“We do. I’m so glad I met you.” On the spur of the moment, he hooked the Heart of Brigid onto the chain around Clare’s neck.
Clare gasped. “Are you sure? This is yours.”
“I know. You’re holding it for me.”
She removed the quartz replica. “I guess we won’t be needing this anymore.”
“Hold onto it for a souvenir,” he said. “Now that you have my real Heart of Brigid, will you be my Brigid?”
She smiled brightly and nodded. “Of course, my dear Griffin, but I’d rather be your Clare.”
He whipped out his camera phone and took a few pictures and a selfie. He also recorded an audio note to himself, “I, Griffin Gallagher, asked Clare Hart to be my Brigid, and she accepted, to be my Clare. I wish to keep all of these precious memories with her. Today was a very special day, and tomorrow, I’ll go back to the doctor and prepare for my treatment plan.”
“I’m so proud of you.” Clare gave him another kiss, lush and sweet at the same time.
“It’s all thanks to you, my heart. Let’s go. Time to celebrate.” Griffin pointed his flashlight at the narrow way they’d come.
A shadow blocked the way, and something heavy crashed over his head, blinding him with an exploding pain.
Chapter 25
Clare screamed and put up her hands to ward off the attack. The fake Heart of Brigid she was holding onto as a souvenir went flying. It hit the wall with a clink at the same time Griffin collapsed. He dropped the cell phone. It cracked, and the flashlight went out.
In the pitch-dark, she tried to slip by the person who hit Griffin, but a strong set of hands grabbed her. She did the only thing she could—dropped her weight and fell to the ground, landing on top of Griffin.
“Are you okay?” she shouted in his ear while the same rough hands grabbed her. The fabric ripped on her gown, but she struggled and rolled away from the man, kicking with her hiking boots.
“Griffin, Griffin,” she called for him, hoping he would respond. She tried to lift the Heart of Brigid from the chain around her neck to leave it with him, but the attacker slammed into her and knocked the wind out of her.
Grubby fingers felt along her neck, pulling at the chain.
“Stop it. It hurts; leave me alone,” she protested, not wanting the robber to take the diamond.
He felt it and let go but cinched a dusty sack over her head, then tightened the string around her neck, choking her.
“You and the Heart of Brigid are coming with me,” he spoke. The voice belonged to Seamus O’Toole, the conman who’d ripped Clare off.
She tried to pull away from him. “Why are you here?”
“I’m taking over the plan, since that loon you’re conning is incapable of seeing through your tricks.”
Clare dug in her heels and yanked against his grasp. “What plan?”
“I’ll explain after we get the Heart of Brigid into the skeleton and bring her back to life,” he said.
“What skeleton? What are you talking about?”
“Let’s go.” He dragged her along the passageway.
She couldn’t see anything through the bag over her head, just the light that leaked from Seamus’s flashlight. She tripped and stumbled, scraped her arms, and bumped her head.
“We can’t leave Griffin there,” she said. “He might have a seizure. I thought you were his friend.”
“Frenemy,” Seamus grunted. “He won’t die. He never dies. Move faster.”
Seamus twisted Clare’s arm, and even though she tried to lag, she was scuffed and bumped and cold. Pain radiated from her buttocks where she’d landed on the ground, and her head throbbed. A sticky wetness ran from her nose, possibly blood, and she limped on the ankle she twisted.
“You should at least let Griffin’s grandfather know where he is,” Clare said. “He might be hurt.”
“He’ll be fine. Let’s just say he disappeared down a fairy mound to the Otherworld. I’m sure he’s having the best time with all of those ethereally beautiful and fascinating fairy princesses. I doubt he’ll want to return.”
“How did you find me?” Clare asked, ignoring the fake flights of fancy from the mouth of Seamus the trickster. From the cartoons she watched, she knew that making a criminal talk was the best way of delaying whatever calamity he had planned for her.
“You thought you were so smart, but I installed an app on your cell phone,” Seamus said. “I tracked you from San Francisco to Dublin. I knew Griffin was over his head when he succumbed to your seductions.”
