The Connelly Boys (Celtic Witches Book 1)

by Lily Velez

  We finally made it to the top of the lighthouse. The door to the observation deck had been left open, and fierce, icy winds tore into the circular room with a shriek. My hair whipped all about my face, and I secured it back into a tight ponytail as Jack closed the door.

  “Do you know where the other six stones are?” Jack asked.

  The priest shook his head. “Every Keeper maintains the secrecy of his stone’s location, even against other Keepers. It’s the only way we can protect the stones from evil. And when The Lost Clan disappeared, their Hallowstone disappeared with them unfortunately.”

  He strode to the center of the room, where the large block of stone sat with the plaque embedded into its face, the one I’d touched during my last visit. “If you’re no longer able to bind Seamus before he performs the Reaping, then you have no choice but to fight him. Scarlet, if you would.” He gestured for me to stand before the menhir fragment. “The Keepers each bound their stone by magic so that only a Daughter of Brigid could call it forth and wield it. Meaning, as the only known Daughter among all the clans, you’re the only one in existence who can summon any of the Hallowstones.”

  The words were a weight on my chest, the pressure building in me like the humidity before a storm. Even though I didn’t know how I could possibly tip the scale against Seamus, I couldn’t help the feverish warmth that rushed over me in budding anticipation. My skin was sleeved with gooseflesh, and my stomach shivered in a sensation like looking down from great, dizzying heights.

  The only one in existence. A bird of rare feather indeed. I’d thought the only part I was meant to play was navigating Alison’s memories. I could’ve never anticipated a destiny of this measure. But if this was the role destined for me, then I already knew I would embrace it. There was no turning back now.

  “How do I summon it?” I asked.

  “This particular Hallowstone is buried deep in the center of the menhir before us.” He directed me to hold my hands over the menhir and concentrate on the power nested inside like a pulsating heart. It wasn’t lost on me that I’d sensed an unmistakable energy buzzing from the block the last time I was here. Was I sensing the Hallowstone even then, my magic yearning for the weapon I was meant to wield?

  Outside, the wind howled, distant thunder beginning to rumble. The crash and hiss of the ocean waves clamored for attention, as if not wishing to be outdone by the skies. In response, the old bones of the lighthouse shuddered against the storm winds.

  “Not to worry,” Father Nolan said with a smile, rapping his knuckles against the walls of the room. “This lighthouse has withstood centuries’ worth of storms. It’ll most assuredly weather another.”

  I closed my eyes tight and focused on the menhir, my hands splayed out inches from its face, just above the triskele carved there. I didn’t know what the Hallowstone looked like, only that it’d been a part of a star once, one that had presumably solidified into a usable weapon when plucked from the heavens by Brigid. I pictured an orb of light nesting inside the menhir, a core of white that glowed brighter and brighter as if I were slowly turning a dimmer dial.

  Come to me, I whispered to the Hallowstone. I imagined threads of magic extending from my fingertips to the menhir. I saw those threads pierce the rocky flesh of the menhir and dive into its depths like sharp needles, burrowing deep, deep, deep until they found the Hallowstone at the center. They quickly wove themselves into a net around the Hallowstone and pulled.

  The Hallowstone resisted.

  Come on, come on, come on, I urged. I pulled harder with the threads of energy, my face scrunching up with concentration.

  The Hallowstone didn’t budge.

  I tried to charm it, persuade it, demand it to help. It didn’t respond to me at all. I barely felt a pulse of life from it, or a flicker of acknowledgement.

  Bordering on frustration, the threads transformed into talons, and I clawed at the rock around the Hallowstone to free it by force like harvesting a pearl from an oyster. The Hallowstone’s resistance intensified and met me measure for measure, steeling itself against my charge.

  “Scarlet, stop.”

  Jack’s voice yanked me out of my mind, startling me as if I’d been suddenly woken from a dream. I blinked furiously, my head swimming as the room came back into focus. I staggered back, but Jack was there to catch me before I could sink boneless to the ground. His grip was firm on my elbows, and I leaned against his solid form, surprised by my exhaustion.

