"Julio told me you decided to walk to the bus station alone," says Zane after we are a little distance away.
"Yeah, it was dumb of me. Just like those girls in movies who think they can walk through alleys at night and be just fine, and then they get jumped. But I thought I would be okay, you know? It's not that late, and it's still light out— it wasn't dangerous. And he wouldn't have really hurt me, I don't think. Just wrong place, wrong time is all—"
"Aislinn!" He stops and puts his hands on my shoulders. "Take a breath."
I suck in a long breath and let it out again. "I'm really fine."
"Sure." We walk for a few more minutes. "Why didn't you wait for me?" he asks. "I was coming back. I could have gone with you."
"I got a text from home," I say. "They wanted me to come back right away."
"The bus station is closed anyway. We'll have to call you a lift."
He walks me back to a more well-traveled street and waits with me until the car comes. Like some kind of old-school gentleman, he even opens the car door for me.
"You gonna be okay?" he asks.
Probably not. "Of course. I had a really great time."
"Me too." He's looking at me, not at my eyes but at my mouth. Suddenly I realize that I can't handle it if he kisses me now, not after what the Far Darrig just did.
"Good night!" I say, and jump into the car.
He looks surprised, but he waves as we drive away. And a few minutes later I get my first text from him.
A simple "Good night."
◆◆◆
The big, beautiful house looms up out of the darkness as the driver rolls cautiously to the end of the driveway.
"Wow, nice place," he says.
"Not so nice as you might think." I pay him, and then I walk toward the front door, feeling like somebody walking to the gallows. Gillian has told me about seeing hangings and beheadings in the "good old days" when they lived Europe. She described the atmosphere with great gusto, from the stench of the bodies in the crowd, pressed together, craning for the best view, to the intonations of the priest, to the shrill protests of the doomed, to the sickening crack of a broken neck or the wet thump of the axe through flesh.
I suppose it was the Middle Ages equivalent of going to see a horror movie.
The front door is unlocked, and I slip into the dark entry area quietly, hoping to scope out the situation before Maeve confronts me.
No such luck. The overhead light flashes on, and there she is, tall and pale and forbidding, with her fierce blue eyes focused on me. She's wearing long pin-striped pants and a cream-colored blouse; even in the evening, I've never seen her wear anything less formal than business attire.
"Where were you?"
"Out with friends."
"So Gillian tells me. A whole crew of them, apparently."
"I just wanted—"
She holds up her hand. "Stop. We'll have no discussion of this tonight. Go to your room, and we'll talk about it in the morning."
My fists clench. I want fiercely to defy her, to protest; but I know better. When I was little, and I was too loud or too annoying, Maeve would send me to my dungeon early to teach me a lesson. Other times, she would take a tall, highly polished walking stick from the downstairs closet and have Gillian whip it across the backs of my legs a few times. An old-fashioned method, barbaric as the Korrigan— but effective. I learned quickly not to cross her.
Instead of saying anything, I content myself with stomping up the stairs as loudly as I dare and slamming the door to my room. For a minute I'm terrified that she'll come after me. But she doesn't.
Once I feel calmer, I rehash the night's events. The band downtown, and dancing with Zane. The Far Darrig, and his kiss. He said he gave me an ability— the ability to imitate voices?
I'm not sure how to tap into it, if it's even real. I try speaking in a lower register, and I just sound stupid. Maybe it has to be someone's real voice.
I think about Magnolia's voice, her motherly tones, with an adopted Southern drawl. Suddenly I feel something— a slight shifting in my throat. I put my hand on my neck. Weird.
Still thinking about my memories of Magnolia's voice, I speak. "Good morning, Aislinn."
Oh my gosh. I sound exactly like her. This isn't just imitation— it's her actual voice, coming out of my mouth.
I try again, this time with Arden's clear intonation and clipped style of speaking. "Aislinn, do your homework."
This is insane. Scary. I'm completely freaked out, and I'm not doing this anymore. Whoever that weirdo was, he doesn't have the right to going around giving people magic powers by kissing them.