“I haven’t seduced him.”
“Oh yeah? Then why the wedding clothes and the kissing? The fool was going to let you have the diamond.”
“He only put it around my neck for safekeeping,” Clare said.
Seamus guffawed. “You? Safe? Your thievery almost ruined the plan.”
“What plan? What did you have to do with me and Griffin?”
“I put you on the airplane together, knowing you’d ask him to invest in your movie,” Seamus said. “I figured he’d agree and then use the fake Heart of Brigid to lure you into the trap.”
“You creep.” Clare kicked in the direction of Seamus’s voice but missed. “You stole my money so I would have to beg it from a stranger? And no, for your information, my cousin bought me the first-class ticket.”
“Did she hand it to you, or text you that she got it?” Seamus laughed. “You know how easy it was for me to change the contact information for my phone number to read Jenna’s name?”
Clare’s heart flailed at the trickery and the fact that when she thought she’d texted Jenna, she was actually texting Seamus. Had she said anything important or private?
“Make me a new gown for premiere night,” Seamus said in a falsetto voice, repeating her request to Jenna. “I’ve got you now. You are the linchpin, Miss Clare Hart. You are the piece we need to set everything in motion.”
He yanked her hard, and she stumbled through the iron gate. It shut on its own, and the lock clicked in place automatically.
Clare made herself trip and fall near the bottom grate of the gate. “Ow, ow, ow, my ankle hurts.”
“Get up.”
“I can’t. Let me untie my boot and loosen it.”
“Fine, but no tricks.”
“I can’t see with the bag over my head.” She twisted her shoulders and wrestled with her boot to retrieve the gate key she’d tucked into her sock.
The dungeon underneath the fairy mounds was bone-chilling cold, and she wasn’t sure how long Griffin could last. Hopefully, rescuers could find the key. She’d make sure to call for help if she got the chance.
“Keep moving,” Seamus said gruffly. “We don’t have all night.”
He yanked her arm so hard she dropped the key. She had no way of knowing where the key landed, so she kicked randomly at the pebbles on the path toward the gate.
“You’ve had enough time.” Seamus dragged her from the gate. “We have to hurry.”
“Why? What am I supposed to do?”
“Dress up and look pretty.”
She could feel him sneering, so she tripped on purpose and rammed into him. “My ankle hurts. I can’t walk any farther.”
“I’d leave you if I could.” He lifted the sack from her head and twisted the chain off her neck. “Ah, the Heart of Brigid. He was a fool to put it around your neck.”
“Give it back,” Clare cried. “You can’t take it. Griffin trusted me to help him. The Heart of Brigid belongs to his family.”
“Stop your sniveling. I can’t believe you’re still sticking up for him,” Seamus said. “I and my family are much better guardians than the Gallaghers. They’re incompetent and should never be entrusted with one of Ireland’s four hallows. Tonight, with your help, I will finish this first phase and rid Ireland of all foreign influences.”
“Why me? Why do you need me?” Icy fingers crawled down Clare’s spine as she realized Seamus or his henchmen might have stolen the Green Notebook from her an
d were ready to carry out the plan.
She’d been so thrilled at touring the city with Griffin and watching him look at landmarks with newborn eyes that she hadn’t been aware of her surroundings.
Could Seamus have been skulking around?
Had he been at the Kilmainham Gaol or the Crooked Style Pub?
“I knew you were the one when I found your DNA profile online,” Seamus said. “You’re a direct descendant of Richard ‘Strongbow’ de Clare, and the daughter of a prominent gangster.”
“Guh-gangster?”
“He’s a criminal art collector who buys and sells the treasures of Ireland,” Seamus said with a growl. “A real redheaded bastard. Killed members of the guardian families and ruined many young women.”
“Did he get them pregnant and leave them destitute?” Clare’s heart thumped at the big reveal. “Do you know who my mother is?”
“Not unless she joined the DNA website,” Seamus said. “She’s likely related to the Hart family you visited in the United States. Did they know her?”
