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Chapter Four

NIALL O’LEARY

“Every whisper about us tugs at the seams, loosening that fragile boundary. It’s all very dramatic, really. It’s a reminder of an ancient pact nobody quite remembers the terms of. And when the Veil finally gives, like a too-small dam giving way to a flood, the Otherworld folk start slipping through. Not that they ever wait politely.”

Book of Shadows (Tír na ScáilLost History), Forgotten Tomes Archive

A pulse. It thrums through me, setting the beast inside on edge. My teeth ache. The air tastes like salt and storm. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this pull, this… wrongness . It dragged me to that pub last night. It’s led us to a construction site on a cliff, where the wind howls and the sea snarls.

Tomas is next to me, his massive frame hidden behind a stone wall. The damp seeps through my bones. I ignore it. Ahead, the man from the pub—one of the two the priest stopped to speak with—is locked in a heated argument with someone who looks like he stepped out of a boardroom.

Suitman , I decide. His shoes gleam, his hair slicked back like he’s auditioning for a role he’ll never land. There’s something off about him. It prickles at the edges of my awareness, like static in the air before a storm. His energy is... wrong . Not human. Not fae. Just wrong.

The Irishman jabs a finger into Suitman’s chest, spittle flying as he shouts about sacred land and defilement. Suitman’s composure cracks, but it’s not fear in his eyes. It’s colder. Calculated. If he tossed the Irishman over the cliff right now, I wouldn’t be surprised. I might even applaud. The waves look ready for it. I can taste the violence in the air. And part of me hopes one of them goes over. It would save me the trouble. One less knave for me to follow.

But Suitman storms off to talk with one of the workers.

“Well,” Tomas grunts, his voice like gravel. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a prime suspect.”

I don’t bother looking at him. “Since when do humans have enough draíocht to mess with the Veil? It’s not the Irishman.”

“Must be a new trend we missed.” His scarred face twists into something resembling a grin.

“How unfortunate for them.”

The argument carries on the wind. I catch fragments of words like broken glass. Money. Greed. Corruption. It grates against my nerves. Sacred? I sympathise with the angry Irish lad, but…all land is sacred until someone slaps a price tag on it and carves it up. The irony isn’t lost on me, though I doubt either of these fools would appreciate the lesson.

The island is a place that makes you forget time doesn’t stop no matter how much we might want to return to a simpler life. Well, until something like this happens. The foundation is being laid, sticking out like a bruise on the landscape. It’s an insult. I can’t decide if I want to fix it or burn it all down.

The rhythms of the island are discordant. Humans glued to glowing rectangles and endless chatter—it’s all noise . It used to feel like home. Now, it’s like a song out of tune. I can’t shake the feeling that something is coming, and it’s worse than the blight of construction welded in the name of progress.

I’m not the only one who thinks so. The man yelling stands rigid, fists clenched, glaring at the scaffolding like he’s willing it to crumble. I share his desperate need to keep this place from being carved into something unrecognisable.

Gravel crunches. The priest and the woman from last night—Felicity and her friend—join him, voices low but loud enough to carry on the wind. My stallion’s ears twitch.

Because she’s here.

Felicity.

The ceangal sears through my chest, my veins, my bones. A wildfire, burning through every shred of control I’ve held together. The bond is a godsdamned curse—not arranged, not bound by duty or tradition, but by something far worse. Hunger. It hits so deep I want to tear the world apart to keep her safe.

And it’s unbearable.

“This is my brother, Michael,” the priest says, gesturing to the angry man. “And this is Felicity Forrest. She’s the writer sent here to research our púca legends.”

The priest has a brother. That’s relevant.

Michael barely nods, still simmering. “Pleased to meet you. Your timing is impeccable. This resort? Sacred ground.”

“Do you ever wonder if maybe you’ve got too much time on your hands?” the priest mutters.

