Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1

by Rachelle Ayala

  Biceps drew a Glock 9mm pistol and shoved the barrel against Clare’s back.

  “Okay, fine,” Clare said. “I don’t particularly like having a hole blown in my back, but doesn’t that invalidate the sacrifice to this skeleton goddess? If my blood’s all gone, she won’t get her life force.”

  “Get in there.” Biceps pointed the way to Griffin’s walk-in closet.

  After Clare stepped inside, Biceps fumbled around a shoe rack, giving Clare a chance to scavenge for useful material she might need for a getaway. Unfortunately, the pickings for weapons were slim to none in a wealthy dandy’s closet.

  “Found it,” Biceps said as she activated a switch, and a wall of suits turned aside, exposing a secret door.

  So, there really was a secret tunnel underneath Griffin’s bedroom. This was getting interesting. Clare’s novelist instincts perked when she stepped down into the cool, underground chamber.

  The stone steps were roughhewn, and the atmosphere was dank. Electric lights illuminated the way. Handrails were provided on both sides of the walkway, and everything felt a little too clean and contrived.

  As she walked farther, with Biceps right behind her, Clare sensed a subtle change. The electric lights were still there, but the décor and materials harkened back to an older civilization. Biceps pulled a lever, and a heavy stone door yawned open.

  They walked into the foyer of a luxurious mansion. White slate covered the floor, and velvet drapes and tapestries hung over the paneled walls.

  “In there,” Biceps said, pushing Clare into a bedchamber. The centerpiece was a four-poster bed made of gold, covered with gold-threaded netting. Sumptuous patterned rugs with intricate designs threaded with gold and silver covered the floor, and a full-length mirror was hung on the wall at an angle to the bed. Its glass shimmered, reflecting sparkly LED lights dotting the chamber’s walls.

  “This looks like something out of a theme park,” Clare said. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Wait for your groom,” Biceps said.

  “What am I supposed to do when he shows up?”

  “You will no longer be you, little changeling. It won’t matter a bit.” Biceps pointed the gun at Clare.

  “Are you going to shoot me and ruin this exquisite bedchamber?”

  She stood straight and stiff like she had a ramrod up her back. “Don’t make me.”

  Biceps parted the netting over the bed and turned back the brocaded bedspread covered with Celtic knot patterns.

  A gleaming, polished skeleton lay on the bed. It wore a crown full of glittery diamonds over its burnished copper-colored head of hair.

  Clare gasped with a sudden intake of air, and her hands flew over the Heart of Brigid she wore around her neck.

  “Lie on the bed next to Brigid,” Biceps said.

  “No, no, I can’t.” Clare removed the platinum chain with the rough diamond from her neck. “I’m not worthy of the great goddess. Give her the heart, and let me go.”

  Biceps clamped Clare in a wrestling hold and shoved her flat on the bed. She prodded Clare with the gun. “You will prepare yourself for the bridegroom, or I’ll shoot you right now.”

  “Then kill me now.” Clare twisted and turned, digging her chin into the collarbone of Biceps.

  “Ow, let go,” Biceps grunted.

  Clare twisted the other woman’s ear, yanking the cartilage and kneed her in the vicinity of her groin. Biceps grabbed Clare’s hair, and the two of them tumbled onto the slate floor, grunting and hissing.

  The gun clattered to the floor, and both women reached for it. Scratching, biting, clawing, and digging elbows and chins into each other, they fought for the gun.

  Clare closed her fingers around the pistol grip. She got her finger onto the trigger, but Biceps twisted the barrel toward Clare.

  The gunshot reverberated at close range.

  With a flurry of flapping wings, Clare lifted herself straight up like a panicked helicopter and bashed her head on the ceiling.

  It took a moment, but she changed the angle of her wings, lowered her head and stretched out her tail. With a few powerful flaps, she alighted on a beam above a crystal chandelier.

  “Caw, caw.” The sound of a large raven echoed through the bedchamber.

  Down below, Biceps picked up an empty white dress and fluffed it. The tiara lay on its side, tangled with the veil. Two long white gloves sagged in a heap, and a pair of diamond-encrusted stilettos were kicked aside.