No, I need to focus on more urgent, more important things. Like how I'm going to convince Maeve to let me keep hanging out with Zane and his crew. I'll have to postpone my major freakout about my new powers until some other time.
For the next hour, I pace the floor of my room, thinking and re-thinking what I'm going to say to Maeve in the morning. Planning different approaches, anticipating her responses. Which strategy might persuade her to let me keep seeing my friends? I have to keep seeing them— him.
The next morning, I'm up early, nerves taut, ready with my carefully prepared, highly strategic speech. "Why I should have friends," by Aislinn Byrne.
I arrive downstairs before Maeve does, so I decide to unload the dishwasher for Magnolia.
"So, how much trouble am I in?" I ask, as I stack the clean plates on the shelf.
"That's not for me to say," Magnolia replies, without looking at me.
"Don't you think I should be allowed to have friends? I mean, I have days now. I can at least pretend to be normal."
"I'm not getting between you two, Aislinn," Magnolia says. "It's not my place."
Bang! I set a plate on the stack harder than I mean to. "What's that supposed to mean, it's 'not your place?' You're not a servant, Magnolia."
Magnolia turns to face me. Even though it's early, her frizzy red hair is already escaping the bun she put it in this morning. Her cheeks are flushed. "Aislinn, we've come a long way. We've changed over the centuries— we had to. But some things never change. And one of those things is the way we Korrigan relate to each other. We are not equals. Never have been. And when I say it's not my place to come between you and Maeve, that's exactly what I mean."
"Fine."
This is what I dislike most about her. This willingness to subjugate herself, to back down, to submit, to be ruled and lorded over. Never once did she protest Maeve's treatment of me, not in my seventeen years. She would occasionally fuss at Gillian for being harsh, but never has she criticized Maeve in word or deed.
It drives me crazy. And it makes me throw out all the conciliatory phrases and soft words I had planned to use on Maeve. Now I'm angry, and I'm ready for a showdown with My Freakin' Lady of the house.
I'm almost done putting away the dishes when Maeve appears. And then I have to wait even longer while she eats breakfast and checks her email.
Finally I walk up to her. "May I speak with you?"
She doesn't even look up at first. I wait.
After a few minutes she says, "Come to my office."
Her office is on the first floor, at the other end of the house from the great room and kitchen. To get there, we walk past the basement door, past the entry hall and the main staircase, through the formal dining room. The office has two doors— one through which we enter, and another to the left which I assume is a closet, though I've never seen it opened. It's secured with three big, old-fashioned locks and covered in engravings of symbols and Celtic knots.
The room is sparsely furnished in mid-century modern style. Hardwood floors, a patterned rug, and a desk, sofa, and chairs all with neat, spare lines. Sometimes, Maeve hosts clients here— I suppose the extra seating is for them.
On her desk there's a succulent plant in a trim little pot, a brass lamp, a clear acrylic tray for papers, a mercury glass holder for pens, and a white computer. The large windows are dresse
d in white blinds and nothing else. On the walls are framed black-and-white photos and sketches— a rocky cliff, a clockwork butterfly, a series of stones jutting out of a pool, a staircase, a feather, and a tree with a network of roots to rival its branches.
Under my bare feet, the woven rug is a little rougher than I would like; but the room smells faintly, pleasantly floral.
Maeve goes behind the desk, sits in her chair, and watches me.
I feel like fidgeting under her stare, but I make a conscious effort to stand still, straight, and tall.
"Did you have something to say?" she asks.
Is she expecting an apology? "You said we would discuss it. My going out with friends last night, I mean. You said we would talk about it this morning." A clumsy start. I need to do better.
"Yes," she said.
"Is that a problem? I'm allowed to have friends, right?"
"Do I need to remind you who you are?"
"What I am, you mean? No, you don't. But I have days now. That means—"
"It means precisely what I allow it to mean. And I will not allow you to jeopardize the privacy and safety of this family."
"I would never tell my friends anything about it."
