Forever.
TWENTY-SEVEN: CORBIN
What
the
FUCK?
TWENTY-EIGHT: MAEVE
“That was one sexy dream last night,” Flynn grinned, as he slid into his seat at the breakfast table.
There was a bit of a breeze outside this morning, and some ominous grey clouds, so Rowan had set up breakfast in the slightly less formal dining room near the kitchen. Today’s delights included two loaves of fresh-baked seedy bread, spreads, cheeses, and salami and pickles Rowan had made himself. It was amazing, and it all tasted like cardboard because I was too busy trying to hide my flaming face from the guys.
“Let’s not talk about it,” I mumbled, stuffing my mouth full of bread and trying not to remember what it felt like to have Flynn’s cock stretched against my lips.
“There was another dream last night?” Corbin said, his voice impassive. “I’m sorry I missed it. Pass the cheese.”
“You should be, mate.” Flynn waved the wheel of brie under his face. “It was something special. All five of us and Maeve. And you and Rowan shared a particularly steamy kiss. I must say, I don’t swing that way, but in the heat of the moment you too locking lips was fecking hot.”
CRASH.
“Sorry,” Rowan whispered from the doorway. A pitcher of orange juice lay shattered at his feet. “My hand slipped.”
“Were you in this dream, Rowan?” Corbin said. “Or was this supposed kiss all Maeve’s depraved imagination?”
“Hey,” I piped up. “I resent that. I may be depraved, but I am a scientist. I don’t have an imagination.”
“Rowan?” Corbin tilted his head to the side.
“I … er … no … I was down here, baking bread.” Rowan bent down and started collecting the pieces of glass. His dreadlocks fell forward, hiding his face.
“I’ll help,” Corbin slid his chair back and bent down beside Rowan. As soon as his hand touched the first piece of glass, Rowan leapt up. “I’ll get the brush and shovel,” he whispered, darting off, leaving a trail of sticky orange juice footprints on the flagstones.
I didn’t instigate that kiss. It wasn’t part of the fantasy. One of the guys must have done it. But if Corbin and Rowan were both awake, then who—
I realised then something I should have seen right from the start. Jane had seen it. She’d told me about it and I’d laughed it off, but she was right. Rowan was into Corbin. Everything, from the way he talked about Corbin with such reverence, to how he acted when I first told him I’d slept with Corbin, fit into place.
Rowan was lying about being in the dream, of that I was now certain. He returned then with the brush and shovel. I tried to meet his eyes, to let him know that while Flynn was an insensitive twat, I wouldn’t reveal his secret. It wasn’t mine to reveal. But of course he wasn’t looking at me.
Flynn was still talking. “—the best dream I’ve ever had. I’ve never done anal before, but that arse was so bloody tight, it was like a protestant’s purse strings—”
Arthur’s face flashed. “Bloody hell, Flynn, could you be any more crass?”
My face flamed. “Remember, they’re just dreams. They don’t mean—”
“They mean you’ve got a filthy mind, dream walker.” Flynn grinned. “Can you dress in a Catholic school uniform next time? Be still my wee Irish heart.”
“I’m sorry.” My face was on fire. “I didn’t mean to make everyone uncomfortable—”
“Don’t apologise. I thought the human world was going to be boring as fuck,” Blake shovelled another forkful of cheese into his mouth. “Your dreams remind me of the best parts of the fae realm.”
“I need to go into the village,” Corbin said. “I ordered some books about fae magic from one of the local occult stores, and they phoned to say they’ve arrived.”
“Are there books on magic that you haven’t actually read?” I asked teasingly, grateful for the change of subject.
Corbin shrugged. “Scholars in other countries have made studies of the fae, especially in the black forest area of Germany and in Scandinavia. If there’s anything about the Slaugh or fae magic that can help us, we have to try.”
“I have to pick out a gown for Connor’s baptism,” Jane frowned, as she tried to get Connor to eat a spoon of pureed carrot.
“You could get a new dress, as well,” I suggested.
“Only if it says ‘VILLAGE WHORE’ across the chest,” Jane said. “Good boy, Connor! Eat up.”
“I can’t believe Dora said those things,” Corbin said.
“I can,” I said. “We freaked her out the other day, and we never even gave her an explanation.”
“Agreed, but to jump from that to property vandalism and an actual witch-hunt seems a bit extreme. I’ll try to talk to her today, see if I can straighten her out about us.”
“We should go back to see Sheryl, too.” Jane said. “Maybe she knows of some other unbaptised children in the village.”
“And we need to get Jane a key cut for the castle,” I added. “And Blake, too.”
“Why don’t we all go to town?” Flynn said. “I could do with a break from that pox-ridden library, and I feel an overwhelming urge to go to the pharmacy and stock up on lube—”
“Flynn, shut up,” I moaned.
“And maybe we could even take Blake to the pub—”
“Pub, pub, pub!” Blake pumped his fist in the air.
