Using my powers is a little easier now, and much more fun. I discover that the limit of the transport power is about 30 miles, like the Far Darrig said. And I have to know where I'm going and have intent to be there.
The pixie location power is the same way— I need an image of what I'm trying to find, and the intent to find it— no spell required. I can use my powers of dance anytime, too. But to use the concealment power, or to affect others with my dancing, I have to speak in the Old Tongue.
One day, I try out the leprechaun illusion power with Arden. First, I find a photo of a kid— a boy about ten years old. When she comes back to the apartment after filling her car with gas, I'm sitting on the couch, holding the boy's image in my mind and willing myself to look like him.
She drops her purse. "Who are you?"
"Yes! It worked!" I jump up and do a victory dance.
"Kid, I don't know what you're doing here, but you need to leave. This is a private apartment."
"Arden, it's me." My voice sounds like my own, and she relaxes.
"Aislinn. How are you doing that?"
"Leprechaun power. Apparently I can look like a kid if I want to, as long as I have the image of a real kid in my mind. Like that'll do me a lot of good."
"Actually, it could be very useful anytime you want to go out without being recognized."
"Yes, but if I'm not with an adult, someone will probably call Child Protective Services on me. So, limited usefulness."
I drop the image of the boy and my intent to look like him. "Am I myself now?"
"You can't tell?"
"No. When I'm holding the illusion and I look down, I still see myself like normal. In the mirror, too. I guess it only works on other people."
"There's another problem," says Arden. "You're much too tall. I don't think it changes your height, just your looks."
I remember the leprechauns, biking after me wearing the shapes of children, except with extra-long legs or arms. Since they were short by nature, they could pull off the kid illusion better than me.
To test my theory, I try the illusion again with the photo of a baby. The instant I do it, Arden starts laughing. Really laughing, like I've never heard her laugh before.
"It looks like someone took a baby and stretched it like taffy," she says, gasping for breath. "I wish you could see yourself!"
"So I guess that power is practically useless."
We try again with more photos, including adults. Apparently the cutoff age for this illusion is puberty; if I try anyone older than that, nothing happens.
"Boring." I throw myself on the couch. "At least we know what to do if you ever need a good laugh."
The only other powers I have are the voice power from the Far Darrig and the strength of the fenodyree. One night, in the parking lot, I try out the strength thing on Arden's car. I nearly wrench my back, and nothing happens. Nothing at all.
Then one day, while I'm vacuuming, I decide to get all the corners and spaces, even under the couch. I'm scooting it out of the way when I have an idea. I start saying all the Old Irish words I can remember that have anything to do with strength— neart, tionchar, neart fisiciúil— and when I get to láidreacht for "might," I lift the entire couch off the floor with minimal effort. I still can't lift a car, and the exertion makes me unusually tired, but it works. One more power, locked and loaded.
Life is good.
And then.
21
BAD
Zane
Last big project, turned in. Last major paper done. Almost there.
I'm late leaving school—things to finish up. No work tonight though, just time with my friends and Aislinn. She's so pumped these days, like getting out of that house just freed her soul. No more talk about magic, or the red Irish guy— none of that. Her and me, we're good.
I'm thinking about her as I take the school steps three at a time, down to the sidewalk. My Ford pickup is one of the last in the lot, except for a couple of school staff vehicles.
I pull my keys out of my backpack, give them a toss, and spin on my heel— I'm feelin' good. Time to go meet my girl.
But when I round the truck, I see a dude leaning against the driver's side door. Real tall, lanky type, with black jeans and a red jacket.
A red jacket.
It doesn't mean anything. This can't be the same guy, this is someone else.
But I know it's him, because right then I recognize him. Gatsby, the donor from prom. And then I remember the guy in the alley, the one I pulled off Aislinn the night of the concert.
So he was messing with her even back then. She never connected those dots for me.
My jaw tightens. Okay, he wants to do this? Here we go.