She smiles, bitterly. "Your mother said the same thing to me, years ago. And then she played us false. Gave away her secret for cheap romance. Where is she now, Aislinn?"
"She— what does that have to do with this?" I suddenly remember the conversation between the Korrigan the other morning.
I took care of Fiona and her lover, Maeve had said. What happened was her fault; she broke the agreement. I told her not to interfere in his business.
When she said it, I thought she just meant that she took care of the bodies and the funeral, after my parents died. Now, the phrase "I took care of Fiona and her lover” takes on a whole new meaning in my mind.
"What did you do?" I can barely form the words. "Did you— did you kill her? My mother? Just because she fell in love?"
"What?" She actually looks shocked. I have never seen her look like that, and it startles me. "I, kill your mother?" she says. "Foolish child! Stupid, ungrateful girl!"
She comes around the desk and steps toward me, rage burning in her eyes. For a minute I think she's going to slap me. I clench my hands tighter. My nails dig into my palms, and the pain grounds me, helps me think.
"But the other morning, when we saw the news about the babies being kidnapped— you mentioned someone else. Was somebody responsible for my mom's death? And my dad's? Was there really a fire?"
Her lips tighten so the words barely escape. "There was a fire, but they were already dead."
You lied to me. "Then how did they die?"
Maeve sucks in a breath through gritted teeth and walks swiftly away from me. She does this whenever she is angry— as if putting distance between us will keep her from hurting me with more than her words.
"Why do you want to know? What good will it do for you? How will the truth change your life?"
"I just— I need to know."
"Need." She laughs harshly. "You are too human. Too young. You know nothing of need."
I have to know. I have to make her tell me. How? How can I coerce a two thousand-year-old Korrigan to give up the truth?
It comes to me in a moment— and I don't hesitate, even though it's a cruel thing to do. I call up the memory of the few videos I have seen of my mother. I fix on her voice, purify the memory, and draw on my borrowed power.
Maeve's back is still toward me when I speak.
"Tell her what happened, Maeve." I use my mother's cool, precise tones.
Maeve whirls, white-faced. "What trickery is this?" she gasps. "Foul faerie magic! Na dean maggadh fum!" I recognize the ancient charm for repelling a trickster.
She crosses the room and seizes my throat, muttering more ancient words for uncloaking a trickster. I can feel the buzz of magical power in her long white fingers. Her spiked ring presses painful and cold into my neck, hitching on the little gold necklace with the red stone.
Maeve stares into my eyes for a few moments, then releases me, as if she's satisfied that I'm not an immediate threat. "How did you do that, child? Speak in her voice, like he does?"
I almost tell her, but instead I blink innocently and say, "Who?"
"The Far Darrig— the Red One,” she says. “The ancient goblin of Magnolia's tales. He speaks in the voices of others, makes the sounds of the world. Don’t you remember?" Her voice rises in frustration. "How are you doing this?"
I shrug my shoulders.
She stares at me, trying to pierce my mind. I keep my eyes wide and innocent.
"Strange," she says. "We must discover the cause of this."
I'm losing her attention— she's too distracted by the gift. "Please!" I catch the edge of her sleeve as she turns away. “Please tell me what happened to my mother."
For a minute I think she is going to refuse; but she stiffens her shoulders and speaks, woodenly, without emotion— or perhaps with emotion that she has buried so deeply it looks like apathy.
"When your mother met your father, she decided to leave us, as you know. They went away to a town out in Texas. But shortly after they arrived, your mother sent word of several stolen infants. These kidnappings were too careless to be the work of the Korrigan; our kind no longer steals the babies themselves, only a portion of the lifeline. Your mother suspected something evil at work.
"She knew about the Far Darrig and his servants, the leprechauns, who steal babies and gorge themselves on golden years. I told her that she and her human must have settled in his territory unknowing, and I ordered her to leave. The Korrigan have an unspoken pact with the Far Darrig; we do not interfere in his takings, and he leaves us alone. I warned her not to pursue him. Of course, she did not listen.