“They didn’t know anyone in Ireland,” Clare said. “I’m guessing my mother gave me her surname. What’s my father’s family name?”
“O’Munster,” Seamus said. “Let’s move faster. The full moon crests tonight, conjoined with the spring equinox, making it the perfect time to extract our revenge.”
“O’Munster?” Clare’s teeth chattered harder, and the creeps crawled all over her skin like hairy spider legs. “Aren’t they the weirdos who own The Four Hallows?”
Several decades ago, a creepy gothic mansion had been converted to a high-class nightclub catering to billionaire Goths, druid, and vampire wannabes. It was intricately decorated in horror-film chic and featured several bars, lounges, dancefloors, an underground torture chamber, and private dens. It was a landmark tourist attraction of the dark sort, and rumors abounded about people going missing after visiting the underground tombs.
“They’re the dirty, rotten underbelly of the Irish mob scene, and you’re their dirty, rotten, trashy spawn.” Spittle spouted from between Seamus’s teeth, and his voice was hard with hatred.
“You’re not going to hurt me, are you?” All of Clare’s bones rattled, and she couldn’t get the icy, itchy feeling from her skin. “Am I the human sacrifice?”
“Ah, I knew you read the Green Notebook,” Seamus said. “You women are like cats, too curious. No more yakking.”
They were approaching the cistern and beehive hut entry point. Clare took a huge breath and screamed as shrill and loud as a banshee. “Help, someone, help.”
Seamus fished a stinky rag from his pocket and tied it around Clare’s mouth, cutting off her screams.
He was cold, too cold, so cold he was sure he had been locked inside an icebox. A persistent buzz saw rattled in his ears, and his teeth chattered like a swarm of hailstones attacking a window. He cracked his eyes open, but the darkness was so heavy it oozed like black tar.
Who was he, and why was he, whoever he was, able to articulate such concepts as cold, dark, and blind? The buzzing sound intensified, swishing through his head, and hammering him with spikes of pain.
Didn’t pain mean he was alive? Able to feel? To think?
He breathed, although raggedly, and pain sizzled through his teeth. Sticky wetness covered his face, and a nasty, coppery odor fried through his nose. The taste in his mouth was electric and stale.
He raised his hand to the pulsing pain on the back of his head. Sticky and wet. Blood.
He was hurt.
His entire body ached with each shift in position, and his face rubbed against gritty, dank, gravel.
It was cold, dark, damp, and rough.
Was he in a dungeon?
A prisoner?
Groaning and huffing at the heavy pain clamping like a vise over his arms and legs, he struggled to a sitting position. His head swam, and his neck wobbled as a distant thought vibrated like an approaching subway train.
He was in danger, and he had to get out of the place he was at present. If the cold didn’t get him, the bleeding and dizziness would.
He stretched out his numb fingers, thawing them creakily by extending and clutching, hissing through the sharp stabs of his nerves. Pushing himself, he managed to roll up against a rough stone wall.
He gathered his shaking knees and pushed up, but the sudden movement toppled him, and his hand landed on a hard, egg-shaped object.
It jolted like hitting a funny bone up his arm.
Catching his breath, he closed his hand around the object and brought it to his face. It was a rock of some sort, dull and smooth, and a thought implanted inside of him.
This stone was the key. To what?
He didn’t know, so he squeezed it into his trouser pocket.
Maybe there were other important items in his vicinity. Whoever he was, he was lost, and he needed clues.
Clues.
That was it.
He needed clues, and the best thing to do is to sweep the area around him. He reached out to the right and patted the ground. Something sharp stabbed him, and he sucked in a breath. It was a small rectangle covered with broken glass.
A mobile phone?
This was the way it always happened when he woke from the dead. He just knew certain things, although he drew big blanks on other questions.
He shook the phone and pushed a button. It turned on, but the screen was shattered. He couldn’t control it or make a call. He could, however, turn on the flashlight by making a karate chop motion.
