by A. S. Green
Still… Technology sometimes failed. A cú sídhe would never fail. Not when it came to protecting his mate. Maybe all Sean McNeely needed was that assurance. Sweet Danu, could Aiden have been right? Declan desperately wanted his brother to be right.
Pushing himself up from the floor, he glamoured on his best clothes and grabbed his phone off the bedside table. He typed in “Sean McNeely” and “Ely, MN” to find the address. Of course a daoine would show up in a Google search—such was their pathetic attempt to blend. That level of naiveté could lead the Black Castle straight to their door.
Well, he’d talk to Rowan about that later. Right now it was to his benefit. The McNeelys lived in a part of town he’d never been to before, but he’d been somewhere close. He could tilt there, then walk the rest of the way.
He glamoured on a winter coat and crept out into the hallway, careful not to step on the creaking floorboard just outside his door.
I’ll just go down to the kitchen, he thought, take one more swig of Rowan’s green shit for good measure. Then I’ll go over there and lay it all out. Whatever happens, happens. At least he’d never have to deal with Aiden saying he hadn’t given it a shot.
“About time, ye friggin’ idiot,” Aiden muttered as Declan tiptoed past his door.
Declan flipped him off, but he couldn’t suppress the smile that curled the corners of his mouth.
Minutes later he stood outside of…well, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking at. The sign that hung by the door clearly read: Dún Laoghaire Manor. But it wasn’t what Declan had been expecting.
He’d always pictured Rowan living like a princess, high in a tower, or at least a turret like the one at his own house. Dún Laoghaire Manor wasn’t a manor at all. Declan could easily detect the half-assed glamour, so he saw what it really was: a 1950s two-story. Given the season, the window boxes were decorated with gourds, miniature pumpkins, and other fall adornments. The place was neat, tidy, and well-kept. But not grand. Not in the slightest.
He knocked on the door, wondering if this was a caretaker’s cottage, when Rowan whipped open the door and stood there, in front of him, with her hair up and wearing a blue cocktail dress like she walked right off the set of some mid-century TV show.
“You!” she cried, her eyes going round at the sight of him. “Damn you, Declan! This is all your fault!”
It took Declan a second to recognize that Rowan’s eyes were swollen and red. Her nose was red, too, and she had a fistful of tissues.
He stepped closer and touched her arm. “Rowan, love, what’s the matter?”
She yanked her arm away. “Don’t call me that. Don’t you dare call me that!”
Declan ignored the stabbing pain her words caused him. So much for telling her he loved her. “What’s wrong?
Rowan stepped outside, forcing him to step back, and she closed the door behind her. From inside the house, Declan heard the soft wailing of someone else.
“Is that your mum?”
Rowan nodded and sniffed. “She’s crying because of my father and Niall.”
Niall? Rowan had been home for less than a day. He couldn’t believe that bastard was already back and sniffing around his anamchara. And making her mother cry, no less? What was that about?
“He came for dinner,” she explained.
Declan clenched his teeth. Did the fool insult her mother’s cooking?
“Afterwards, he and my father decided to take a stroll and…discuss some things.”
Slowly Declan was starting to understand. There was only one reason for a father to have a private heart-to-heart with his daughter’s suitor. Fuck, he wasn’t witnessing tears of sadness. The McNeely women were crying tears of joy.
“Discuss some things,” he repeated, doing nothing to hide the sound of disgust that flavored his words. “Ye mean like what kind of dowry that jackass is willing to accept when the great Sean McNeely pawns off his daughter to raise his own social standing in the world?”
Rowan sucked in a breath, then her expression turned stony.
“The great Dún Laoghaire Manor!” Declan went on, gesturing at the house. “What a crock.”
“Take that back.”
He would not take that back. He wouldn’t have cared if Rowan lived in a castle or a hovel, but her father’s pretentiousness and faked airs and graces… It was disgusting.
