Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1

by Rachelle Ayala

  “It does, but I don’t know the way like you do,” Clare said.

  “I know a shortcut to the garden gazebo,” Griffin said, limping and taking the lead. “Let’s take it. I want to see the new Irish spring firsthand.”

  They turned a sharp corner into a darkened alcove. He reached up and pushed aside a round stone, exposing a beam of light from above. He grabbed the rungs of a fire-escape ladder and lowered it.

  Clare climbed to the top of the ladder and crawled into a small chamber with a tiny window. A wooden bedframe lay on the floor, covered with a stretched piece of leather.

  “What’s this?” She looked up at the window. It reminded her of the dreary windows of light at the Kilmainham Gaol. “Who was imprisoned here?”

  “No one,” Griffin said, sitting down on the bed. “This was my hiding place. Whenever Grandfather and Pierce jammed too many memories into me, and I couldn’t process it all, I’d come here and lie on the cot. I’d look at the sunlight and let the memories sift through my mind, separating truth from fiction.”

  “Did it work?” Clare sat down next to him. Maybe this was the breakthrough she’d been waiting for, and he finally realized he was not in the twelfth century creeping down the corridors with a Fairy Queen.

  “It got me away from all the voices shouting at me.” He rested his chin on his knuckles. “Remember this. Do that. You must memorize these. You have a duty to do. Here is the list.”

  “I’m so sorry for what you’ve gone through.” Clare placed her hand on Griffin’s thigh. “Are you hurt badly?”

  “It’s just a scratch, and it’s not even bleeding anymore,” Griffin said, putting his arm around her. “I’m more concerned with you. I didn’t know what I’d find when I came in the bedchamber. Did they hurt you?”

  “Are you remembering what happened to me?” Clare peered at Griffin’s face and saw glimmers of recognition.

  He slapped the side of his head. “I don’t know why that thought came to me, that you were in danger. Did my friends capture you? How did you end up in the bedchamber?”

  “You’re starting to remember your last life,” Clare said, grasping his hands. “I spent the past few days with you, and then yes, Seamus kidnapped me from under a fairy mound and brought me here.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered as if fighting voices in his head. “How is it possible for Seamus to capture a goddess? Or were you talking about the skeleton. My dear Brigid, do you have the memories of the changeling, too?”

  “I might.” Clare twisted her lips and swallowed bitter disappointment. “But thanks to you, dear Griffin, you fought for me and you won.”

  “We sure did. Me and you, forever.” He picked up the gemstone from her chest. “The Heart of Brigid. You. The new Ireland. We traveled back to the twelfth century before the Norman invasion. We freed the fairy folk and that means you are my Brigid. My true and everlasting love.”

  Clare forced a smile on her face and nodded. “Yes, yes. I promise you, everything will be all right. Everything. The garden will be glorious with life. Your castle shimmering in the light mist. The sun shining, and the sky a powder blue with sweet, fluffy clouds. Let’s go see.”

  She needed to get him above ground, and hopefully to his grandfather before Seamus and Mack found out they were chasing fake fairies.

  Griffin opened the window and hoisted Clare over the windowsill. A spiral staircase led upward. She had to turn her feet sideways and partially pull herself up by the handrails around the spiral staircase which led to a circle of standing stones.

  Her skirt clung to her behind, and her thigh muscles burned. Griffin would be getting an eyeful if it weren’t for the relative darkness.

  She should care, but her heart was weighed down by lead. She was tricking him again, acting like she was the goddess Brigid he was supposed to bring back.

  Wire figures of butterflies and dragonflies decorated the wrought iron benches surrounding the stones, and the garden bloomed with fragrant color. Green buds uncurled from the branches of the trees, and tiny birds chirped and flittered among the renewed greenery.

  “We’re home,” Griffin said, raising both hands and letting the sun beam over his face. “Éirinn go Brách.”

  Chapter 33

  “Luck is all around us,” Griffin exclaimed as he beheld the wondrous world of rebirth. “Look at this, Brigid. Have you seen anything like it?”

  The air was infused with sweet fragrances of roses and wildflowers. Water danced and bubbled in fountains over colorful spheres of glass and metal.

