Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1

by Rachelle Ayala

  “Did you ever get her back? I mean, did I reappear?”

  Griffin put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “You feel like real flesh and blood, but you could be a changeling. The real Brigid was imprisoned in a Norman castle back in the twelfth century. The annals don’t appear to say we’ve ever been together again.”

  Clare shuddered at the charge that she was a changeling. That was what the abbess who adopted her believed, and to this day, some of the girls she grew up with called her a changeling.

  “If she’s a changeling, how are you supposed to drive out the fairy and get the person back?”

  He lifted a finger to make a point. “I can see how you’re disassociating yourself from Brigid. Very clever, Changeling. Maybe I’ve told you too much.”

  “One question.” Clare tipped her finger against his pointer finger, pressing him back. “Do you prefer a human Brigid who is mortal and will die, or a fairy queen Brigid who can bring Ireland back to its glory days? Since you’re a man who cannot stay dead, isn’t it better to live and love the fairy version of Brigid? Together, you two can reign forever.”

  “The prophecy says I’m supposed to get a mortal Brigid.” Griffin’s voice wavered, and the wheels appeared to turn in his mind. “You have a point. The last note says the Queen of Ireland, Brigid the fairy queen, will resurrect and reward me with one life to live with a mortal Brigid.”

  Fairies never died, unless they happened to be inhabiting a human as a changeling, and the underlying human being died. If so, Griffin’s quest could be a fool’s errand. Although death for a fairy was different than for a human. The essence of a fairy would be imprisoned in a magical object and only freed by strong emotion.

  “Let me see if I have this correct,” Clare said, scratching her chin to appear like she was deep in thought. “Brigid was a goddess of the Tuatha Dé Danann. She and you became eternally bound as lovers around a thousand years ago. This would coincide with the time of the Norsemen or Viking invasion. A few hundred years later, the Normans invaded Ireland, built castles, and set up dukedoms in the northern and eastern part. They captured Brigid and imprisoned her. If she was a changeling, then the body she inhabited might have been killed, and she is now imprisoned in a magical object. I’m guessing it’s the item you’re looking for, the so-called Heart of Brigid. Once you find it and bring it to the place she is imprisoned, you’ll free her. She becomes a fairy queen, and instead of renewing your love story, she rewards you with a mortal Brigid.”

  Griffin’s gaze on her was intense and focused, so much so that his eyes were like pools of black coal. His mouth was pressed into a harsh line, and the sheer masculinity of his body and soul should have frightened Clare. The atmosphere was charged, sparking with equal measures of attraction, lust, and temptation. But at the same time, he was wary, and it showed in the dip of his eyebrow.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Are you a witch? A Morrigan disguising yourself as my goddess of fire?”

  “I shall not tell you, and if I did, would you believe me?” Clare hoped a black feather wouldn’t drop from the sky at that exact minute. “All you need to know is that I offered to help you.”

  “What do you want in return?” His addictive lips curled into a sneer. “Nothing’s free when it comes to goddesses and the Fae.”

  “Neither with human mortals,” Clare said. “My wishes are easier to fulfill than yours. If I help you find the Heart of Brigid, you will allow me to write a screenplay of your story and help me produce it into a movie.”

  “Why would a creature such as a Morrigan care about a movie?” Griffin raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You’re all about power and thwarting the will of powerful men. You’re bloodthirsty, and you love war. Most of all, you thrive on the suffering of men. I doubt you’ll ever understand love, as you yourself have no heart.”

  “You’re nuts,” Clare said. She whirled away from Griffin and headed for the staircase. “I’ve enjoyed visiting your castle, Mr. Gallagher.”

  At that moment the butler appeared. Although elderly, he was a large, powerfully built man. He had the same intense look as a warrior king, and his eyes penetrated her skin more than an obedient butler should. He was clean-shaven, of course, dressed in a coat with tails, white shirt and cravat, white gloves, and a cap at an angle that was more jaunty than proper.

  “Master Griffin and guest,” he said in a solemn and sonorously deep voice. “Lunch is ready. The table is set in the Butterfly Garden.”