“Ah. Light. We’re getting somewhere, Griffin,” he said. “Griffin? Anyone around?”
Was his name Griffin, or was he with someone named Griffin? Things didn’t always make sense. Just like the fractured sequences of a dream, his mind focused on one thing and then the next. There was no logical sequence that he could tell.
He swept the light in an arc. He appeared to be at the dead-end of a low tunnel. The wall ahead of him was made of rough-hewn stone. A broken fishing rod was stuck into a crack between the rocks next to a glittery crown sparkling with rhinestones and silver.
Did a fairy queen drop it?
He picked it up and examined it. Wisps of red-brown hair curled around the ornaments, and a vision of a radiant woman with blazing-red hair, gem-green eyes, and bow-shaped lips flashed on an imaginary screen.
Brigid?
No, Clare.
Her name was Clare.
A backpack was flung against the wall. He grabbed it and put the tiara and fishing rod inside. Now, he needed to get out of this place. Since he was in the dead-end, all he had to do was walk the opposite way.
He listened carefully for footsteps, but all he heard was his own labored breathing and his shuffling footsteps. He was wearing some sort of fancy two-toned shoe, and the sole of the left one had come loose, so every step he took made a slapping sound.
His entire body shook with cold, but he had to make his way forward. His fingers were stiff and numb, and his head swam with dizziness. He lurched and swayed, making his way forward, hunched over to avoid hitting his head, and stumbling like a drunk.
Clare. Clare. Clare. Clare.
The name echoed in his mind, so he chanted it. There was another name more important. Could it have anything to do with the stone he’d found?
He retrieved the egg-shaped stone from his pocket and held it to the fractured cell-phone. The light glinted off a facet, and he sucked in a breath so fast, he coughed.
It was composed of six-sided crystals, purplish and red, and it had a special meaning that eluded him.
He closed his eyes, trying to picture where he’d seen it before, but nothing came to him through the pounding pain in his head and the acrid taste in the back of his throat.
The mystery of the stone, the tiara, and the fishing rod would come in due time. He had to believe it and be in the moment. Mindful of everything around him.
He took a step forward, breathed in and out, then another step. He was going to
be okay. His memories would return. He had friends out there. He knew someone named Clare. She left her tiara, stone, and fishing rod.
Even though pain owned his head, and ice froze his veins, he believed in luck like he believed in love.
Or did he?
An iron gate loomed ahead. He gathered a surge of energy and raced toward it. Falling against the bars, he shook the gate and reached for the latch.
It was stuck.
Or locked.
He shook the bars, rattling it like chains on the dead, but the gate refused to budge. He was trapped like a frozen rat below the hold of a sinking ship.
Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. He heard a female voice chant. Calm your mind, be in the moment. Look around and take stock.
He pointed the fading flashlight on the pebbly ground and let the images come into focus. Footprints. Someone had been here recently with him.
He traced the outline of hiking boots and the scuffing of something being dragged. A shiny glint sparkled from beyond the bars of the gate.
A key.
He got down on his knees and stretched his arm, reaching with the tips of his fingers. It was too far, but somewhere in the back of his mind, a fishing rod popped up.
It was in the backpack.
He made short work of assembling the fishing rod and hooking the key. Now, all he had to do was unlock the door and keep going.
Where to?
As he put away the fishing rod, he dug deeper into the pack and found another cell phone.
He couldn’t get it to unlock, but the itching irritation on his shoulder brought in another thought.
He’d gotten a tattoo with four numbers. A passcode, perhaps?
The tattoo was fresh, and he wasn’t supposed to rip off the bandage, but this was an emergency. He shined the broken cell phone flashlight on it and was able to read the four numbers on the prongs of his St. Brigid’s Cross.
Why had he gotten a St. Brigid’s Cross tattoo on his shoulder?
A whisper floated through his inner ear, calling him. I’m Brigid, your true love. Never forget me.
He unlocked the phone and wondered if he should call Brigid. There was no Brigid in the address book, but the recent calls showed someone named Sorcha.
Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1 Page 18
