I cover my face with my hands and try not to lose it.
A sharp zing fills my chest and something grips the back of my neck.
My eyes fly open and I jerk sideways, pressing my body into the passenger door. Faelan pulls his arm away—his fingers were wrapped around my nape.
“What the hell?” I say, rubbing the spot where he grabbed me. “Don’t touch me.”
He gives me a sideways glance, staying focused on the road. “I could barely breathe with all your turmoil filling the car. I just dampened your mood a bit with some of my own energy.”
“Yeah, next time don’t.” I’m not sure how he’d be able to calm me down with his own energy, considering how pissed he obviously is about me being dumped on him. But even as the thought comes, I realize the heat in my skin’s faded and he’s not as tense anymore. We’re on a curvy road through what looks like Malibu Canyon. How long have we been driving?
“The last thing I want is your hands on me,” I add, trying to make it clear how much I don’t want to be around him right now.
“Well, now. You seem spunky again,” he says, his tone wry.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“In Marius’s office, you were a mouse. Now you’re back to biting my head off.”
I squeeze my lips shut to hold back a retort. I close my eyes for a second and then say, “I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Aye.”
That’s all he says. Just “aye.”
I need to distract myself so I don’t hit him. I look out the window. “Where is this cottage?”
“It’s about three miles up this road, deeper in the canyon. There’s an ocean view.”
“I didn’t know there were houses out this far.”
“There aren’t. Marius never does anything the usual way.”
“Oh. Kay.” Now I’m nervous again.
“It’ll be better than a laundromat.”
I stare at him. How does he know where I’ve been sleeping the last few nights? Is he psychic or something?
He seems to sense my surprise. “Star and Ziggy, they were sending Marius information.”
Right. I’d almost forgotten about my traitor friends. So glad to be reminded.
“You’re clouding up the car again,” he says, sounding annoyed. “How in the hell are your emotions so pushy already?”
“Pardon me for having a feeling.” I fold my arms across my chest and lean away from him.
The necklace’s ability to smother things has apparently passed already. Maybe it was short-lived, like the burning agony of the thick metal torque. But what do I know? I have no clue what’s going on. Or where I’m being taken, what it’ll mean. I’ve always done things my own way, on my own. I don’t depend on anyone. And now—because I’m freaked out—I’m letting these creepy men push me around? It could be a huge mistake to go along with all of this. How can I be sure they’re telling me the truth? So far they haven’t explained much of anything at all.
I decide there’s no point in holding off on questions anymore, so I ask, “So, if I’m a mini-goddess or whatever—”
“Demigoddess.”
“Whatever. I’m a freak of nature. What are you?”
“It’s not polite to ask that question.”
“Seriously? You basically kidnap me and I’m supposed to act like Miss Manners now?”
“I haven’t kidnapped you. You’ve come of your own free will. And if you’d like to go back to that gutter in the Valley, I can drop you on the way back into Downtown tomorrow.” His voice has a slight edge to it, though I think he’s trying to sound casual.
I consider his offer and wonder if that’s the better plan, just having him take me back to my life—what there is of it. If that’s seriously an option. My feet are already burning to run, and I haven’t even gotten to this “cottage” yet. But if I am some sort of mutant, if I can really hurt people like I hurt Ben . . .
No, this is too volatile. Whatever I feel, I need to see where this goes.
I’ll give it a day. If I’m still not buying into the crazy by tomorrow night, then I’ll find a way out.
For now, though, I need to push for some answers. “You could at least tell me what a demigoddess actually is,” I say. “Like, does it mean I’ll be able to shoot fire out of my eyes or smite my enemies or get things half off on Rodeo Drive? It’s not like there’s recent data for this sort of thing, not since the fall of Rome, anyway. Is there literature, a pamphlet? A how-to manual?”
“Do you always talk this much?”
“Aren’t you supposed to explain things? Marius said I get whatever I want, right?” I give him a pointed look. “I want information.”
He sighs. “I wasn’t planning on keeping you in the dark forever, just until you get some sleep, so we could start the transition after a good rest.”
With the way I feel right now, I will not be sleeping.
We drive in silence for a few minutes before I try again. “You said Marius is a demi, like me, right?”
Faelan nods. “The son of Lyr, the god of the sea.”
Lyr . . . that’s not a god I recognize from World Civ. There was Poseidon, the Greek sea god. I get an image in my head of the Little Mermaid’s dad, the cartoon guy with the pitchfork. Not super awe-inspiring. And it definitely doesn’t fit the man I saw back in the skyscraper, other than the white hair.
His parentage doesn’t matter right now, though. Mine does. “My mother, you said she was . . .” I remember him saying the name Brighid. But all he told me was that she was a goddess—not much information, as explanations of deity parents go. “Who was she?”
He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.
My gut sinks at his reaction to my question, worst-case scenarios running through my head. “Oh crap.” I squeeze my eyes shut, like I’m bracing for a hit. “She’s the Queen of the Damned or something, isn’t she?” Then I mutter to myself, “The lake of fire and Hades, that all fits with my life so far.”
When only silence answers, I squint my eyes open to look at him.
He’s actually smirking.