  Clare moved to swerve around him, but as smoothly as a dancing-master, the butler moved to block her way to the staircase without seeming like it.

  He gave Griffin a pointed stare which drew chills down Clare’s spine.

  What was going on? Was she in danger?

  Before she could panic, a smile cleared the anger from Griffin’s handsome face.

  “Allow me to escort you, dear Brigid,” he said, offering his arm. “We have barely scratched the surface of my castle. I’m sure you’ll be interested in its history, the many libraries and collections here, and of course, the world-class cuisine my staff concocts for our dining pleasure.”

  Chapter 12

  Griffin heeded Pierce’s warning look. Even though Pierce was his grandfather’s butler, he was the one who imprinted all his memories—being the first person he saw after each attack. He knew more than anyone else living in Gallagher Castle.

  Which was more than Griffin could claim. His earliest memory was lying in a bed with his father reading books to him. But then there were the absences, which his grandfather explained to him were the dying and coming back to life which men of his family were prone to.

  It got harder and harder to keep up with a thousand years of personal history, and the notes in the annals were entirely inadequate. He relied on Pierce to keep up with the list of events and coach him whenever he came back from the dead.

  Just like he was relying on him now to corral the woman, changeling or goddess, inside the castle by offering her lunch.

  Griffin reached for the alluring woman and smiled. “Shall we forget that outburst of mine?”

  She twisted an eyebrow, but apparently liking what she saw in his face, she also smiled and nodded. “Most likely you’ve already forgotten.”

  “Of you, precious Brigid, I cannot forget.” He led her down the circular stairway of stone. “How you sang to me and plucked me from the snare of death. I was almost overcome. On the brink of losing yet another lifetime of memories.”

  He scratched his head, wondering how she would know about his memory loss. Maybe she was someone from his past, and that was why Pierce didn’t want her to leave.

  “I told you I wanted to help,” she said. “But you need to stop calling me names or assigning characters to me when you don’t know who I am.”

  “Why won’t you tell me?” He matched her slow pace as they walked around the gallery of stained-glass saints. “Which one speaks to you?”

  “Maybe all, maybe none,” she said with her gaze fixed on him, not giving a glance to any of the images. “Wouldn’t you rather get to know me on your own without relying on what others tell you?”

  He suppressed a guffaw at the thought. She obviously had no idea what pains he took to relearn his personal history. He needed to be more organized, but he could barely catch up on his many previous lives before he was knocked out and starting from ground zero.

  Well, not exactly, because he did retain enough memory to know his way around the castle. He could obviously speak both the old Irish language along with English. He knew things, about rocks and minerals, mechanical locks, and electronic security systems. What he wasn’t conscious of, his dreams filled in the blanks. There were several houses he knew his way around, one near the seaside and another with an extensive basement full of secret trapdoors. He hadn’t yet come across them in his notes or seen them in any of the videos he’d been reviewing.

  There were no women in his photo album and no videos of past girlfriends. Had he alway
s been a loner? Or had Grandpa or Pierce hidden those images from him?

  If only he knew who this fascinating woman was. He patted the hand she had on his arm. “Not even a little hint? Have we met before?”

  “Why would it matter?” Her eyes darted to the side of the path. “All we have is the here and now.”

  “You’re making it difficult for me, aren’t you? I feel as if I’ve always known you.”

  “Then you’re exaggerating,” she said. “I’ve never seen this garden before. It’s enchanting. Is it built on a fairy mound?”

  “My guess is as good as yours,” he said, pointing to the brilliant, multi-colored metal spheres glistening in the fountains. Tiny rainbows were reflected from the spray of water, and stained-glass butterflies were perched on the verdigris-green benches surrounded by clumps of wildflowers.

  Birds flitted on the treetops, singing their songs of springtime, but it was too early in the season for butterflies to emerge from their chrysalises.

  Brigid stopped under a tree and smiled at a colorful, noisy little bird with a bright-blue crown, white cheeks, and a yellow underside. It flitted around, chuckling with a clear, high-pitched "tsee-hee-he-hee.”