  “Where the heck did she go?” Biceps shook out the dress. She dropped it and raised the gun, aiming it this way and that as she took cover near the entrance of the bedchamber.

  After clearing the room, Biceps shouted, “You’re not getting away, changeling. If you don’t show yourself, you’ll die in here.”

  She pulled shut the door and bolted it. The chandelier went dark, but strangely enough, Clare could see in the dark perfectly.

  Was she having another one of her hallucinations? But no, her wings were strong, and she’d never felt more real in her life.

  Griffin sat in the back seat of the rideshare and used Clare’s phone to call Sorcha. “I don’t know why Maeve stepped away, but we need to rescue Clare.”

  “Maeve called me,” Sorcha said. “She thinks you’re faking the kidnapping.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would she say that?”

  “Because Clare was in your limo—your Rolls Royce Silver Shadow,” Sorcha said. “She saw the same license plate in Clare’s photo stream, registered to Dún Na Ngall.”

  “My Rolls Royce?” Griffin slapped his head. “Then we’d better get to Gallagher Castle. According to the Green Notebook, Clare’s in danger. They’re going to human sacrifice her. They think she’s a changeling who will become the queen.”

  “We’re not walking into the trap.” Sorcha’s voice was guarded.

  “Aren’t you Clare’s friends? If you don’t help, I’ll do it myself.”

  “We called the Garda and told them you kidnapped our friend. Maeve got the license plate number,” Sorcha said. “The jig is up, and you might as well turn yourself in. You’re all a bunch of lunatics.”

  “We can’t wait for them to investigate,” Griffin said, knowing the Garda would never interfere with the affairs of Ireland’s Four Guardians. “It’s up to us to save her.”

  “I can’t think of an angle,” Sorcha said. “Don’t you think I’m frantic enough? It’s all your fault, showing Clare the Heart of Brigid and tempting her to steal it.”

  He’d deal with the blame game later. Time was of the essence because the sacrifice had to be made before dawn for it to work.

  “I know a way out. According to Maeve, Clare is not a virgin, so she can’t be the one to reanimate the fairy queen.” Griffin flipped through the Green Notebook. The old Irish ogham runes were starting to make sense, although some of the ink had run together, and the marks were undecipherable. “Clare must be the Morrigan I’m supposed to marry.”

  “You’re crazy enough to be committed,” Sorcha said. “And I don’t need you impugning Clare’s reputation.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I need to convince my grandfather and the kidnappers that she’s not the one the Heart of Brigid is pointing to. Where is Clare’s black-feathered outfit? The one she wore on the airplane? I need it, complete with hazelnut belt, wilted lettuce, and dusty feathered wings.”

  “How would I know?” Sorcha said. “I’m not at the apartment. Didn’t you and Clare pack her bags for the weekend or whatever crazy thing you were going to?”

  “I don’t remember,” Griffin admitted. “We did pack for a party and reception. Wait, let me tell the driver to stop the car.”

  After the driver pulled over, Griffin went to the boot to find the luggage he’d transferred from the Ashton to the rideshare car.

  He kept Clare’s phone on speaker as he opened her suitcase and pawed through her stuff. Voila! Clare’s fantastic Morrigan raven outfit was packed carefully in a clear plastic bag. “I’ve g
ot it.”

  He directed the driver to put the suitcase back and got into the car to continue the drive. “Sorcha, you and Maeve need to meet me at Gallagher Castle. I’ve a feeling one of the other Guardians is taking over my quest. It’s either Seamus O’Toole or Mack Brady.”

  “Surprising how your memory is returning when convenient,” Sorcha said, biting her words. “I’ve actually contacted Myles and Mack Brady. They were the two men from the Garda who searched our apartment. How do I know they’re not the good guys and you’re the bad one?”

  “Only one of us loves Clare more than the Heart of Brigid,” Griffin explained. “The best way to attack those two is to go after their treasures.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” Sorcha asked, sounding curious. “What are the treasures?”

  “You don’t actually have to have them,” he said. “But I’m sure you two can fake anything with your 3D printing and all of the paint, glitter, and artsy stuff you do.”

  “Go ahead, I’m listening,” Sorcha said. “But you better not be pulling our leg.”