Corbin sighed. “Fine. You’re right. A trip into town might do us all some good. As long as you promise not to mention this dream any more.” He glared at Flynn. “I don’t want to hear about all the filthy things I didn’t actually get to do.”
“If you say so, lover boy,” Blake drawled, swiping a scone off Corbin’s plate.
Corbin gave Blake a weird look. I sank down in my chair, my ears glowing and my body tingling from the memory of last night. I guess at least now I know whose cock was where.
***
“Here it is.” Corbin stopped in front of a shop called Astarte, and pushed open the door.
We’d been in the village for nearly two hours, but hadn’t managed to achieve much. Trying to keep Flynn and Blake on task was like herding cats. If I wasn’t trying to stop Flynn from loudly proclaiming to everyone in line at the pharmacy exactly why he was buying seventeen tubes of lube, then Corbin was trying to explain to Blake why his human physiology wouldn’t support him eating two beef vindaloos in one sitting. At least their antics had Arthur and Rowan laughing as we raced around the high street trying to keep up with them. Finally, Corbin wrangled them to follow us to the key cutter and bookshop by promising the pub visit would follow.
As soon as I crossed the threshold of Astarte, a wall of incense hit me, assailing my nostrils with musky scents. There was barely room inside the cramped store for me and Jane and Connor’s pram and my five guys with their bulky shoulders and heavy boots. Arthur didn’t even get through the door before he tripped up on a buddha statue and got his beard tangled in a dreamcatcher. “I’m waiting outside,” he declared.
It was just as well, because there was so much stuff he could have broken. Two ornate tables in the centre of the room held stacks of books whose covers featured raven-haired women gazing reverently into cauldrons or pools or crystals. A selection of teacups covered in what I guessed were divination symbols were stacked on the ground in front of the counter, which was crowded with racks of pewter gothic jewellery and crystals. Bookshelves buckled under the weight of Egyptian figurines, pillar candles decorated with odd symbols, crystal pyramids and wands, and astrological charts.
I was about to make some disparaging comment about astrology when my eye caught a display of geodes by the window. “Wow,” I fingered a particularly magnificent geode that glinted in the dim light like Blake’s eyes.
“Is this a first for you, Einstein?” Flynn asked, rearranging two Egyptian god figurines so one looked as though it was shagging the other from behind. “I didn’t expect you to find anything you
’d like in a shop like this.”
I nodded. “There was one of these shops in Phoenix, near the diner my family used to visit. I walked past it a couple of times, but my parents would never allow us to go in. Honestly, I never much got the appeal of all this stuff. It’s just a load of New Age nonsense—”
“That may be so, young lady, but that nonsense will give you a world of trouble if your skepticism scares away my customers.”
I whirled around, and found myself looking down at a tiny witch. At least, I assumed she was a witch, because she was practically the textbook definition. The lines on her face mapped out a life well-lived and much enjoyed, framed with a head of waist-length jet-black hair that could have come straight out of the pages of a fashion magazine. She wore a black dress with flouncy sleeves that flared out in a circle as she walked, and a black-and-gold shawl hugged her narrow shoulders. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence, and though she had her arms folded and one hip stuck out to the side as though she were angry with me, she was smiling.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean—”
Please don’t turn me into a toad.
The woman waved a hand. “Don’t fret, my dear. If I turned every person who scoffed at my wares into a toad, I wouldn’t have a business. I’m Clara, by the way.”
Wait a second … “How did you know what I was thinking?”
The woman winked. “You’re the scientist, dearie. You figure it out. Now, if you could spare your young man for a moment, I could use some help in the storage room. The delivery man put his rather heavy books up on the highest shelf.”
“Of course, Clara.” Corbin went off to help the old woman, leaving me pondering what she’d said. She literally just read my mind. I guess this means we’re not the only witches in Crookshollow. Why wasn’t Clara part of our coven?
“This place is far out.” Flynn held up a book with a lurid cover of a woman being kissed and fondled by two men under the full moon. The cover read Sacred Polyamory. “Check it out, Maeve.”
My cheeks flared as last night’s dream flickered across my memory. “Ssssh. You want to get turned into a toad?”
“Hey, live dangerously, I always say.” But I noticed Flynn put the book down.
“Maeve, look at this.” Arthur said, thrusting another book under my nose.
I glanced down at the image, expecting to see another woodcut of an orgy. Instead, my mother’s eyes stared back at me from the page.
TWENTY-NINE: MAEVE
“What is this?” I breathed, taking the book from Arthur and holding it up to the light. How could my mother’s face be inside a book?
The page was a colour plate of a painting, done in a similar style to the one at the castle, but instead of lying in the meadow, she was seated in the chair. The darkened background behind her suggested the shelves in the library. Her red gown brought out the luminous quality of her skin. Her hand rested against her breast, fingers turned to display the citrine ring in its full glory. The identical pendant and circlet adorned her neck and forehead.
“Isn’t it enchanting?” Clara asked, her tiny head appearing at my elbow. “She’s so commanding, like an ancient Celtic goddess. I can see why Smithers painted her so often, although she always used to say sitting still for hours was a frightful bore.”