"Hey man, that's my truck. You lookin' for a ride?" I ask.
He's been watching me this whole time. He knows that I know.
"No ride. Just— conversation."
"I don't think you and I have anything to talk about."
"I think we do." His eyes narrow, like he's getting real serious. "Where's Aislinn?"
"You don't have her number?"
He laughs, shakes his head. "She forgot to give it to me."
"Okay, okay. I see. You know, I think friends usually exchange numbers, or emails, or something, right? You guys friends?"
"I thought so."
He actually looks sad about it. I don't have pity for him, though.
"A'right, well, maybe I can help you out, man," I say. "I'll tell Aislinn I saw you, and then if she wants to get in touch, she can. That fair enough?"
"So you'll give her a message? From me?" He pushes himself away from the truck. His hands are in his pockets and he looks relaxed; but something about him makes me back up a step without thinking about it.
This is the guy who messed with Aislinn. Called me, with her voice, and said that stuff I'll never get out of my head.
"Sure," I say through clenched teeth."I'll give her the message."
"Then you tell her," he says, starting a slow, circular walk around me. "That her things are at my place whenever she wants to come get them. That I really enjoyed our little trip to Georgia together. And tell her— " He pauses right behind me and says in my ear, "Tell her that I can still smell her on my sheets."
I've gotten into one fight in my life, and it was in third grade. My parents talked to me afterward, told me I had to learn to control my anger, that life was worse for kids of my color who couldn't hold back their fists. So I learned. I never hit another human again.
This guy's not human.
The punch I land in his throat is worthy of Iron Fist. I think he expected me to go for the face. He chokes, unable to breathe for a minute— poetic justice for a guy who uses his voice to play cruel jokes.
I follow it up with a hard kick to his gut, and I'm about to swing around behind for a chokehold when he whirls and karate-chops the side of my neck. I see stars blinking black and white, swimming through my vision; but I grab him in a hold all the same and hang on, grinding down, trying to cut off his air. He throws himself backwards with a lightning-fast jerk, and because my footing isn't stable I fall too, my head striking pavement.
He's out of the hold, eyes blazing, panting, and feeling his throat with one hand while the other is up, ready to block whatever I throw at him next.
I'm up, too, bouncing on my feet, fists ready. "Give it up, old man. I'm stronger."
"I'm quicker," he says hoarsely.
I dive in from the side, then switch it up at the last second and land a punch to his ribs. I'm out of striking range in the blink of an eye. "Quicker, huh? Doesn't seem so."
"Much as I would love to continue this, I just don't have the time." His voice is getting stronger. He says a string of words that sound like Aislinn's spells— oh damn.
I'm asleep before I even hit the ground.
22
CENTURIES
Aislinn
When I meet up with the others at the bowling alley, Zane isn't there. He doesn't show u
p after an hour, or another. Or a third. And he doesn't answer his texts or calls.
Frank says, "Maybe he's got a new chick," and I kick him hard.
"Julio, has he texted you?" I ask.
"No, girl. Not for days. We see each other in class, though. He was fine— had to stay late to finish some stuff, but he was coming straight here after." His forehead is furrowed; he's worried, and Julio never worries. "Maybe he got into a car crash. You know the interstate, it's terrible, just terrible. Crashes all the time, cop cars, fire engines— I see it almost every day."
"Julio!" snaps Laurel. "You're not helping."
"Laurel, anything? Mike?"
They shake their heads.
I'm starting to get scared. A car crash would be bad enough, but there are other possibilities here, dangers they know nothing about.
Maeve must have found him. And if she's found him, she's going to get our location out of him somehow.
I have to go talk to her.
"Guys, I need to go," I say, gathering my phone and my bag.
"Aislinn, if we can help—" Laurel begins, but I cut her off.
"You can't. But thank you."
The minute I step outside into the dark parking lot, I vanish.
When I reappear, I'm standing on the long driveway to the Korrigans' house. My house. Lights glow from the windows of the great room.
