them to connect.
Griffin closed his eyes and clasped his hand over the lump underneath his shirt. He needed the Heart of Brigid. But there was something else he needed—something living and breathing and female.
His mind couldn’t grasp what it was, but he wondered if he’d known what he needed and that was why he’d shown the Heart of Brigid to that strange writer who was also a witch.
He must be on the right track, and he knew the next step. It lay behind the secret doorway. The Morrigan was a distraction—something the hollow-faced man said as he lay dying.
Your mother was a Morrigan, the word echoed between the thudding of his heart.
“No, no, no.” Griffin shook his head wildly and stepped through the secret doorway. “I am destined only for you, Brigid. I’m coming now, my love. I have your heart. This time, it’s forever. We shall live and love in your world and mine. You will regain your throne, and together, we shall defeat the evil Morrigan who made a deal with the devilish invaders and consigned the true Fae to hide underground.”
A distinct chill raised the tiny hairs on the back of his neck, and he resisted the urge to look back into his closet in case the blasted Morrigan materialized to take away what was rightfully his.
He patted the lump underneath his shirt and breathed easier. He stepped into the passageway and closed the trapdoor behind him. The steps down to the dungeon were dank and musty, but he knew his way by heart.
Throughout the years, he’d visited the furnished bedchamber religiously, changing the silk sheets and fluffing the pillows. He’d kept the wicks oiled on the lamps, and the bones polished and clean. He’d brushed spiderwebs off his beloved’s hair and picked insects off her sumptuous robes. Her furniture was regularly dusted, and the white slate floor swept clean.
He was about to be rewarded. She’d thank him for keeping the fires of love alive, for never losing faith, and for returning her heart, first with a blessing, and then a smile. Followed by a flirtatious wink, and then, unable to restrain any longer, a deep and desperate thank-you kiss.
Griffin traversed the passageway quickly. The Heart of Brigid bounced under his shirt with each step he took.
He reached the gate and pulled a lever. It opened a rune-covered stone door, and he entered the foyer of the underground mansion h
e’d constructed through his many lives.
Light filtered through the opening far above, illuminating a door over a white slate floor. Behind that door lay the bedchamber of his righteous bride, waiting patiently for him to free her from her deathless slumber.
This was it.
The luckiest day of his life.
The moment he’d worked for.
An eight-hundred-year dream.
Today was a green-letter day for all of Ireland, heralding the return of the true queen and the marriage of the fairy world with that of mankind. The Otherworld would no longer be hidden underground. It would merge with the world of man and create a living, breathing paradise on earth—a land of plenty where no one went hungry, no one got sick, and everyone found love forever.
“My lovely Brigid, I bring you your heart,” he announced. “Your Griffin comes to claim you.”
He tapped a code into a hidden panel, and the bedchamber door opened. A screen separated the bed from the entry. Beside the door, a full-length mirror hid a wardrobe stocked with Brigid’s queenly garments. He turned on the chandelier above. It was in dim mode, soft and diffuse, making the mood both magical and romantic.
He dared not look behind the screen until all was ready, so he stood in front of a mirror and removed his tie. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and unhooked the precious purplish diamond in the rough from his lanyard.
He lifted it, and his heart cracked like a cursed mirror in its seventh year.
The Heart of Brigid had turned black.
Griffin clawed it from the crocheted yarn web and held it close to his face. Tiny black flakes fell from the stone and smudged his fingers. He dug his fingernails into the black chunk, marring it.
What kind of evil magic had turned his Heart of Brigid into a lump of coal?
Who could possibly have done this to him?
What horrid luck had befallen him?
A pounding headache hammered his temples, and sizzles of electricity zapped over his scalp.
Treachery.
Betrayal.
Trickery.
The image of a black-feathered creature with a woman’s face—beautiful in her darkness, alluring in her ways of death, seductive as a sycophantic siren—flashed like black fire, and he knew.
This was the doing of his enemy—the Morrigan, taking the form of a nosy romance writer, Clare Hart.
Blasted inferno. Bloody hell.
The pages of the Green Notebook crinkled in his mind’s eye. There was a reason he’d shown Clare the precious diamond. He was supposed to have kidnapped her and brought her here alive. His Brigid needed a living, human body—but one that could contain a Fae. She needed her lifeforce.
The Morrigan was a changeling, and he’d forgotten the most critical ingredient to this entire scheme. He was supposed to sacrifice her, and only then would Brigid receive the heart and return to life.
Laughter from the hollow cheeks of the cadaverous man grated like rusty chains dragged over a gravel pit. The man who’d accused him of being the Morrigan’s spawn had known he would fail. Had warned him, even as he’d helped him retrieve the Heart of Brigid. Why? Because he’d gotten entangled with a Morrigan—a raven-harbinger of doom.
The dead man had passed the baton to Griffin, and Griffin had failed right off the bat. He’d let the impish witch abscond with his diamond and replace it with a piece of worthless coal.
Griffin rallied his spirits. All wasn’t lost yet. The Heart of Brigid was in Ireland where it belonged. That was progress, wasn’t it?
If Clare Hart had the Heart of Brigid, it wouldn’t be hard to find her. She was a foolish woman who wanted to make a movie. He could entice her easily—if he could only remember what else the Green Notebook said to do.