How on earth did Rowan spring from loins like his? She was honest, down to earth, sincere. She didn’t belong in this family. She belonged with him.
“You belong with me.”
“I don’t,” she retorted, jerking her head back in defiance.
“Oh, that’s right,” he said, his own anger rising. “You don’t get a choice in the matter, do ye.” His hound growled and paced around in his chest, irritated that Declan wasn’t grabbing her and bringing her home. To his home. The home where she belonged.
Declan threw his hands out in exasperation. “Well, that’s fine. Get your da out here, and I’ll explain to him just how much ye belong with me. Maybe you don’t get a say, but I do.”
Rowan leaned into him. Dangerously close. He would have kissed her if there wasn’t so much pain etched across her face. “Maybe I would if he wasn’t missing!”
Declan took a breath and leaned back. “Missing?”
She put her hands on his chest and shoved. Declan didn’t budge and that seemed to make her even more angry. “Yes, you idiot. He and Niall never came back. We’ve been searching for hours. Ian Collins has been, too. All we’ve found is my father’s scarf.”
“Rowan,” he said low, under his breath. This was bad. Very bad. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”
“You should be! It was your reckless behavior that made this happen.”
Declan blinked, then narrowed his eyes at her. “Ye don’t believe that.”
“I certainly do. I saw it for my own eyes. Up until two months ago, we were all living peaceful lives.”
“Until the Black Castle began attacking us.” He could not believe he was having to explain this to her. One day back under her father’s roof, and she sounded just like him.
“Says you,” she yelled.
“They held a fucking gun to your head!”
“Because you couldn’t just walk away.” She was really yelling now. So much so, the neighbor’s outdoor lights flipped on. She noticed and dropped her voice lower. “Damnit, Declan, I could kill you right now.”
Declan exhaled and stepped back. “This is asinine. We warned them. We asked the clans to work with us. We’ve tried to keep everyone safe. But the daoine are too arrogant, too stupid, to listen to a lowly cú sídhe, right? We’re not good enough for their daughters, not good enough to invite to dinner. We’re not even good enough for the scraps from their floor. Do I got that right?”
Rowan clenched her teeth and her lavender eyes flashed, but otherwise, she gave him nothing.
“Yeah, I got that right,” Declan muttered. “Then, if that’s the case, your da will likely get what’s coming to him.”
Declan regretted the words even as they were leaving his mouth. He didn’t mean them, but he didn’t know how to take them back either. Why couldn’t he be more like Aiden: think first, act second? It was never that way with him.
Tears sprung up in Rowan’s eyes, but there was nothing but vile loathing on her face. “I hate you.”
Declan shrugged. He knew he was being a dick, but he couldn’t help it. “I can’t do anything about that.”
“You could be less of a prick.”
“I can’t be anything more or less than what I am. Same for you. This was never going to work between us. We both knew it. We were both fools about it. I knew that going in. Ye made that clear at the faerie ring when ye left me to stand by your father. I did my best with what I had to keep you and your family safe, but ye threw it in our face. So I’m done here.”
“Right. That’s what you do. Things get tough and you shut down. I suppose you’re going to go back home and light up, right? U
ndo all our hard work. Be dead in a year. Is that the plan? Is that what you want?”
“We’re all going to die. It’s about time ye figured that out. There’s no future for us. No future for the sídhe besides killing and death. It’s time ye got out of your fucking tower, princess, and faced the real world.”
And with that, Declan MacConall turned on his heel and left. His hound howled in mourning for what he left behind, but he knew he was right. He didn’t like being right, but he was. He liked it even less when he heard the throat rattling sob that ripped its way out of Rowan McNeely’s chest, and the sound of a slamming door.
Declan stormed past the front gate to Dún Fucking-Laoghaire Manor. He could have tilted home, but he needed to walk. He needed the night air. Oxygen! Look at him taking a page from his own treatment notes.
What you need to do is go back there and apologize, asshole. But it was too late for that. He’d done too much damage, and he couldn’t take any of it back. He’d meant every word. Well…most of them anyway.