  "Tsee-hee-he-hee.” A pair of birds flirted and darted over and around the streams of water. A welcoming breeze stirred the new leaves budding from the willowy trees bent over them, and everywhere he turned, the air was charged with a brilliant display of life.

  As beautiful as nature was around him, Griffin couldn’t keep his eyes off the glorious bride he’d brought forth out of the womb of death. He’d done it! He’d not only recovered the gleaming Heart of Brigid from wherever it had been hidden, but he’d also brought back the days of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

  “Where are the hosts of the Fae to join us in celebration?” Griffin asked. “Dear Brigid, have you summoned them?”

  “It is a gorgeous day,” the goddess Brigid proclaimed. “I would like to spend it alone with you, my esteemed guardian. Only you, Griffin, have made this day possible.”

  “It is all on you, my dear.” He walked with her around the wondrous displays of earthly beauty. “I will appreciate all that is in this moment, not worried or anxious about the future, but being still and aware of all the gifts the gods have bestowed on me.”

  “You’ve learned well,” the goddess praised him. “Let’s observe all around. The lines, the curves, the colors, shapes, and sounds.”

  Tiny dewdrops glistened on the soft petals of variegated roses, pink, white, purple, and red. The dark-green leaves held a glossy sheen, and the points of the thorns were curved to perfection.

  The warmth of the sun and its rays, alternately peeking from the clouds and then streaming down like a skirt of light, heralded a bright new day in Ireland.

  An angelic chorus sang in the old language from hills teeming with renewal and vales of deep, rich lore. Griffin felt the symphony expand from the core of his heart, love spiraling out, twirling around and spreading. It touched the plants and the birds, then jumped up to the tops of every tree, skipped over boulders and standing stones, and flew like a million butterflies, sprinkled into the sky, and ascending like stardust into the highest reaches of heaven.

  He’d fulfilled his destiny, and yet, there was so much more he would experience. So many more hearts to gladden, joy to diffuse, and wonders to receive.

  All because he believed.

  In the beautiful creature walking at his side. He felt her essence through his fingers, touching her very being, by the mere clasp of her delicate hand. The love for his land and all of her history and lore had made this day possible.

  The castle walls were never more polished and newer, the turrets gleaming like alabaster in a heavenly city, the walls strong and sturdy, the grounds green with life.

  He led his fairy queen up the steps of the round tower, past the gallery of stained-glass portraits of the past kings and queens, up and around to the very top. Together, they admired the three-hundred-sixty-degree view. Cotton puffs of sheep dotted the pasture, and patches of forest mixed with plowed fields of sprouting wheat. Beyond, to the north, lay craggy cliffs and stony fingers of land where the deep waters of the north clashed with the fertile land of old Ireland.

  “Our ships sailed from up yonder,” Griffin said, seeing in his memories the visions of billowing sails and golden-colored longboats. “We came to this bounteous land, and we are now one with the hills and vales, from the highest stone to the lowest bog. Ireland is ours, restored and in peace. It is indeed this Heart of Brigid that has brought you back to reign, dear queen.”

  She was more radiant than heavenl
y sunshine, dressed all in white with her wedding veil covering her milky face. Her dark-coppery hair was smooth and lustrous, crowned with a gemmed tiara sparkling with all the colors of the rainbow. But most of all, she was promised to him by the gleaming purplish-red diamond over her chest.

  “You may kiss me, dear Griffin.” She held a hopeful gaze in her verdant green eyes, but one side of her brow was furrowed as if she puzzled over something.

  A massive sensation of déjà vu piled over him, and he wondered if he were replaying an endless loop of time. Why did his Brigid look worried when everything was perfect?

  He wanted to wipe away all doubt, so he leaned forward, wrapped his fairy queen in his arms, and kissed her. He wasn’t sure how much bliss he could take, but he’d hold on to the moment of sweetness and light—each precious pearl in the string of life, lingering into timelessness—not letting anything disturb the sublime moment.

  “Caw, caw, caw.” The rusty, raucous cackle swooped over them.