  A warm drop slid over my upper lip. I touched it, and when I pulled back my hand, there was blood on my fingertips. I’d overexerted myself again.

  “Maybe if she channeled power from me,” Jack offered, looking to Father Nolan.

  The priest shook his head solemnly. “I’m afraid it won’t work. The Hallowstone would sense the magic is coming from another. She must do it herself.”

  “It fought me,” I said, trying to right myself even as the dizziness made my head feel like a boat on stormy waters. “Why would it do that? I thought you said I was the only one who could call it forth.”

  “It’s testing you,” Father Nolan said. “The Allhallow was one of the most powerful weapons ever given to a witch by a god. The Hallowstone must ensure you’re worthy of it. You must show it your true mettle.”

  I was still lightheaded, but I stepped forward for a second attempt. The Hallowstone wanted me to prove I was strong enough? I would do just that. This time, I thought about the Echo I’d seen during the school field trip. The image of a warrior witch filled my mind, and I channeled her ferocity. I summoned those talons again, and I raked at the menhir like an animal. You’re mine to wield, I told the Hallowstone, and I’m not leaving here without you. I clawed and clawed and clawed, but it was as if the Hallowstone receded with every inch of progress I made, burrowing itself deeper into the menhir. I would’ve lost myself to the hunt completely had it not been for the strong hands that grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back.

  I recovered quicker than last time, though the headache still throbbed at my temples. I swiped at the space under my nose with the hem of my cardigan sleeve, already knowing there’d be fresh blood there. I’d approached the Hallowstone like an animal, and now I probably looked like one too.

  “Is there something specific she’s supposed to do to unlock the spell?” Jack asked Father Nolan, his arm still around me.

  “She must only lay bare the truth of who she is.”

  “But I’m doing that,” I said. “It’s not working. It keeps struggling against me.” It wasn’t until I uttered the words that I noticed the irritation burgeoning in my chest. What did it mean that the Hallowstone wouldn’t emerge for me? What if Alison had been wrong? What if all we were doing here was wasting our time?

  “Scarlet,” Father Nolan said, taking my hands in his own. His palms were wrinkled and leathery and warm. “You were born for this. You are strong enough. You must simply believe that you are.”

  I looked to Jack, who nodded. “There’s a reason you came to Rosalyn Bay, Scarlet. From the first moment our worlds collided, I knew there was something different about you, something extraordinary. You’ve proven that every step of the way since. If there’s anyone who can change the tides now, it would be you. Reach down into the deepest parts of who you are, and trust in your magic.”

  His words glowed in my chest like a flame in the dark, flooding my ribcage with warmth. I looked back to the menhir. When I approached it this time, I did so slowly, admiring it for the simple fact it had stood the test of time. It hailed from an age long ago, a simpler time before the persecution of its people. It was like a mirror into that world, connecting me with the past.

  I placed my hands against its jagged exterior, my fingers resting upon the spirals of the triskele. Then I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing, directing my thoughts to the structure and pinning them in place, ignoring the wailing winds and pounding thunder from outside. Focus. I breathed in, I breathed out. In, out, in, out. With every inhale, I imagined
myself breathing in the magic of the menhir. With every exhale, I rid myself of doubts and cleared my mind. In that moment, I remembered something Jack had said at Iveagh Gardens about the four Quarters.

  As a witch, it’s a power you have the privilege of calling upon. That doesn’t mean you’re the master over it, though. Druids venerated nature and lived in balance with it. When you summon the Quarters, you do so with respect, acknowledging the divinity in them just as they acknowledge the divinity in you.

  My heart fell. What a fool I’d been. In my quest to claim the Hallowstone as my own, through all my demands for it to come forth, I’d completely forsaken humility. I’d thought to lord over the Hallowstone, and it had resisted me, perhaps alarmed by my pride. Father Nolan had said the first Daughter had been chosen because of her heart, not because of any sense of entitlement, not because of a thirst for power.

  I quelled the tempest of shame that spiked within me and bowed my head, my hands still on the menhir.

  Forgive me, I supplicated.