“Nice. Enjoy my torment, that’s helpful.”
“I’m Irish. Love of torment’s in the blood.” He sobers again, his voice becoming reverent. “Your mother . . . she is the graceful Brighid, goddess of fire and hearth, first daughter of the holy Danu.”
My skin tingles. The sound of her name coming from his lips seems to hum in the air for an extra second or two this time. I do recognize it from the Catholic group home I was in when I was little. “Isn’t Brighid a saint?”
“Actually, some say the worship of the Virgin Mary was the absorption of our great Brighid into Catholicism; others say the Virgin was meant to embody Isis. Either way, neither had anything to do with the rabbi, Yeshua of the East, that the Romans adopted as their own. Your mother is one of the Western deities. The people of Erin—Ireland—sprung from them, namely the Tuath Dé Danann, the children of the holy Danu.”
“Is any of that even English?”
He shoots me an exasperated glance.
“What?” I hold my hands up in defense. “All I heard was blah, blah, Virgin, blah, blah, Romans.”
He squeezes the steering wheel, and it squeaks like it might snap in his grip. He continues as if I didn’t say anything, his jaw a bit clenched. “The Tuath Dé Danann were the children of our holy Danu. She came across from the Otherworld and birthed several powerful beings who became the gods and goddesses of old. Five of them now rule the Otherworld: Lyr of the sea, as I’ve mentioned, Arwen of air, Cernunnos of the earth, Brighid of fire, and the Morrígan of spirit. These were her five firstborn children, the Penta. The holy Danu eventually took them back with her to her world, but they return now and then to—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “I’ve heard of this Morrígan goddess, I think. Wasn’t she the witch who was Arthur’s sister and, like, tricked him into doing the nasty dance with her? I think I saw that in a movie or something.”
He blows out a long breath. “No.”
“Oh.” I chew on my lip, thinking. “But if they’re from Ireland, are they, like, leprechauns?”
“No.”
“But they’re not aliens?”
This time his answer is masked in a growl. “No.”
“You’ve gotta help the Yankee here, Paddy. You’re only giving me so much to work with—”
“Fine,” he clips out. “I have books. Several hundred books. With pictures and everything. I will pass them to you as soon as we arrive at the house.”
“I’m just asking questions,” I mutter, but secretly I’m thrilled, thinking about how many shelves several hundred books would fill.
“You don’t have even the simplest grasp of history or literature. What sort of education did you get?”
“An American one,” I say. I thought I had a grip on history, but apparently not—I’m annoyed at myself for reading so much fiction and not getting my butt to school consistently. My defenses rise as he gives me a look like I’m stupid. “Pardon me if I was too busy being dragged around town by social services to retain any pagan prowess. Maybe if my mom hadn’t been shooting shit in her veins and forgetting to take me to school. Or if the group homes I was shoved in didn’t have mass chaos twenty-four seven so I could actually fucking absorb what I tried to study. If only.” My ire rises with each word until I’ve turned in my seat. I poke him in the shoulder. “Which, by the way, is your alien leaders’ fault. Even according to you. That ‘cast’ of people who traded me with some junkie’s baby. How sick is that? Who thinks that’s ever a good idea?”
“The Cast, or whoever left you with that human woman, likely didn’t know of her affliction.”
I snort in disbelief. “And you want me to trust them?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Never trust anyone from here on out.”
“Excuse me? But you said—”
“I said you should trust Marius because his first loyalty is always to your mother. And you can trust me. Every other soul, keep at a distance. They may not have your best interests at heart.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And you do?”
“I’m pledged to your mother.”
“That’s not real encouraging from where I’m sitting.”
The car slows to turn onto a dirt road, approaching what looks like a large construction site. In the dim morning light, I see the outline of a building’s skeleton but nothing that looks remotely like a place to live. I grip the door handle, in case Faelan’s about to bury me in concrete or something. “What is this place?”
“I told you, we’re—” He stops talking and studies me. “Oh, you’re seeing the glamour. This is the Cottages. It only appears to be a construction site to hide it from the humans. Things can get a bit . . . odd around places where Otherborn reside. And the demis appreciate privacy. So they cloak some locations in a sort of false imaging. Give it a second.”
As he’s saying that, everything I’m looking at—the naked metal beams of the skeletal construction, the stacks of pipes and brick—begins to melt, dripping down around me like weird industrial rain on the window, leaving in its wake a curved cobblestone driveway and a three-story mansion that looks like something out of Gone with the Wind.
That’s a cottage?
Large pillars coated in ivy and morning glory vines frame the front porch. There are countless arched windows and French doors on the face, as well as two levels of wraparound porches speckled with potted greenery. Surrounding the house is a whimsical sort of rolling lawn, like an ocean of grass. That’s a crazy amount of watering, but even in the low light I can see how green it all is. There are trees and mossy rocks, flowers sprouting everywhere. There’s even a babbling brook off to the side, ending in a small pond near the edge of the circular driveway.
Holy shit, it looks like freaking Disneyland.
We park in a carport at the end of the long drive, and I open the door slowly. I get out in a sort of trance, surveying it all in the rising sunlight. I step onto the illuminated stone pathway, expecting a rabbit to hop up to me while birds start chirping happily in the distance, singing about the new day or something equally ridiculous.