  Startled, Griffin broke away and stared at the vision in front of him. The tiara of light and beauty had turned into black, twisted thorns, and the ruffle of black wings sprouted from the back of his angel.

  The diaphanous veil had been replaced with a black cloth of mourning, and the bejeweled wedding gown was ragged and torn. A scratched-up leather vest, torn in places, along with a rusted breastplate of armor jutted from his goddess’s chest. A girdle of hazelnuts hung around her waist, while dried cabbage and lettuce leaves crinkled and cracked over her skirt. The diamond shoes were gone, and his goddess’s long legs were encased in worn, green suede lace-up boots.

  He grasped at the Heart of Brigid to ground him. Surely it must still be on her chest. But no, his fingers closed around a dirty lump of black coal.

  “What’s wrong?” the woman, a stranger, asked.

  “I, I don’t know you,” he said. “I’ve lost my true love.”

  “What was her name?” the woman asked, her eyes watery.

  “Cl—”

  The shriek of a banshee, and the rusty taste in his mouth, the jagged flashes of black lightning and a thunderous clang of a hammer punched him to the ground.

  “Griffin!” Clare screamed. She grabbed his jacket to break his fall, but he slammed onto the slate stone of the tower, and she fell on top of him.

  She cupped his head in her arms, to stop it from hitting the ground. It was a struggle because he thrashed and flailed violently, like a wild bull in a rodeo.

  “Oh, Griffin.” She held on to him as best she could so he wouldn’t hurt himself. He’d been about to tell her who his true love was, and even though she thought he was going to say her name, this latest setback would no doubt wipe even that trace of memory from him.

  A tear dropped onto his face, and then another. Why should she feel this way over a man she barely knew? Why would she care about one who didn’t truly know her? He had glimpses of heroism, love, and kindness. But each time he came back from an attack, he was a blank slate.

  Or was he?

  Footsteps clambered up the stairs toward them.

  Clare recoiled, wondering how she would deal with Seamus and Mack.

  Fortunately, two men wearing Garda uniforms emerged from underneath the stone arch.

  “He’s having an epileptic seizure,” Clare explained. She stood back and let the officers take charge.

  They spoke into their comm devices, and in a matter of minutes, more people swarmed around.

  Griffin’s seizure stopped, and he was helped to a sitting position. He glanced her direction, but there was no recognition in his eyes—just a dazed and confused expression.

  She didn’t want to push him, so she walked over to the officer in charge and asked, “What’s happened here? Where’s Griffin’s grandfather?”

  “He’s in the sitting room answering questions,” the chief replied. “Are you the young lady who was reported kidnapped?”

  “I must be, but I’m okay,” Clare said.

  “We’ll need you to answer some questions.” The chief motioned to a young man. “Detective Donnelly, please take this woman down to the library.”

  “Will Griffin be okay?” Clare asked.

  “We’re calling the paramedics right now and will be contacting his doctor,” the chief said.

  The detective stared at her like she was a ghost. “Why are you all in white, my lady?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you I’m Brigid the Bride?” Again, she left out the Barbie doll part. “Actually, Griffin and I had an appointment with destiny. I’m afraid he will not remember.”

  “Ah, yes, Griffin Gallagher. I know him. Let’s go to the library and talk.” The younger man gestured toward the doorway to the staircase. “After you.”

  Clare’s thoughts raced as she descended the staircase. “What happened here?”

  “We were called in because your friends reported you kidnapped.”

  “Are my friends okay?” Clare asked.

  “Oh, yes, they are fine, although I’m wondering if you and Griffin have a thing going?”

  That was a strange question for a detective to ask, so Clare deflected. “I don’t believe this is any of your business. All you need to know is that Seamus O’Toole kidnapped me from Bronagh Abbey, and that he violently brought me here. Griffin rescued me, and my friends distracted Seamus and Mack.”

  “Ah, yes, with tall tales of the treasures of the Tuatha Dé Danann. I ought to arrest the bunch of you,” Detective Donnelly said. “Liars and temptresses.”

