by Sierra Rose
Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke
Title Page
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Epilogue
About the Author:
CELTIC EVIL:
A FITZGERALD BROTHERS NOVEL
Roarke
By
SIERRA ROSE
This is a work of fiction & any use of names, characters, places or events are either from the author’s imagination or used as fiction & any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, businesses, establishments, events, etc are totally acts of coincidence.
Special thanks to Tammy Suto for her contributions to this book
Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke
Copyright © 2009 Sierra Rose
Smashwords Edition E-book
Published by Sierra Rose at Smashwords
Front Cover Art © Luca Oleastri from Dreamstime.com
Editor: Megan Cullor
All rights reserved.
For information, contact author at her website:
http://sierra-rose-books.webs.com/
Dedications:
I would like to thank everyone who has helped in the creation, the growth and of course, the magic that is my first book.
My family has always encouraged and suffered through my imagination and the writing that it has created.
Mike and Larry at the shop, who have put up with my crazy life and not picking things up on time. Also for encouraging me finally to pick up all, or most things, Bat-like.
Doug and Lisa who were kind enough to read the first version of this book and not smack me with it.
Bridgid and Lawrence Butler from 13 Moons Magick Shoppe who have been wonderful and so helpful with all sorts of things. Especially if I had questions.
To the folks at the Jefferson County and Martins Ferry Public Libraries who have helped me find the research books to make this book and its series as accurate as possible.
Finally, to my Mother. She has been the most patient and supportive of me in my goal of writing. Even when it keeps me locked away for weeks on end or cranky as a scene doesn’t go right.
May all of you and all that read this series accept and keep the blessings that come your way everyday of the year.
Blessed be.
Prologue
Deep within ancient walls of a stone fortress long thought forgotten, a hand waved over wrinkled and aged paper with text written in a tongue no longer used.
“‘A circle of light, a circle of five. Five into one, one becomes five to unite the circle and protect the light.’”
The hand waved again and pages turned to ash as the man sneered. “Rubbish. All it will take to break the chain is for one to fall.”
Appearing in his sixties with well-kept white hair and healthy for his age, the man walked to a pool of water near a fire. Flicking a hand toward the pool, images formed of the past and present.
“Fifteen mortal years have gone by since the last time I stepped foot from this place, since the last time the circle was almost shredded. My ancient foe gave his life to save it then. This time, will those born from him and his witch have the strength to stop it or will one of them fall?”
Images flashed in the pool before him until settling on five men, all sharing the smoky eyes that came from their father. With a sneer, the ancient witch known only as Sebastian took five stones from his pocket and cast his spell before dropping them into the now swirling water.
“Let us see how strong the sons of Toryn Fitzgerald have become since they’ve been apart this decade and a half. Go, my minions.”
The water boiled and the man laughed as he set in motion events that would kill him or those who he has hated for years.
CHAPTER ONE
Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland:
“I don’t see how you can be so calm. This is the first major rehearsal of the play, in front of the whole drama club,” Molly Jackson, a freshman at Dublin’s Trinity College, complained to her companion as they strolled across the campus toward the outdoor amphitheater.
Originally from New Orleans, Louisiana, but grew up in Boston, the perky, highly energetic black girl with curly black hair and deep brown eyes loved Trinity College and the city of Dublin but had a hard time fitting in a lot of times because she had a tendency to be over-talkative.
It often amazed classmates and teachers alike that her best friend was the young man currently walking along with her as he was a complete opposite in many ways.
“Been there, done that,” Ian Fitzgerald loved the quote he’d heard on television once and loved using it when he could, especially when he knew it annoyed Molly.
At eighteen, Ian was a junior at Trinity since he had entered a full year earlier than most did. Majoring in drama while in college, he often felt he’d been on stage since he was born, and in many ways he’d be right.
The youngest of the singing Fitzgerald Brothers, he’d been on stage with his older brothers at the age of two but hadn’t sang publicly or even been united with all four brothers in fifteen years. Not since the funeral of their parents had he seen all his brothers at once.
Ian didn’t recall his early years or much about his family. His basic memory was of growing up in Dublin with distant cousins Sybil and Brandon Sullivan.
As their only child, he knew he had had more than most and even more than his brothers, so he didn’t question too much.
At 5’6” with wavy blond hair that the sun often turned to a lighter color and reached his shoulders, he was used to the girls at school staring at him. In fact, he was often making his classmates upset by turning away dates but Ian just wasn’t ready for that. He dated when he wanted, did well in his classes and loved acting.
His bright smile and smoky gray-blue eyes were also another plus he knew, but he was happy that Molly just liked him for himself. Ian was also happy that Molly didn’t mind his little eccentricities and understood his need to sometimes talk about other things.