“Yes, I know, it’s excessive,” Faelan says in a tired voice. “This way.” He leads me down a side pathway along the small brook, through some thin trees, to an iron gate. He opens it and motions for me to walk in front of him. Dim white-blue lights mark the path we follow, through more trees and over flat mossy stepping-stones. It’s like a miniforest on the side yard. I’m stunned by the fresh smells and the feel of the dewy morning air. Then I step past the last few trees and take in the sight of what has to be a dream.
It’s just a swimming pool—I know that as I’m looking at it—but it looks like a lagoon. The six-foot waterfall from the raised spa on the third tier of the yard is surreal, frogs croaking over the sound of the rushing water.
Wow.
The rest of the yard is expansive, tall trees surrounding the pool, like a cove in the middle of a forest. Stone and clover and soft curling ferns create the perfect natural look around the pool. And as we step farther into the space, I notice several wooden lounge chairs and dark wood cabanas that are covered with drooping vines and grapes. Torches illuminate the pathway and create deep shadows, while pale green and blue lights among the trees give it a resort vibe. A forest resort.
“The main house is there,” Faelan says, breaking through my awe. He points behind us, and I turn back to see the large white house looming. It’s just as stunning from this angle—maybe more so. “And the bungalows are this way”—he motions ahead—“up those steps, at the top of the waterfall.” He moves in front of me and walks along the water’s edge. I follow him up a stone staircase to the level of the steaming spa. There are a ton of trees up here too, and another stone pathway that leads into the shadows.
“I’m in the east and you’re in the west,” he says, then adds, “for now.”
He points toward the right to a small structure that’s more like a cottage than the massive thing behind us. It’s something out of a faerie tale, vines growing up the face, and tiny shuttered windows on the facade. A glass-walled patio is attached to the side. It looks like a greenhouse; plants are pressing at the windows and growing out of the top, as if the foliage is bursting through the roof and spilling down the sides.
“How am I supposed to sleep in there?” I ask. “It looks like it’s full of plants.”
“No, that’ll be my bungalow. It’s facing east, see?” He motions to the door, then to the direction it’s facing.
“Oh. How can you even tell?”
“The sunrise?”
And I feel like an idiot. “Right.” I glance at the glow rising over the hills, my eyelids getting heavy. “So which one’s mine?” I’m about to fall over after being awake all night.
“Here.” He starts walking, and I follow him past the greenhouse, around the side. “Your bungalow will face the sunset and the ocean.”
We pause at an archway made of pink climbing roses, and I realize the thick tendrils are framing a blue door. This bungalow is in the Spanish style, with a red-tiled roof and peach stucco walls. There’s a bay window, and just underneath a box planter is overflowing with pansies and morning glories that haven’t opened to the rising sun yet.
“I’ll be sleeping in there?” I ask, suddenly doubting my luck. “It’s so pretty.”
“It’s unlocked,” he says when I don’t move. “You can just go on in.”
I reach out to the doorknob. But before I open the door, I turn back to him. “I need you to make sure Ziggy is okay.”
“The human?”
I nod, thinking of my friend, of her sitting beside me in the orange laundromat chairs the other night and putting Cheetos up her nose to make me laugh. She was a lie. A total lie. But I can’t stop caring that she’s all right.
“Sure,” Faelan says, studying me. “I can check on her.”
“Thanks,”
I mutter, exhaustion finally taking over.
“Just get some sleep,” he says quietly. He reaches over and wraps his hand around mine as it grips the doorknob, then he turns it for me. The door swings open with a soft creak. “Things will seem less overwhelming after some rest.”
I pull away, unsure how to feel about him touching me.
He gives me a small smirk and turns, saying over his shoulder as he heads for the east bungalow, “I’ll be next door if you need anything. And I’ll be fetching you for our first lesson in four hours.”
EIGHT
SAGE
Sleep. It’s barely happening. There was a moment of stillness, when the warmth and comfort of my new surroundings wrapped around me, the poolside waterfall lulling me with its calming rhythm, allowing me to nearly drift off. But then I remembered the last time I fell asleep and woke to three guys gawking at me. And the way I was trapped. And lied to. My whole life.
Eventually, I sit up and scan my new living quarters, which I didn’t bother to look at when I walked in a few hours earlier. I just made a beeline to the couch and collapsed on it, curling myself into the throw blanket tossed over the back.
Now I notice that the couch is purple velvet, soft against my skin. The blanket I was wrapped up in is a pale blue angora, and the throw pillow I rested my head on is delicately embroidered, fit for a queen; it was obviously made by hand. I run a finger over the faded threads and marvel at the detail of the design. Like something out of one of those ancient manuscripts I saw on our school field trip to the museum last year.
I dozed off on that thing. I probably drooled on it.
On the wall across from the couch, where you’d expect a TV, there’s a large painting of a forest with the sun setting behind it—it looks old, some of the paint cracking. The rug that’s covering the dark wood floor under my feet is white and furry. I really hope it wasn’t ever hopping around or anything.
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