Someone's home.
Taking a deep breath, I steel myself. I have to be strong. They can't keep me here, not now, not ever. I know a couple of protection spells now, wards against binding magic. I speak them quickly, drawing the Celtic knot Arden taught me over my chest with my fingers. It should be enough to keep off Maeve's binding spell.
Slowly I walk up to the door and knock.
Magnolia opens it. Her hands go to her mouth, and she backs away. Is she afraid of me? For a second I understand why the Far Darrig likes to be feared. Fear is power.
I stride into my old home. "Where is Maeve?"
"Here." She stands, silhouetted in the light flowing in from the great room. "So. The traitor returns." As I expect, she says the binding spell immediately. There's a faint buzz over my skin, but it dissipates.
I shake myself. "That tickled."
"What kind of abomination are you?" Maeve draws herself up to her full height. "Gillian, come. I need your help with a binding."
I can't fend off two of them at once, so I speak quickly. "Where is he? I know you have him."
"Who?"
"My— friend."
"She means her lover, the human," says Gillian. "We don't have him here, you little fool."
She seems to be telling the truth, but I don't believe her yet. "Maeve, tell me where he is, or I swear I'll tear this house open with my bare hands." I could probably do it, too. The fenodyree's powers haven't made me lift-a-truck strong, but they would definitely help in a fight, or a demolition.
"Now where have we heard that threat before?" Maeve looks around in mock confusion. "I know— from the lips of the Fear Dearg, about seven days ago. "Imagine my surprise that the two of you were acquainted."
"What are you talking about?"
"The Fear Dearg, the Red One. He was here a week ago, demanding to see you. He thought we had you imprisoned."
"What did you say?"
"We didn't speak to him," Maeve says coldly. "I haven't laid eyes on that worm-traitor in centuries, but he's the same filthy, mewling, lying trickster he always was. Not worth speaking to."
"Not worth spitting on," adds Gillian.
"Maybe worth looking at," murmurs Gemma. "And strong with magic, too! We could barely keep him out of the house."
The Far Darrig came here, faced Maeve, just to find me?
"He made us use filthy magic in our own home," says Maeve. "That, I cannot forgive. When you next see him, tell him that the truce between us is officially over. Now get out, before we bind you again."
"Not without my boyfriend."
Maeve smiles, haughty and cold. "We don't have him. Perhaps he thought better of being the plaything of the Far Darrig's slut and left you."
"Láidreacht!" As I say the Irish word for might, I lift the console table and throw the whole thing at her. Maeve sidesteps just in time, and it crashes into Gillian instead, knocking her over in a pile of wooden legs and splinters.
Maeve and Magnolia and Gemma rush at me, mouths open to speak spells; but I'm gone before they can finish a word.
I flash into the parking lot of the corner store, the spot where I first saw Zane. If he's not with them, where is he?
My pixie powers. Why didn't I use them earlier? Stupid, stupid! I was so sure the Korrigan had taken him.
I've never tried combining my pixie instinct with the leprechaun transport power before— but if I'm ever going to attempt it, now is the time.
I close my eyes and leave my mind as blank as I can, except for Zane's face.
Suddenly, into my mind pops an image of the old mill. The haunt of the leprechauns, the spot where the Far Darrig made me drain the pixie.
Of course. The leprechauns.
Suddenly I'm even more terrified for Zane. Those little pustules are beyond reason, beyond anyone's control except the Far Darrig— and he might not call them off if they tried to kill Zane.
I need to find him.
From here, the mill is near the edge of my transport radius, but I make it there, to the spot where Arden and I went through the fence. I worm my way through the gap, nearly ripping my shoulder on the jagged edge. I've gotten hurt so many times in the past couple months— I can't wait to find a Fae with healing powers, or invincibility. Or night vision.
I pull out my phone for light and sling my bag over my head and one shoulder, cross-body style. Quietly I creep across the yard, stepping over broken bricks and smashed glass, to the door and pull it open. It squeaks just as loudly as last time, and I cringe. Might as well yell "Hello, everyone! Here I am!"