“So, still having the dreams?” she asked after they’d passed a group of students.
Having grown up in New Orleans with a grandmother who was a devout voodoo priestess, Molly understood a lot about dreams and had understood the one thing about Ian that very few others even knew.
Setting his satchel of books down to pick up a fallen feather, Ian sighed. “Yeah, they come every night now.” He admitted his Irish accent was still present even though he could dispel it when he acted. “Don’t like ‘em.”
“Talk to the Sullivans about them?” the girl asked carefully, being careful to phrase that right since she knew that even though her friend had been a toddler when his parents died, he never considered his foster parents as his real ones.
“Nope, they’d never understand.” Ian blew the feather into the air but felt something change close to them. “Sybil and Bran are great and they’ve given me everything I could have wanted but they’re too modern to understand things like that.”
Molly was about to reply when something made her turn to look at the stage, and she barely repressed the scream. “Ian!” she gripped his arm hard but knew already her fri
end was looking.
His eyes had caught something and when he looked, Ian nearly blinked his eyes right out of his head. Staring at the outdoor stage as it burned and his fellow classmates screamed or dropped to roll on grass running red with blood, he stared.
“My God! We have to get…” Molly started to run forward but soon found herself pulled back. “Ian, we need to help them! Get…” She stopped when she had spun to look and saw that her friends’ eyes had gone almost totally to smoke. “Ian?”
“It’s not real, Molly,” he replied quietly, already sure of that even as he felt the pain in his head start to build. “Nobody but us is even seeing that.”
Still not positive, Molly stared harder at the stage but could still only see her friends suffering, but deep inside she could also sense something else. “What’s causing it?” she whispered, looking around but only hearing the loud annoying cawing of a huge bird in a tree not far from them.
Knowing her Irish friend would understand her question, Molly didn’t have to explain it since she was one of the few people on campus that also knew that aside from acting and singing, Ian’s other interest was magic. However, she didn’t know why a Dublin raised boy knew so much or had such interests.
Ian had heard his American friend’s question but was busy fighting the building migraine in his head and trying to ignore the buzzing caw-caw from the bird when the bird’s tone actually changed, yet he realized only he could hear the change.
Looking closer at the bird, Ian’s eyes narrowed as he focused deeper and his hand closed on the claddagh medal he always wore.
Sitting high in the tree while the stage appeared to burn, the bird’s burning yellow eyes seemed to stare into the boy and his caws turned to words only Ian could hear.
“You were born of the Five. Five into one, one to become five but it only takes one to fall and break the circle,” it seemed to crow, the voice harsh as the flames below grew. “It only takes one weak soul to break the chain. Will that one be you, Ian Brandon Callum Fitzgerald? Will it be you who breaks as your worthless father did before you?”
Fingers clenched tighter on the medallion he wore as it dawned on Ian what was causing the vision and probably his dreams of late. Not sure of all the answers yet, he was aware that this bird was a part of it and he didn’t like it.
“Go back where you came from, demon,” he spoke through the loud bird caws, feeling his hand warm on the medal as he threw out his other hand, which had been in his pocket, and the small stone he’d blessed in his mind hit the bird in the chest, and it exploded with a scream. “And leave me alone,” he finished in a whisper.
Staring at where the crow was sitting, Ian finally shook himself back to reality when Molly began shaking his shoulder harder.
“What the hell was that?” she demanded, knowing she’d missed something just by how pale her friend was. “Ian?”
Not sure how to answer, Ian could recall his foster parents talking once about his real parents and the real reason they had died. “Fifteen years is a hell of a long time to keep something at bay,” he muttered looking at his medal and feeling the warmth go through him.
Reaching for his satchel, Ian looked at Molly and read her concern for him. “I need to go, Molly.”
Blinking at his sudden change and never hearing this tone from the usually easy-going Irishman before, Molly frowned. “What? Why? Where?” she asked all in one breath as she jogged to catch back up to him. “What about the play?”
“I have an understudy. Professor Yates can get Willie to do it, and he’ll understand,” Ian replied, not ready to tell her the rest. But if Molly was one thing, she was obstinate.
Stopping shortly from the Administration building, Ian finally sighed. “I need to go to County Kerry to Fitzgaren to see my brother.”
“I thought you were raised away from them.” Molly frowned, sensing his unease. “What happened with the bird, Ian?”
“My foster parents and my Da’s mother told me years later that my parents were killed in an accident on Skelling Michael Island the day they died.” He turned to look at the sky and tried not to consider the pain this was bound to bring.