  “Mack’s treasure is the Quill of Niamh. It’s made of a Phoenix feather, bright orange and fiery. Niamh has golden hair, so Maeve should put on a Niamh costume.”

  “O-okay … And what about O’Toole’s treasure?”

  “It’s the Hairpin of Aine, the Goddess of Love,” Griffin said, reading from the Green Notebook. “It’s all in here. Can you put together an Aine costume?”

  “Oh, sure, one goddess of love coming up,” Sorcha said. “I’m not actually suited for that role. I’m more of a knowledge and wisdom kind of girl.”

  “You’ll have to do the love goddess thing,” Griffin said. “As for the hairpin, do anything you can. I’m sure Seamus has no clue what it’s supposed to look like. It doesn’t say in the notebook, and knowing Seamus, he’s not likely to believe anything written down anyway.”

  “You’re reading out of a book of fairy tales,” Sorcha said. “How exactly are you going to fool the other two guys?”

  “I don’t need to fool them, just distract them so I can get in there and rescue Clare.”

  “I don’t like what you said about her not being a virgin,” Sorcha said. “But if it gets her out of danger, I’m for it. Okay, I’ll call Maeve, and we’ll be at your castle. You better not be fooling us.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die again, not really,” Griffin said. “Trust me.”

  Chapter 29

  The jangling of fairy bells, the tinkling of harp strings, and a crooning, sweet voice wove through the warp and weave of Clare’s faintly beating pulse. There was no pain and no pleasure, only being. She glided down from her perch, her wings in perfect harmony and alighted with grace on the headboard of the bed. She pecked on the wood, denting it, and stared at the figure on the silk-covered pillow.

  The gleaming skeleton queen smiled at her with a mouthful of perfect white teeth. Her red-brown hair was luxurious and full, with not a split end or frizz. Smooth, like a river of varnished redwood, flowing with the strong, delineated grain. Even the bones were shiny and polished, not pitted with age or crumbling to dust.

  But then, fairies didn’t age. They spent eternity in the Otherworld, forever young and beautiful. They had immortal spirits, and they drifted between the worlds at will or wisp.

  An orchestral strain of strings detangled itself from among the plinking of harps and merged with the smooth hum of voices. The chanting rose, haunting and mesmerizing, reminding her of the nuns in meditation at the abbey.

  Was she back in the twelfth century? Waiting for her High King? What was his name? It couldn’t be Bres, for he’d turned out to be a tyrant. No, there was no good man for Brigid. Her sons betrayed her, and her convent was destroyed.

  The stories swirled around Clare’s mind. The nuns at the convent tended the sacred fires of Brigid nineteen out of twenty days, with the saint herself coming down every twenty days. They kept it going until the twelfth century when …

  The music ground to a crashing halt of clashing cymbals. Bloodcurdling screams and howls of pain and anguish flooded her soul. Clare flew down a tunnel of thorns and clawed her way into the abbey.

  Flames shot from between the cracks in the wall. The deafening pounding of hoofbeats thundered over the cobblestones. Nuns tore from their rooms, running over the trampled green grass, screaming and half naked.

  Raped.

  A towering man on a dark-brown horse reared himself against the abbess’s hideout. Clare darted toward the man’s head, intent on pecking out his eyes. He swung his sword. Pain sliced through one of her wings. A spray of blood blinded her. She grasped desperately and extended her talons, ripping and tearing.

  “Feck you, bloody Morrigan!” the man’s deep-throated voice growled. With a heavy swat, he knocked Clare’s feathered body away, sending her spiraling to the ground.

  “Caw, caw, caw.”

  She crawled on her side, one eye up, and dragged herself with one wing. The scene unfolded like a movie, and Clare couldn’t even close that one eye had she wanted to.

  The traitor of Ireland, Dermot MacMurrough, dragged the abbess from her lair, raped her, and burned down the convent of Brigid. He would later ally himself with Richard “Strongbow” de Clare, giving one of his daughters to marriage to cement the alliance, and set the stage for the eventual Norman invasion and conquest of Ireland by the British under Cromwell.