I half-expect the darkness beyond the doorway to be teeming with leprechauns, but aside from a strong stench of unwashed bodies, there's no sign of them. Shining my phone light ahead and shuffling forward step by step, I keep Zane's face in my mind, tapping into the pixie instinct.
"Aislinn! Help me!"
It's Zane. His muffled voice is coming from a dark room to my left.
"Zane!" I duck through the doorway and shine my phone inside.
Nothing. The room is completely empty, except for a half dozen very large roaches, bodies gleaming in the light as they scuttle away.
I whisper-shout his name. "Zane!"
"Aislinn, I'm here." It seems to be coming from down the hall now. Maybe I misheard it the first time. Halfway down the hall, I freeze as Zane's voice comes from just behind me in the dark.
"Aislinn." I whirl around, but the hallway is empty.
"Far Darrig," I whisper.
He's here. He knows I'm looking for Zane. And he is behind all of this.
"Na dean maggadh fum!" I cry out, my voice trembling. Do not mock me.
Maybe it's a spell, or maybe he decides to take pity on me. Either way, I hear no more voices as I move forward.
Stay calm. Focus on Zane's face. You have to find him.
Down a hall, up some stairs, and some more stairs. I seem to be heading to the big room where Arden and I met the Far Darrig last time. Why, why, do I have to go back there? I can't help seeing the pixie's lifeless face, her soul wiped out of her body, her Life-Stream ended. The Life-Stream I'm carrying now.
For a second I pause. I can practically taste the bitter guilt, and the pixie's face is crowding out Zane's. I'm alone, bowed with shame in a cold, dark stairwell. Alone in the dark, again.
Misneach, I whisper, the word for heart and hope. Neart istigh, inner strength. I don't know if the words have power or not. But I'm half-Korrigan and half-Druid— I should be able to craft myself a darn courage spell.
I don't really feel any braver, but I keep going anyway. Up another flight of steps. Down the hall. There a
re the doors to the large room, and yes, light glows behind them.
What will I find? If it's Zane's body, carved up and stripped of his Life-Stream like my parents, I will never get over it. I will kill every remaining leprechaun on earth, and I'll save the Far Darrig for last.
My hands are shaking as reach for the doors.
"Allow me." The Far Darrig steps out from the empty space beside me and reaches past me to push open the door. "Thank you for coming. It's been a while."
He looks just as beautiful as always, except that there's an odd bruise on his throat. But his eyes are icy, and his tone is cold, harsh. Nothing warm or sultry about him now.
I stand still as he holds the door. "What are you doing?"
"Playing a game," he says. "One I learned from you. A game of hearts."
I cross my arms and frown at him. "This is about you and me."
"What else?"
I walk through the doorway, mostly to find out if Zane is in the room beyond. There he is, lying on an old piece of carpet. With his face smooth and relaxed, he looks like a handsome sleeping prince.
"He's all right!" I rush to him, kneel beside him, and gather his hand in mine. Such a strong hand. He could have beaten the Far Darrig in a fight. I glance back, at the bruise on the Far Darrig's throat, with fresh understanding. Clever Zane, to go for that spot first and cut off the Far Darrig's voice.
"You're a coward. You know he could beat you in a fair fight."
"Maybe," says the Far Darrig, walking closer to us. "But it's better for him to sleep. You and I need to talk."
I rise, standing as tall as I can to face him. He's still at least a head taller than me.
"You left," he says, "without a word. Without thanks, without warning, without explanation. I thought you'd been taken. I thought the Korrigan had you imprisoned again. For days I searched for you— sent the leprechauns everywhere, hired a pixie— though they're getting awfully skittish these days. No luck finding you. Finally I had to admit the truth to myself. You weren't just hiding from the Korrigan; you were hiding from me."
Korrigan (Secrets of the Fae Book 1) Page 22