Molly sat down next to him, frowning. “That’s what the talk around the campus always said.” She blushed when she saw his look. “Your parents did have five famous singing sons so their deaths got some attention, I take it, when it happened.”
“Kerry was the famous one,” Ian laughed then turned serious. “I was about eight, five years after they died, when I heard Sybil and Brandon talking one night. They were concerned about how safe I was since no one knew how long my Da had managed to shield us from the evil that killed him and Mum.”
Thinking on this caused Molly to frown deeper. “Your father died…” She stopped to think of the right word.
“I only know certain things but I think Kerry would know more and that bird’s quoting about ‘the Five’ means something so I need to go find out,” Ian sighed, shrugging. “Worse thing to come out of it is I find out I’m bloody crazy.”
Molly watched her friend leave and knew deep inside that whatever else Ian Fitzgerald was, crazy was not one of them.
Fitzgaren, County Kerry, Ireland:
The Irish town of Fitzgaren, not far from Kenmare in County Kerry, had been named for the first Fitzgerald family that had settled there when it was founded back in the 1600s.
It has always been said that, due to the town’s proximity to the Druid Circle of stones, the land had magical powers. These days most of that talk was only in whispers but the older folk who remember way back when still recall events, still recall whispers and are wary of speaking ill of any of the family, be it living or dead.
Outside of the town proper set the original Fitzgerald home, on the land where a house has always set. This last great house was built some two hundred years prior by Angus Fitzgerald for his young bride Molly, and passed from son to son until finally Sean Fitzgerald and his wife Kathleen took up residence, and then their son Toryn, and finally it was passed to its current owner and sole resident, Kerrigan Fitzgerald.
It was a large three-story manor with over one hundred twenty rooms, many outbuildings and a private stable. The encompassing wooded area had a stone circle of its own and a private cemetery.
The eldest of Toryn and Brenna Fitzgerald’s five sons, it was Kerry’s gift for song that started his life in music. Fabled all over Ireland and the world, he sang with his brothers until the age of nineteen when it all changed with one fateful day.
Now at thirty-four, Kerry mainly kept to himself at the family manor in the small Irish town his ancestors created. He worked private businesses or investments mainly as amusements or to take his mind off troubles, and as he stepped outside to the cobblestone patio that was filled with roses and other flowers planted by his beloved mother and tended to by the housekeeper, he knew trouble was brewing closer than he liked.
A cool breeze blew his stylishly short blond hair away from smoky gray-blue eyes that were also a Fitzgerald trait. Eyes that could go to near obsidian black with anger. They could also go to pure smoke with power that he had trained himself to keep in check.
Pausing to adjust a vase of white roses, he caught his reflection and blinked. He knew he resembled his father with his eyes and face but his light hair came from his mother, as did his temperament.
He was tall at 6’3” with an athletic build that the regular daily workouts kept trim. His tanned face had a strong jaw and a firm mouth that always seemed more serious these days.
“G’morning lad,.” the bright cheerful voice of Deirdre O’Connor spoke from the patio table where the ever-present housekeeper was setting up breakfast.
The short, stocky older woman had been a presence in Kerry’s life since he’d been a baby and since the events fifteen years prior, she’d been even more vital to him.
“Just a guess I’d be eating outside this morning?” he asked curiously, his voice still carrying the accent of his birth even tho
ugh his tone could change easily.
“You always eat breakfast on the patio on Tuesdays, boyo,” she replied, setting glasses of fresh orange juice and strong coffee in front of him. “Just like your Da you are, Kerry.”
Sitting down slowly at this, the innocent comment made him think of the dreams he’d been having and know the inevitable visit from his paternal grandmother was coming closer.
“How much like him am I, Deirdre?” he asked curiously, interest not on the warm breakfast she was serving but on the memories he had of his parents eating on this very patio; too many memories.
Sitting the tray down on a cart next to the table, the older Irishwoman took a long look at this boy she’d helped bring into the world and saw his worry.
Patting her graying red hair as she took a seat next to him, she gently laid a hand on his arm. “Your Da was a great and gentle man, Kerry.” She began easily, a soft smile forming as she recalled his parents. “Toryn loved life to its fullest and he loved his family. He’d be proud of you.”
“Would he be proud that I let her take his sons away?” Kerry countered bitterly; the one thing he hated himself for was also the biggest thing he despised Kathleen Murphy Fitzgerald over, “that I haven’t seen all my brothers together in this house in fifteen years.”
“Your Mum and Da would know if it’s meant to happen it’ll happen, laddie,” the older woman replied, not sure what to say to comfort a man who was like a son to her.
Kerry scowled into his coffee, wishing he could see that clearly, but his gift of sight wasn’t always clear and what it had been showing him these days he could do without.