  Clare came to a halt in the hall of gods and goddesses. She pointed a finger at the brown-haired man with the hazel eyes. “You are not a detective, and neither is the chief from the Garda.”

  Whirling around, she picked up her skirts and tried to run back the way they came, but the fake detective was stronger.

  “You’re a thief.” He grabbed her by the arms. “If I’m not mistaken, that is the Heart of Brigid around your neck. Hand it over.”

  “Gladly.” She flung the necklace from her breast, whirled around and ran down the stairs for the exit. She was getting out of this crazy castle with whatever was left of her heart intact.

  Griffin woke from the dead the same way he’d done a million times. First there was the complete silence, followed by the murmuring of voices, and then the distinct sensation of a storm receding. The static electricity fizzling out. The scent of copper or rust and the taste of blood in his throat was blocked by a hard, smooth object.

  He retrieved a smooth rectangle with glass on one side and an emerald-green metallic back.

  “Clare’s mobile phone,” he muttered, not sure where that thought came from.

  “You’ll be fine, lad,” the booming voice of a heavy-set man filtered through to his conscious mind.

  He lifted his eyes and blinked, once, twice, not believing it wasn’t his grandfather. A white-haired man stood over him. He wore a big-mustache and a monocle, and Griffin recognized him as Edmund Donnelly, one of his grandfather’s friends.

  “Lord Donnelly?” he asked. “Where’s my grandfather?”

  “Please, call me Edmund,” Lord Donnelly replied. “He’s in the sitting room answering questions.”

  “Where’s Clare?” Griffin asked.

  “Who’s Clare?” The older man helped him to his feet. “You’ve had another seizure. You must not be remembering things the way you should.”

  “Oh, no, my mind is clear. I’ve a friend named Clare. She’s a bit on the daft side, but she’s a load of fun. We spent the day together, visiting places in Dublin like the Kilmainham Gaol and a tattoo parlor. Why, I have a tattoo to prove it.”

  “You must be dreaming,” Edmund said. “Let’s go down to your bedchamber. I’ll call for a doctor, and you can take a nap.”

  “I don’t want a nap,” Griffin said. “I want to find my Clare. I have so much to tell her. She’s a romance writer, and I have a story for her. We’re going to work on it together and make a movie.”

  The el
derly Donnelly chuckled. “Rest first. I’ll get your grandfather to sit with you.”

  “Where’s Pierce?” Griffin found it strange that his loyal butler wasn’t the first one to find him as he usually did.

  “Pierce has resigned. He wasn’t who you thought he would be.”

  “What do you mean? He was our butler ever since I can remember.”

  “Which wasn’t too long,” Lord Donnelly said, leading the way down the stairs. “I’m afraid he was here on false pretenses. Instead of supervising his own grandson, he was here spying on you and Duke Gallagher.”

  “Spying? I don’t get it.”

  “He was after the Heart of Brigid, instead of minding his own business. You do remember there are two factions of Guardians, don’t you?”

  “Uh, tell me more.” Griffin rubbed his head, hoping to clear the cobwebs. “I’m the guardian of the stone, and you’re the guardian of the cup.”

  “Or cauldron, yes,” Edmund confirmed. “It’s the stone and cauldron against the sword and spear. G.E.M.S. stands for Griffin, Eamon, Mack, and Seamus. You and Eamon, my grandson, are on the same team, just like me and your grandfather Gordon are teamed together. I must admit we failed you the last five years when I was detained in a foreign prison, and Eamon was taken hostage by Muslim extremists.”

  “Oh …” Griffin felt his mouth round into an oblong shape. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Not your fault,” Edmund said. “The O’Tooles, Sean and Seamus, took advantage. Sean became your butler Pierce, and he took control of your memories, while the Bradys, Myles and Mack, ingratiated themselves into your grandfather’s good graces. Instead of guarding their own treasures, which I have good intelligence that they’ve lost …”

  Edmund broke off to slide a hearty wink at Griffin, leaving him to wonder whether the Donnellys were responsible for the loss of the other two treasures.

  “What I don’t get is why the Gallaghers were entrusted to guard the stone when we lose our memories,” Griffin said. “I feel at a great disadvantage.”