I jerked my head up to face the old woman. “You knew Ailene Moore?”
“We were friends of a sort, as much as anyone was friends with Ailene. She was a force of nature, slave to none but her own whims. I happen to know that about five minutes into this sitting she compelled a flock of jaybirds to settle on the artist’s shoulders.” Clara tapped the page near the edge of the canvas. “See that smudge? That’s where one jaybird pooped, and he never bothered to fix it properly.”
I laughed. Something about this sprightly old lady put me to ease. I found myself saying. “Ailene Moore was my mother.”
I expected Clara to react with surprise. Instead, she just stared at me with those intelligent eyes. “I know, dear. I knew it as soon as you entered the shop.”
“How?”
“That face, those eyes … you’re pure Ailene,” she studied me intently. “But there’s something else … something I haven’t seen before …”
“A handsome Irish fella?” Flynn popped up hopefully.
She laughed. “No, something about you, Maeve. Your father wasn’t human, was he?”
My mouth hung open. What is going on here? “How did you know that? And how do you know my name?”
“Oh, that isn’t such a mystery. I’m friends with Sheryl Brownley, who was in here yesterday bursting with the latest gossip. The Forsythe girl went to see the vicar, and she had the pink-haired girl who owns Briarwood with her. I’m guessing that’s you and that you’re now twenty-one years old.”
Something occurred to me. “You know about me inheriting Briarwood?”
“Of course. In a small town like this, it’s all anyone can talk about. Why, I was at the pub the other night and Dora Roberts was shooting her mouth off about your lovely boys being Satanists and you some kind of demonic Jezebel.” Clara cackled. “It’s nice to hear some young witches shaking things up around here again.”
“Did you ever meet my mother? She used to live in Briarwood. Or my father, since you seem to know what he is?”
“I never knew your father. I don’t think anyone in the village did. But of course I knew Ailene. My son Ryan actually owns the estate bordering Briarwood, as we had dealings. She and her coven fetched their supplies from my shop. Why, on several occasions, they even called me up to the castle to help them with some of their rituals.” Clara studied my face again. “There was much talk of what happened to her daughter after she died. Judging by that accent, you’ve been a long way from home.”
“I’m back where I belong now.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’d love to talk to you about my mother, if you would be okay with that?”
“Of course, dear. I’m an old lady. I don’t have naught to do but talk.” Clara’s eyes sparkled, and I found myself liking her intensely. “Now, was there anything else you wanted me to ring up?”
“Yes.” I held up the biography of Smithers. “I’ll take this, please.”
“And?” The glint in Clara’s eye brightened.
“And … er …” I grabbed Sacred Polyamory off the shelf and slid it in underneath the other book. “That one too.”
“Excellent choice.” As she shuffled back behind the counter to ring up my purchases, Clara looked from Flynn and Blake to Corbin, then back to me, and winked.
***
“I’ve dreamed of this day.” Blake slid into a stool at the Tir Na Nog pub, his face a picture of happiness. Even though Blake was raised within the fae realm – where the nectar wine made him violently ill – he still had an Englishman’s love for a pub. Or, at least, the idea of a pub, since he’d never set foot in one before until now.
“And ye can keep on dreaming.” Neale appeared in front of us. Instead of her usual flirtatious smile, her mouth was set in a thin line. “I’m nae allowed tae serve you a single pint. You lot have tae leave. You’ve been barred.”
“What? Since when?” Flynn looked horrified.
“Since the boss’ wife put her foot down.” Neale shrugged. “Apparently, she’s on the church committee with Dora Roberts, and all the old biddies have their knickers in a twist about you lot putting a hex on Dora. Apparently, we dinnae serve witches.” Her expression showed she thought the whole thing was ridiculous, which was nice, but not exactly helpful. “An the girl with the babe is barred, too, only that’s on account o’ her being a hoor—”
“Okay, we get the point,” I fumed. This is Dora’s doing. Going after me and the guys was one thing – it must have been terrifying to have that fae inside her head, telling her to hurt people she cared about. But turning the whole town against Jane just because of her thoroughly legal (I looked it up) profession was pure evil.
If Dora’s crusa
de stopped Connor’s baptism, then he wouldn’t be safe from Daigh when he came for his sacrifices, and no way in hell was that happening.
“This is ridiculous,” Flynn cried. “I’ve spent my hard earned money in this place for years. My drinking put the landlord’s son through four years at Exeter. I’m not leaving this stool.”
“It’s fine.” Rowan stood up and slid toward the door. “I’ll make us lunch at home.”
“It’s not fine,” Blake pouted. “I didn’t come all the way from one Tir Na Nog only to be turned out of another.”
I could see the landlord in the kitchen. He turned at the sound of Flynn and Blake’s protests. I grabbed Flynn’s collar. “Don’t make trouble for Neale. This isn’t her fault. Come on, we’re not staying where we’re not wanted.”
The Castle of Water and Woe Page 18