“We’re inviting a curse. That’s Tuatha Dé Danann land—their mark remains. They sank into the hills. That’s why you don’t touch it. You dig here, you’re disturbing them. And the fae? They take you . Turn your soul into a candle to light their halls forever. But sure, go ahead, build your fancy hotel. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when your workers start hearing the bean sídhe . I’m going to head on now.”

I snort. Sacred ground. The words sit wrong in my mouth, too clean for something so messy. Humans toss them around like zoning designations. Sacred Ground. Industrial District. Residential Subdivision. They forget the layers beneath. The land remembers, even when they don’t. They lay foundations with rebar and hubris, but if the ground is sacred, it doesn’t forget. And it sure as hell doesn’t forgive.

This isn’t about superstition or stones polished smooth by time. It’s about a pact as old as the first crossing between our worlds. Humans took our draíocht . Magic. They bled us for ambition. And we let them. Until it was too much.

They turned away from the land when the pact wasn’t enough to satisfy greed. Hatred for anything different. The Other Crowd. What came after was worse. Encampments. Experiments. Wing clippings. Blackthorn wood. Briar root yew. Iron. Beheadings. Until finally, we said enough. We saved ourselves—and them —from what lies below the Veil, beyond the sea, in the darkness of the Otherworld. They don’t know what’s out there. It slips through sometimes. Dark fairytales. Nightmares. Lore. There’s always a grain of truth.

Michael’s dramatics twist truth into tragedy, but there’s a kernel in it. The draíocht at the pub might not be from the priest. His brother is a better suspect.

I glance at the foundation stabbing into the earth like a wound. The restless hum beneath my feet confirms it.

“Michael has always leaned into the old tales a bit heavily. Don’t mind him,” the priest says with a nervous laugh.

Felicity’s question cuts through the noise. “Are there others on the island who feel the same about this resort?”

Smart woman. Brains, curves, and questions that matter. A rare combination. She doesn’t dance around things, which I respect. These mortals, though—they’re poking a badger and expecting it not to bite.

Sure, resorts mean money, but it’s a funny thing, income. Doesn’t mean much when the land you’re standing on decides it’s had enough of you.

The priest shifts uncomfortably. “Aye, there’s a few that aren’t too fond of the idea. Believe me, I had to get used to the thought of relocating my church.”

“Why do you have to relocate?” Felicity asks, her voice snagging on the air.

She’s stronger than most fae I’ve met. It’s unsettling how easily she uses mindspeak, like it’s merely another tool in her arsenal.

The priest gestures at the stone church stubbornly clinging to the hillside. The building looks like it’s been here forever and will still be here long after the scaffolding has rusted into oblivion.

“Aye, the developers bought it, but they paid enough for me to build another.”

The priest and his brother? Are they the ones screwing with the Veil? Together or separately? I’m not sure which one I trust less, but maybe I’m wrong.

“This isn’t far from where Jenna took the picture of the púca,” Felicity says, nodding towards the woman. “We went there this morning. Nothing but fog and sheep.”

“The púca ride at night,” the priest says.

“Well, I’ll be going. I have to pack since I leave tomorrow. Good luck,” Jenna says with a wave.

I lean against the stone wall, concealed by its bulk. I guess some locals still remember a thing or two about the fae. Good for them, I think, a faint sneer twisting my mouth.

Daylight…always a trial. Shifting under the moon’s light isn’t merely easier. It’s almost a kindness compared to the searing agony daylight brings.

“I’d like a word with the owner,” Felicity murmurs to the priest, but I can hear them from here. Perks of being fae.

“With pleasure,” the priest says, leading the way to Suitman, who’s concluding a tête-à-tête with a worker.

My inner beast recoils. Suitman’s too-perfect polished finish feels like a mask stretched thin over something monstrous. His seemingly normal eyes hold a strange hollowness, making my skin crawl.

“What can I do for you?” Suitman asks, his shadow stretching long across the ancient stones.

The priest introduces Suitman to Felicity as one called Archer.