Griffin hated the holes in his memory, but while he remembered, he’d better write as much of it down as he could. He wrestled the lump of coal from its yarn net and scribbled madly on the white slate floor.
A field of energy seized every muscle and nerve, quaking and rattling his entire skeleton. The coal slashed across the clean surface, marring it with slanted letters, unreadable as he lost fine motor control. His vision blurred, and the writing faded.
A roaring scream came from deep beneath the dungeon, and he tasted metal as if his tongue were forged of red-hot iron. His fingers and toes crackled. Electricity and lightning zapped through his entire body. Beastly fangs tore at his flesh, slicing and ripping skin from bones, muscles from tendons, stretching and shrinking his head, boiling the very brains that were the seat of his soul.
He flew out of his body, headlong through a long, dark tunnel edged with knives. He tumbled like a runaway balloon surrounded by sharp needles, poking and popping every nerve in his body. His fingers twitched, his hands jittered, and his skin stretched, as bones shifted and cracked, pulling out of joint and twisting into grotesque shapes.
His mind was blanking fast, losing coherent thought.
He was dying.
Again.
When he woke, he would not know who he was.
He would be a beast.
A groveling, slobbering, dirt-eating beast.
Alone in the dungeon.
Chapter 5
Dublin hadn’t changed much in a year. Still the same gray, damp weather, the old brick buildings, the potholes and grime, and the occasional door painted in gay colors: red, green, or bright blue. Clare sat squeezed between Sorcha and Maeve in the back seat of a taxicab. The misty rain washing down the side windows of the cab and the closed in, wet-dog smell were a world away from the glittering fundraising balls, publicity events, and Hollywood parties of the past year.
She’d been a fool to trust the first fast-talking man to promise her everything she wanted. He’d claimed to be her number one fan, had read all of her books, and believed her stories were epic enough to become a major movie franchise on the level of Star Wars or Game of Thrones.
He’d been a fake all along, acting rich and giving her free advice. She’d appeared in interviews published online as the newest up-and-coming paranormal romance sensation. Some even compared her to the author of that famous series about the sparkly vampire and the high school girl.
It came crashing down a week ago when she tried to log into her account to see if she’d hit her goal.
Invalid password.
She’d checked and rechecked her password, but the error message kept flashing on the screen. She then typed in her email address to recover her password, but got an invalid email message.
Frantically, she’d called the bank and learned the account had been closed. She’d called and texted the scoundrel who’d taken her under his wing, but he never answered. She’d gone to his place, but it was up for rent. He’d deleted all of his social media, and that was that.
The police couldn’t help her as the account was in both their names. Her cousins couldn’t help other than to pay for her airplane ticket and give her huge doses of love and hugs.
Good thing she still had her two best friends, Sorcha and Maeve, and they were on their way to the apartment they shared.
“You’re welcome to stay on the couch,” Maeve said to Clare as they entered the cramped apartment with exposed pipes and electrical conduits. “We’re using your room for inventory.”
WWW, or Wands, Wings, and Wardrobes, was the business they shared, producing fairy costumes and accessories and selling them online. Maeve was the pro at the sewing machine, while Sorcha specialized in 3D printing and the use of thermoplastics and metalwork. Clare was the wood whittler, and she made wands, crosses, and carvings as well as lucky charms and all sorts of bric-a-brac from nuts, pine cones, bark, and other plant material.
“That’s fine,” Clare said. “I can’t pay rent, and I have to pay back my cousin, Jenna. She insisted on putting me in first class on the flight over.”
Clare didn’t want Jenna to think she was a grifter, because she had zero family history with the Harts of San Francisco. Her only claim was an online DNA tes
t which matched her with Jenna Hart as possible second cousins.
“She’s the rich fashion designer, isn’t she?” Maeve’s eyes sparkled as she ran her fingers over a bolt of blue lace embedded with glitter. “I wish to meet her one day and show her some of my designs.”
“She has a new elemental line of evening gowns,” Clare said. “I was dressed as fire, of course. You saw the fashion show videos?”
“Spectacular,” Sorcha said. “I see you showed her how to use thermoplastics to create fins and horns.”
“She’s got a 3D scanner and printer now,” Clare said. “You know what we should do? Scan the Heart of Brigid.”
“Great idea.” Sorcha stared at the amulet as if she could see through it. “Let me analyze it and see what kind of mineral it’s made of.”
“Looks like quartz,” Maeve said. “Or melted glass.”
“It’s pretty, whatever it is.” Clare untied the purplish blob from the lanyard. “It sparkles if you hold it up to the light.”
“What if it’s worth a lot of money?” Maeve’s gaze darted back and forth between the amulet and Clare.
“I don’t think it is,” Clare said. “That crazy man waved it around like a cheap souvenir.”
“It’s obviously not a real piece of a human heart,” Sorcha said, turning it from side to side. “It could be quartz or even a diamond, although diamonds don’t come so large.”
“It’s not shiny or sparkly like a diamond,” Maeve said. “Let’s copy it and make a charm out of it.”
They walked into Clare’s old room. Sure enough, it was stacked high with things they were selling. A 3D scanner and printer sat on the desk, alongside a pottery wheel, an oven for baking polymer clay, and a microscope.
Sorcha unwrapped the amulet from the leather ties and held it close to her eye. She turned it from side to side and grimaced. “It might be a diamond in the rough. I can sneak it into the lab at work and test it.”
Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1 Page 4