"You were only a baby then; you had not yet reached your twelve-month, when your Beast would manifest for the first time. I suppose your mother feared for you; the Far Darrig has an appetite for children touched with magic. Whatever the reason, she did not listen to my warnings. She and your father went after the Far Darrig.
"A woman brought you to us a few days later, along with your birth documents and your belongings. She told us that your mother and father were dead— an accident. Of course I went to their little town and checked the story. I saw their bodies myself. Your father's lifeline had been pulled from the root, and your mother's body had been wrecked and ruined by the claws of something unnatural." Her voice is cold, but the twist of her mouth tells me that retelling the story does pain her.
I am breathing fast, and the tears won't stop coming.
"Why? Why did you lie to me?"
"It's not as though you didn't suspect it," says Maeve. "I believe you knew that the story of the fire was a cover."
She's right, of course. I have always thought there must be more to the story. But my theories have all been far from the truth.
"I didn't tell you because I know how foolish the young are," she says. "Everything seems so important and so irresistible when you're young. Pain, sorrow, anger, love, revenge— they are emotions too powerful for you to handle. I didn't want you to spend your early years thinking of the Far Darrig, or trying to plan some sort of pitiful vengeance. He would crush you, as easily as Magnolia's knife crushes a clove of garlic."
I picture the broad side of Magnolia's big knife, pressing the garlic till it split, juices oozing from its broken form. That's what the Far Darrig will do to me, she says. Only he hasn’t.
"There's one more thing you should know, while we're truth-telling," says Maeve. She doesn't look at me. "Your mother's alias when she died was Fiona. But the name I gave her, long ago, was Findabair. She was my daughter."
And she sweeps out of the room, as my reality suddenly shifts and jolts into place. Findabair— Maeve's daughter, my mother. Maeve isn't just my guardian; she is my grandmother.
I don’t know why she didn’t tell me. I don’t understand her at all, and I don’t wan
t to. I only want to get away from her— from all of them. Liars and strange beings without hearts! How could I have ever thought that I loved them?
Furious, I race upstairs to my room and lock the door. Even when lunchtime rolls around, I don't go downstairs; I don't want to see any of them. I watch episode after episode of one of my favorite shows, trying to forget what I know now— but every time the topic of family comes up in the show, my eyes sting and my heart swells up with anger till I feel like it might burst.
Finally, about halfway through the afternoon, I realize that I can't stand it any longer. I have to get out of here.
I find my phone and pound out a text to Zane. I’m probably being needy and clingy, but in the moment, I don’t care. I just need someone who’s not a Korrigan— someone who is normal. Normal and sweet and so wonderfully human. It's Saturday, so he doesn't have school, right? Maybe he's free.
"Bad stuff at home!" I text. "Can I hang with you?"
He answers within a minute. "Sure. Pick you up at the store."
A sigh of relief escapes me as I grab my jacket and dash out of the house. No one sees me leave, and I’m at the store in ten minutes.
Zane pulls up in a beat-up Ford pickup, which looks like a chariot from heaven to me. I swing up inside.
"You good?" he says.
I bite my lip and nod. Don't cry, don't cry, don't be an idiot! "Can we drive a while?"
"Sure," he says; but just then his phone buzzes. "It's my mom— she needs me back home. I— uh—" He clearly doesn't know what to do.
"Of course, you have to go to your mom," I say. "Can I come along?"
He stares. "You cool with that?"
"Are you?"
"Yeah, I'd love it! I mean— she's a little—"
"Hey." I put my hand on his shoulder— and I can't help but notice the swell of muscle under his T-shirt. "Right now, I'd rather hang out with anyone but my family. And I'm sure your mother is lovely."
He grins. "Buckle up, girl."
We drive in silence for a minute. Then he says, "Couple things you need to know. My mom's a teacher, and she asks more questions than an FBI agent."
"Okay."
"I'm just gonna apologize in advance for anything she might say to you."
Korrigan (Secrets of the Fae Book 1) Page 7