  “We’ll have good luck today,” she said. “They are tiny guardian fairies who send our prayers up.”

  “They sound like they’re laughing at us,” Griffin said. “I’ve never heard that they’re guardian fairies, but I’ll take any luck I can get. Do we each get a wish?”

  “Of course, we do,” she chirped. “Unlike most fairies, who twist our words and give us a bad surprise, the little blue tit magnifies only good thoughts to the gods.”

  “You go first,” he said, loving the way the sun highlighted parts of her reddish-brown hair. “That is, if you’re allowed to tell your wish out loud.”

  “Certainly.” She stood still beneath the tree where the hyperactive birds flitted from branch to branch. “My wish is for you, Griffin Gallagher, that you find what you’re looking for.”

  Looking into her emerald eyes, he could almost believe she could produce the Heart of Brigid in the palm of her hand. A vision flashed of her wearing black feathers. She dangled the rough diamond on a leather strap. With a raucous caw and a rapid fluttering of wings, she flew away.

  Griffin shook off the vision and blinked. Brigid, bright and shining and all in white, stood before him with her brows knit in concern.

  “Was that the correct thing to wish for?” she asked. “Or should I have been more specific?”

  “It was perfect, and it brought to mind what I truly want. Your heart, dear Brigid.” He picked up her hand and kissed the top of her knuckles.

  “Then I shall lead you to it.” She put her hand over her chest. “If I’m a changeling, then I must find the magical object where my fairy essence is held.”

  Griffin rubbed his thumb in her palm. She felt solid, warm, and fleshy. “You’re tricking me, little fairy.”

  “Tee hee, tee, hee, tsee-hee-he-hee,” she trilled like the little blue tit bird. “I’m not full of tricks, but full of luck.”

  “You’re a lovely lucky charm.” He squeezed her hand and clasped it to his chest. “Let’s have lunch and then make our plans for finding your fairy essence.”

  “Only after you say a wish for me.” Her gaze flicked up to the bird twittering on the treetop.

  “True love, dear Brigid. I wish you luck in love.”

  “I already am,” she said, her cheeks pinking. “I’m lucky like love.”

  “How so?” His mind couldn’t wrap around how someone could be lucky like love. Lucky in love, lucky at love, lucky with love, he got.

  “I make luck by believing in love, and I make love by believing in luck.” She looped her hand around the crook of his elbow. “Wouldn’t you say love is ninety-nine percent faith and so is luck?”

  “What’s the other one percent? It can’t be fate, because that is luck. Can’t be chance, luck again. Or sacrifice, tis love. Or valor, another form of love.”

  “Your free will to believe.” She tapped the center of his breastbone. “You can choose to believe or not, but from that tiny grain of faith, all the rest flows, both luck and love.”

  “Then I accept your help, Brigid O’Brien, because I choose to believe you can make me lucky like love.” He tipped her chin and lowered his lips to hers, sealing the deal.

  Chapter 13

  Griffin walked with Brigid to the center of the garden surrounded by rosebushes. The bistro table was covered with a white lace tablecloth and a centerpiece of spring flowers. The wine steward poured two glasses of dry white wine, and Griffin pulled a padded wicker chair for Brigid to sit.

  She smiled up at him, and her eyes twinkled happily.

  A flush of pride swelled his chest at how well this accidental meeting had turned out. This mysterious woman in front of him was not only attracted to him, she could also be connected to his precious Brigid.

  “Let’s toast this lucky day,” he said, raising his wine glass. “We’ve been bound by fate and our wishes to help each other.”

  “Yes, to luck and to love.” She clinked her glass with his and took a sip. “This wine is heavenly.”

  “We have an extensive cellar,” he said. “You’ll be surprised what’s underground.”

  Her nose twitched, and she giggled. “The entrance to the Otherworld is usually underground. Nothing surprises me.”

  Pierce appeared at Griffin’s side. He bent close to his ear and said, “Sorry to interrupt, Master Griffin, but you have an important phone call on the landline in your grandfather’s study.”