Chapter Nineteen
THE PÚCA
Branna sat on a retaining wall that kept a pádraig’s elevated front yard from falling onto the sidewalk. She was wearing leggings, tall black boots, and a black parka that doubled her size. Her dark hair was tied up in a knot. As was her intention, she was practically invisible at night, unless you were looking for her. Which was probably why Declan jumped when she gave him the slow clap.
Seriously, what a pathetic performance he just gave.
Declan’s startled expression fell into a grimace when he spotted her.
“Bravo,” she said, giving one last clap. “Stellar performance. Perhaps not Oscar worthy, but you might get a People’s Choice.”
“Bugger off, púca. I don’t find any of this funny.” He turned and kept walking instead of tilting home. She didn’t know why, but she wasn’t about to question him. She needed to have a word with the idiot before he ruined everything.
Branna hopped off the wall, landing gracefully on the balls of her feet, and followed after him.
“Good,” she said, the word vaporizing in a puff of breath. “Then maybe you haven’t toked away so many brain cells you can’t make this right.”
“What?” He stopped and gave her a look of irritation, but she was unaffected by it. After everything she’d been through in the last fifteen centuries, it took a lot more than an angry look to ruffle her feathers.
Branna put one hand on her hip. “I’m not letting you walk away from this, Keith.”
“What?” he said again, because apparently this time she’d really lost him.
“Keith Richards,” she said, giving him a silent duh. “Rolling Stones? Ever heard of them? It’s a drug reference.”
“Sweet Danu.” He turned and kept walking. She knew he thought she was bat-shit crazy. He’d accused her of such often enough. As had his brothers…
Branna didn’t run to catch up with him. She just kept pace about ten feet back and continued to harass. What could she say, it was a gift. “So cú sídhes are quitters now?”
“Shut up, Branna.”
“Seriously. In all my millennia I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He engaged, but didn’t turn around. “Ye don’t know what you’re talking about. Ye have no idea.”
“Oh, don’t I?”
“No. Ye don’t.”
She stopped, but he kept walking, so she had to yell ahead. It was now or never. “His name was Naoise!”
Declan stopped and turned to face her. His face was contorted—part irritation, part grief. “Who are ye talking about?”
Branna steeled herself to say what she had to say. It wasn’t information she shared lightly, and she wouldn’t do it at all, except that she thought it might make a difference. A good difference. And that would be a welcome change. If she could do something good for a MacConall, it might make up for the past. At least a little bit.
She cleared her throat. “It was the year of their lord, Four Hundred Thirty-five, but you never get over your first love, now do you?”
Declan threw his hands up in exasperation. “I’m in no mood for a history lesson, Branna. If you’ve got a point to make, make it.”
She tried to control her face, but she felt it contort against her will. She preferred for Declan to think her impervious to disparagement, and she knew she lost some ground revealing how easily he could wound her.
“He was a pádraig, okay? Though we didn’t call them that yet. And I loved him, if you can believe it.”
Based on Declan’s expression, he could not believe it. “You? After all the crap ye gave Cormac for Meghan?”
Right. That. “Well, it didn’t work out well for me. So sue me, I was trying to save him the heartache.”
“And now you’ve got a love lesson to teach me? Is this where ye tell me that this asshole thought he was too good for you, kicked ye to the curb, blamed ye for all of his father’s failings, but that it would have all worked out like a fairy tale if you’d gone back and apologized for something ye did…not…do, just for another chance to fuck each other’s brains out? No thank ye. Hard pass.”
Branna blinked twice. Way to go, MacConall. That was one hell of a counterpoint, and she didn’t mind admitting it. At least not to herself.
“Just listen to me,” she said. “When I’m done, do whatever you want. I don’t care.”
Declan folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Go ahead then. Impress the hell out of me.”
Branna looked away, unable to make eye contact. Sometimes life was so embarrassing. “I loved him, okay? It was good. All of it. Even the sex.”