  And then I unwound my soul before the Hallowstone. I showed it what I’d lost in Colorado, those last days when I’d sat beside my mom’s hospital bed as she steadily lost her battle, the friends and home I’d left behind. I showed it my arrival in Rosalyn Bay, how I’d felt so foreign, so disconnected, so out of place. I showed it my desire to leave, and then the unlikely afternoon when I’d happened upon Jack and the demon, changing everything. I showed it all that had transpired since then, and what we stood to lose if I was unable to fulfill my purpose.

  So you see? I need you. We need you. Then directing my thoughts to Brigid, I spoke to the goddess herself. I don’t know your reasoning, but if you believe me worthy, then I’ll humbly answer the summons. I’ll be your warrior. I’ll be your chosen vessel in the fight that awaits us.

  A Daughter of Brigid. My heart beat faster, a heat wave consuming me, the last of my doubt disintegrating into ash as my eagerness and determination built. I saw myself then, as the most recent in a long line of god-touched soldiers imbued with the strength of the goddess. I was meant to take my place among them. I was meant to take up the mantle and continue the sacred lineage.

  It didn’t matter if I was hardly qualified, and it didn’t matter that I hadn’t yet fully come into my magic. All that mattered was whether or not I was willing to fight the battle ahead.

  I was.

  Thank you for choosing me. I’m here now, and I’m ready.

  My palms heated up as if I held them before the roaring flames of a bonfire. Something danced in my chest, expanding like a blooming flower. The heat intensified, surging to my neck, my face, the top of my head.

  Thank you for choosing me, I said again. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  The heat was an inferno between my ribs. I might’ve thought I’d caught on fire, but the burning didn’t hurt. If anything, the sensation was euphoric. There was a rush through me from head to toe, as if a dam had burst open, letting through a flood of magic, and I was caught in the rapids. But I wasn’t drowning in them. I was riding them, and the power crested, shooting from my heart, down my arms, out my fingertips.

  Crack.

  The sound was a low, guttural baritone, the sound of rocks grating against each other. My eyes snapped open as another crack filled the air, and then another and another and another. The menhir was covered in fissures like a veined living thing, and out of each crevice, radiant light glowed and poured out. The cracks continued racing all across the menhir’s surface until it was fragmented into dozens of smaller pieces, the light becoming even brighter, like glimmers of a high noon sun.

  The menhir trembled, rumbled. The entire room shook with it. I took a step back, but my eyes were riveted to the menhir. Without warning, it exploded, the jagged pieces shooting outward and then pausing in their trajectory and spinning in place. A brilliant light shot up from the center of the menhir like a beacon, the room aglow with white. Amidst all the misshapen menhir chunks, one stone rose within the beam of brightness, flinging prisms of glimmering light against the walls as it slowly rotated.

  The Hallowstone.

  When it was at eye level, I held out a hand, my breath caught in my throat, my lungs clenched in anticipation. The Hallowstone floated to me. It hovered above my open hand for a heartbeat. Maybe two. Then it gently came to rest upon my palm, entrusting itself to me. When it made contact with my skin, the heat inside me spun like a cyclone before detonating in a starburst of magic that sent tingles up and down my arms.

  The Hallowstone was as hot as if it’d sat in the sun all day. I marveled at it. It wasn’t perfectly spherical or polished as I’d imagined. It had edges and facets and a cluster of crystal points on one end. It was slightly cloudy in some parts, the way a block of ice would be, with fractures and fissures, and though it looked completely harmless, I could sense the great energy radiating from its core. A soft light pulsed from within the Hallowstone in time with my heart.

  “My word,” Father Nolan breathed, coming close to me.

  “You did it,” Jack said from my other side, his voice hushed, as if the lighthouse had been transformed into a temple. “I knew you could.”

  I couldn’t stop looking at the Hallowstone. I could hardly believe I was now holding one of witch-kind’s holiest relics. Thank you, I sang to Brigid, to the Hallowstone. Thank you.

  “This will stop the Reaping?” I asked Father Nolan, finally finding my voice.