  “Can you ask them to leave a message?” Griffin asked, his gaze still fixed on the happy-go-lucky woman who sprang into his life so unexpectedly.

  “No, you must take the call,” Pierce said. “It’s important.”

  Brigid’s image seemed to dim when a cloud cast a shadow over her, and a tight blast of chill crept between his shoulder blades. The air behind her swished. Faint, feathery wings darkened her shoulders.

  “Who is it from?” Griffin snapped, breaking the vision of the dark fairy queen. For a moment, it was as if he’d seen Brigid in another time on a windswept plain, dressed in widow’s weeds with a black veil over her face and blackened vines woven into her dark-red hair.

  “Your grandfather needs you now.” Pierce whipped around and marched toward the castle’s garden entrance.

  “I have to take a call,” he explained to Brigid who resumed her bright and radiant complexion. What he’d seen earlier must have been an illusion cast by the fairy magic Brigid detected on the castle grounds. How come he’d never noticed it before?

  “It’s okay, go ahead,” she said, flashing him a sweet smile. “I’ll just sit here and enjoy the weather and wine.”

  His heart rate ratcheting up, he hurried after Pierce. Since his memory was still spotty, he struggled to figure out who could be calling him. It was either his doctors or the investigators. He’d been ignoring the doctors because they were pessimists, telling him things would only get worse if he didn’t follow their regimen of drugs and treatments.

  Grandfather was waiting for him in the darkened study along with two men, one with gray hair, a bushy white mustache, and horn-rimmed glasses and a younger bloke whose bright-blue eyes shifted from side to side. He leaned forward, with his weight on his toes, like a prizefighter about to deliver the knockout punch.

  “Griffin, you know Myles and Mack Brady,” Grandfather said. “They are the guardians for the Quill of Niamh, and they have some very interesting information about that young lady you’re squiring around.”

  “You mean Brigid O’Brien?” Griffin shook the visitors’ hands.

  “That the name she’s given you?” Mack, the younger Brady, snorted, rolling his eyes. “She has you eating out of her hands. You didn’t really think she’d be your Brigid.”

  “Be nice, Mack,” his grandfather said. “Need I remind you of your unfortunate dalliance with the weeping lady at th
e well?”

  “You mean witch.” Mack’s brows drew down, and he snarled.

  “Tell me about this Brigid,” Griffin said. “What is her true name?”

  The older Brady, Myles, cleared his throat and slapped a stack of photographs in Griffin’s hand. They were grainy images taken by a security camera and showed a woman dressed like a black bird above the waist, a skirt trimmed with flaccid cabbage and lettuce leaves, and long, green lace-up boots.

  Her clothes were weird, but that wasn’t what had his jaw dropping. It was her face and hair. In one of the images, she’d turned toward the camera to take her bag from the baggage claim carousel.

  It was his Brigid.

  “She was at the airport,” Griffin observed. “Did I meet her?”

  “We spoke to the flight attendant,” Mack said. “She was your seatmate. You spoke to her and bought her a drink. On the descent into Dublin, she spilled a drink on you and had to use the airsickness bag.”

  “Did she do anything else?” Pulses of prickles popped up and down on his scalp, and his heart fell to his gut. “Did she take something from me?”

  “We searched her car,” Pierce said. “Didn’t find anything. But if she had taken the Heart of Brigid, she wouldn’t be so stupid as to hide it in a rental car parked on the premises.”

  “Do you think she has it on her?” Griffin asked.

  Mack quirked his lips into a cross between a smirk and a leer. “I volunteered to strip her naked, but your grandfather says you must do it yourself as guardian for the stone.”

  “Whatever you do,” Griffin’s grandfather said, “you can’t let her out of your sight.”

  “Then what am I doing here while she’s sitting alone in the garden?” Griffin itched to go back and confront the phony Brigid. “Let’s bring her in for questioning.”

  “Can’t do that,” Grandfather said. “Her name is Clare. You do know what that means, don’t you?”

  Griffin squeezed his eyes, trying to recall the many notes and journals he’d been reading to catch up on his long life. “Is she the Morrigan I’m supposed to mate with?”