Now it was Declan’s turn to look away. Apparently he didn’t want to picture her in the throes of any kind of sex. The good…the bad…especially the ugly. Well, suck it up, big guy. We’ve all got urges.
“He didn’t have money, or power, or barely a pot to piss in. I didn’t care, but he thought I did. So he got a job as a stone cutter for a wealthy man who was building a big house near the mouth of the River Boyne. Two years in, that good-for-nothing Pádraig showed up.”
Declan knew who she meant. The Pádraig. Saint Patrick. That blasted man with his new religion, coming in and trying to run the sídhe from their homes.
“So charismatic, that one. Within days, everyone in the area was baptized. Naoise even became a monk, changed his name to Peadar, if you can believe that.” She still couldn’t.
At the mention of Peadar’s name, a momentary expression of recognition flickered across Declan’s face. Then it was gone.
“When I came to Peadar one night, he doused me in holy water while putting a curse on me. Ironic, right? The hypocrisy was so thick you could smear it on your bread.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“He said if he could no longer have me, then no one could. And if I ever fell in love again…”
“What?” Declan asked, leaning in.
“He said… He said I’d regret it.” That wasn’t exactly what he said, but it would do. She only gave the rest of the story to those who needed to know, and that wasn’t Declan. The person who had to worry about the curse on her was already well aware. Not to mention angry, frustrated, and willing to take the risk.
Declan looked genuinely curious. “That’s it?”
Branna felt her face grow dark. “No that’s not it, Declan, but suffice it to say, I’m cursed. I’m not alone for the fun of it.”
He clenched his teeth, telling her he appreciated the gravity of whatever she wasn’t telling him. "So what did ye do?”
“For starters, I cursed him right back.” Branna could still see him, cowering in the corner of the hay loft. That stupid-ass haircut… Birds up and down the Boyne making their nests out of his long blond hair. Such a waste.
“How?” Declan looked like he almost felt sorry for the fucker. Well, maybe he had that right. No one exactly lined up to be on the wrong end of a púca’s revenge.
“Let’s just say I hope he
enjoys being a monk, because he’s been one for a long time.”
Declan’s eyes widened. “He’s still alive?”
She arched one eyebrow.
“He’d have to be…”
Branna could practically see Declan’s brain doing the quick math, then he shook his head in disbelief.
“Yeppers,” she said. “He doesn’t look a day over nineteen, but rumor has it his cock shriveled up and turned to dust about the time of Charlemagne’s coronation. Apparently that kind of thing puts a man in a perpetual bad mood.”
Declan’s face paled. “Sweet Danu, remind me never to cross ye.”
“Good. I’m glad we got that settled because what I want you to do is start acting like a cú sídhe and less like some wounded animal.”
“What the fuck, Branna?”
“You heard me. Turn your ass around, MacConall. Go back there and apologize even if you truly think you have nothing to apologize for—though, I’m betting, if you think hard enough, you’ll realize your conscience isn’t totally clear.”
Declan rolled his eyes, making himself look like a sullen teenager. Branna gave him a pass.
“You have the chance to be with the person you love, Declan. I never will. And that’s why I’m not going to let you throw it all away.”
“Jesus, ye sound just like Aiden. No wonder Rowan thought there was something between ye.”
Rowan thought that? That was bad. Very bad. The stone pendant was starting to make more sense, and her original concerns more probable. “Well, yes. I expect your brother would understand that bit of wisdom.”
Declan looked like he expected her to go on. After all, what was she supposed to know of Aiden? So before he could ask, she pointed her finger in the direction of Dún Laoghaire Manor and had only one more thing to say. “March, soldier. And at the quick step, if you please.”
Chapter Twenty
DECLAN
Declan knocked on the McNeelys’ door again. This time, it was slower to open, and it wasn’t Rowan who opened it. “Can I h- help you?” Mrs. McNeely asked.