Felicity disarms him with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “My readers are dying to know what haunts your cranes and cement mixers.” Her pale hand waves toward the site, impossibly ivory. Like moonlight made flesh.

Suitman flinches, guilt or discomfort, I can’t tell which. But I note it, the way a predator stalks its prey.

Her hand lands on his sleeve. Territorial possessiveness twists in my chest.

Gods, I’m fucking obsessed with her. Every minute of every godsdamned day, every breath between heartbeats. I dream of her in the night, in waking visions that tear at my sanity. She. Is. Mine. The beast inside me bares its teeth, promising violence. I will rip his heart out and feed it to the tide.

Tomas’s voice cuts through the red haze. “Planning to duel for her honour?” His tone drips with equal parts amusement and warning.

Bastard.

I turn my glare on him, voice dropping to a growl. “I need to talk to her.”

Tomas grins. “Aye, I bet you do.”

“Keep her friend entertained for a while.”

Tomas shakes his head, sea spray glistening in his dark hair from his run earlier. “And how do ye propose I do that? She nearly jumped me last night. It was all I could do to fend her off.”

“Take her to the beach. Willweave her, if you must.” I wave dismissively. “How you do it doesn’t matter. I’ve got business with her .”

“I know it’s been a while since you’ve gone beyond the Veil, but a woman could get the wrong idea about a beach,” Tomas says drily.

“Stop being a pain in me hole. It’s a bunch of dirt,” I snarl, the beast pacing closer to the surface.

“‘Bunch of dirt,’” Tomas repeats with a snort-laugh. “Right. Maybe I should give her a box of candy while I’m at it?”

I ignore him, focusing on Felicity. The site’s shadows seem to reach for her, hungry things recognising their own. Wait… They stretch high above Archer, as if he’s a lodestone for darkness. But why?

Archer’s voice breaks through my haze. “Tools move. Messages carved into the foundation.”

“What kind of messages?” Felicity asks.

“‘Leave here. The fae will come for you.’ It’s harmless.” Archer smiles, but there’s a viciousness in the corners of his mouth. “Probably, someone trying to tell us they don’t want us here. They didn’t need to carve it for me to figure that out. Almost everyone has welcomed us.” Archer shifts his gaze to the priest when he says ‘almost.’ “This will expand tourism and bring revenue to the island.”

He could’ve meant the priest’s brother, Michael. They’d been at each other’s throats earlier. Felicity catches it, too—knowledge flashing across her face before she schools her features back to neutrality.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Archer,” she says, extending her hand.

“My pleasure,” he replies, taking it.

“Come on.” I move towards a gap in the ancient wall, stones worn by centuries of salt wind. “Be inventive. It’s not for the sake of small talk. I need to know more and she may have answers.”

“Don’t start any brawls over misplaced affections,” Tomas quips.

I ignore him, walking towards the group, boots crunching against the gravel. Felicity turns, her gaze catching on me. My beast perks up at her pulse quickening, a staccato beat enough to distract me.

She won’t remember our ride, that much I’ve made sure of, but at least she won’t be mad at me—for now. She may look soft, but the fire in her could leave a man singed if he steps too close. I see the spark, the potential for inferno, and a cruel impulse takes hold. I want to control that fire, to watch it dance at my will, even if it burns us both in the end.

And then, for a moment, I see them. Horns. Faint and shadowy, tips curling like indigo smoke before vanishing. What the fuck? My steps falter, the memory of the Obsidian Court pressing at the edges of my mind. It doesn’t make sense. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, the Other Crowd loves its secrets.

I swallow hard, brushing off the chill creeping up my spine. There’s no time to unpack what that means, not yet. The horns and shadows and mindspeak don’t belong, but the fire? Oh, that fucking fits. It’s a power I recognize, a game I intend to win.

Time to see if she can handle the heat of a fae—a púca—on her trail. And while she’s trsing to catch me, I'll be busy claiming the prize. Her.