  Clare squawked with pain. Her bones froze and cracked, and her feathers withered. The sound of receding hoofbeats merged with the drumbeat of her inner pulse.

  She was snapped back in place, like a paddleball at the end of a rubber band. Her body smacked down, and she groaned, rubbing her eyes.

  Clare lifted her head from the downy pillow and blinked at the gossamer threads of the golden, crystalline netting. As the dark bedchamber came into focus, she turned her face and screamed.

  The skull with its glossy hair and crown faced her. Its blank eye sockets gawped at her like an open cave door.

  “Aww!” Clare yelped and scrambled away from the pile of bones. She jerked her head around and lifted her hands, staring at them.

  Where had she been, and what happened to Biceps? What about the gunshot? Was she wounded?

  She flung aside her bridal veil, patted her body, still clothed in the pearled and beaded wedding gown. No pain, and no blood.

  Gingerly, she shifted her legs off the tall bed and dropped her feet to the ghostly white stone floor. Her feet were still encased in the sparkly stilettos.

  Whatever had happened, she was still a human, in one piece, and trapped in the bedchamber of an ancient queen. In two steps, she marched to the door and pulled on the crystal knob.

  It didn’t budge.

  She patted the walls for a light switch, but couldn’t locate one. Still, tiny pinpoints of light leaked in from above, and she had to conclude it was the moonlight seeping in. She was in an underground chamber underneath Griffin’s castle. She must have had another one of her living visions, this time, turning into a large raven. Or had that been real?

  Clare tiptoed back to the bed and stared at the skeleton. She snuck her fingers toward the hair and touched it. It felt like real human hair, lustrous and fine. Emboldening herself, she touched the bones—smooth and hard. She wasn’t about to examine the dental work. Hadn’t she read in history that people had horrible teeth back in the day?

  But this was the skeleton of the purported Brigid—a fairy who never aged.

  Clare gasped and covered her face, recoiling from the frightening memories of the rape. The abbess was named Brigid. She was the keeper of Brigid’s eternal flame. The traitor had extinguished it, and calamity had befallen Ireland.

  Maybe there was a do-over. Maybe she was here to defeat the evil Dermot MacMurrough—her grandfather? He’d given his daughter, Aiofe, to Strongbow in marriage. If Clare was supposed to be a descendant of Strongbow …

  She wiped the disgusting thoughts from her mind. She was not the spa
wn of a rapist, or was she? Was everyone alive descended from at least one murderer, one rapist, and one traitor?

  If so, she had to put an end to this misery—the invasion which had driven the Tuatha Dé Danann down into the Otherworld.

  She could do it.

  Had she been transported back to the twelfth century? Was this why the bones looked so new? The skeleton so well-preserved?

  There was only one thing to do.

  Clare unpeeled the rest of the bedspread from the skeleton. She took the Heart of Brigid from the chain around the skeleton’s neck.

  She had to save herself, but a part of her was curious. Would Brigid actually come back if she placed her heart inside her ribcage?

  Gritting her teeth, she slipped the rough diamond between the ribs of the skeleton. Chills crept up her fingers from touching the dead bones, and she waited with bated breath.

  Would Brigid rise up? If so, should she greet her or prostrate herself to worship the queen?

  Seconds ticked by, but the silence was only broken by the pounding of Clare’s heart and the swish of her breath. Maybe the Heart of Brigid was not enough. Well, duh, they needed her flesh and blood.

  Sticking her hand back into the ribcage, she took it back and reattached it to the chain. She might as well keep the powerful piece of magic, for now. It was useless anyway, since she wasn’t about to provide fresh blood to test the theory in the Green Notebook.

  Since this magic, bunkum, or hooey wasn’t working, she might as well up her chances of survival. To do that, she had to distract the enemy and catch whoever would enter the chamber next off guard.

  She removed her veil and tiara and placed it on the skeleton’s skull.

  Griffin got out of the rideshare and tapped Clare’s phone to pay. He glanced at the turrets of his castle. The lights were on in his room, but no servants greeted him or offered to carry his luggage.

  The dark purplish sky was giving way in the east to the morning light, and the sky around the dewy castle was gray and still. No wind or rain. It was hearkening to be a clear first day of spring.