  “It would be enough to stop just about any force of evil,” the priest said, nodding. Like me, he found himself incapable of peeling his eyes away from the Hallowstone. “But you must consecrate and charge it first so that its magic fully awakens, at which point it’ll become bound to you. From then on, it’ll be an unconquerable weapon in your hands and remain that way so long as you remain worthy of it.”

  I smoothed my thumb across one of the Hallowstone’s facets. Its power already radiated through me, a pulse in the center of my palm beating a steady rhythm in response to that power. If this is how it acted when its magic was still asleep, I couldn’t begin to imagine what it’d be like when its magic was stirred.

  I met Jack’s eyes. “Whatever we need to do, I’m ready.”

  He held my gaze for a long moment before nodding. “Then it’s time we perform the most important ritual of our lives.”

  40

  At night, the menhirs of Rosalyn Bay were especially terrifying, an army of unmoving stone giants watching our every move. It had been three days since Father Nolan had led us to the Hallowstone. During that time, the star fragment had been buried in the earth here to cleanse it of its past energies.

  “Magical objects are like sponges,” Jack had said. “They tend to absorb the various bits of energy surrounding them. Before you can work with them, you have to wipe the slate clean, so to speak, and attune the object with your own energy and goals.”

  Once we’d excavated the Hallowstone, we took it to the ocean, washing it in the salt water to purify it. Afterward, Jack had passed the Hallowstone back and forth through the smoke trailing upward from a smudging stick, the aroma of burnt herbs and flowers heady. Now we were back at the menhirs, where we would consecrate the Hallowstone and charge it. Seeing as how it was the spot where the very first Daughter had been selected by Brigid, the Connellys decided there was no better place to call upon the goddess for her help. I watched the others set up for the ritual, apprehension coiling up in me like a ball of yarn.

  Rory drew one of his sigils upon a large, wooden board we’d brought with us. The sigil was filled with symbols I’d never seen before along with those I had: Ogham runes, phases of the moon, and triple spirals. In fact, triple spirals were everywhere. Father Nolan had said the triskele was representative of Brigid as The Triple Goddess. And to think, I’d drawn the symbol all my life, never once guessing its significance. Had something in me known all along who I truly was, who I was meant to become?

  As Rory drew, Lucas set out countless white candles along the edges
of the sigil, moving slowly and occasionally wiping away beads of sweat from his pale face with the back of his wrist. Father Nolan’s antidote had revived him, but he hadn’t yet made a full recovery. The surest indication of his still being ill was in his silence. Gone were the jokes and teasing, the egging Connor on. I hadn’t seen him take out his playing cards once these past days, and I was starting to miss his nickname for me. Scarlet Ibis.

  A bird of rare feather will arrive and lead the way.

  Another knot in my stomach pulled tight. I approached Jack, who was arranging tools upon an altar which would be situated at the sigil’s center once Rory was done. Before him were bowls of flower petals and herbs, a gold chalice with incredible detailing, vials like the ones I’d seen in Father Nolan’s underground cellar, and an athamé as well. My heart trembled as I considered how the dagger would be used tonight.

  “We’re almost ready,” Jack said once I was close enough. In the moonlight, he looked every bit a phantom, the circles under his eyes darker than usual. No doubt the result of Seamus’s betrayal. I couldn’t imagine the heartbreak it had caused in Jack. He’d withdrawn into himself these past days, disappearing once or twice without a word, his mind surely a storm of thoughts. If there was one thing I knew, though, it was that he, as always, was blaming himself for it all. Each time I tried to talk to him about it, I didn’t get very far, until the morning we went to wash the Hallowstone in the ocean.

  “What happened with Seamus isn’t your fault,” I’d said to him as we lagged behind the others.

  Jack buried his hands into the deep pockets of the coat he’d recovered from his dorm room at St. Andrew’s. It was the identical twin to the one he’d lost to the hunters. He looked complete with it. “We should’ve been there for him more. This isn’t who Seamus is. He’s a good man, Scarlet. He filled a void in our lives at a time when we’d lost so much. His grief over losing Neala and Bree undid him in ways I hadn’t realized.”