Page 14 of Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance #2)

The next day, we’re not due to leave for Belfast until after lunch, so I spend the morning filling up the notebook Colm gave me. I don’t use the ones Loch left.

But I use the pens.

C’mon, they’re cushion grip. I’m only human.

I stay at the desk in my suite rather than trek down to the library. Because it’s comfortable.

Not because I’m a coward.

I also don’t turn on my phone.

Again, because I am definitely not a coward.

I’m just, like, conserving battery life or some shit.

Only I finally do have to turn on my phone when Iris, Coal, and Hex are supposed to show up, and I gotta face the results of my dumbass text last night at some point.

There are no missed texts from Loch.

I open the thread with him. The message I sent last night is read. Unanswered.

Fuck this guy.

There’s a bunch of shit from Coal and Iris—Iris has been counting down by the half hour for the past three hours like we haven’t seen each other in years. But this is the first time we’ve all hung out since before my Christmas love declaration, isn’t it? So maybe it is a big deal.

Wren sent me some more tabloid links. Less than after the race because nothing scandalous happened at the music festival, but these articles are markedly less clickbaity. They talk about how Loch spent most of his time with a few different musicians, and one reporter uncovered that many of the new artists were there because Loch arranged it. There’s not a whiff of negative speculation to be had, no mention of Loch screwing anything up. No mention of me yelling at the paparazzi either.

One article ends with a question. What else has Prince Lochlann been doing behind the scenes?

I switch back to my text thread with him. Still nothing. Has he seen these articles? Does he care? Why do I care, if he’s such a stubborn asshole?

Fuuuuuuuck.

I tear through my suitcase and throw my anxious energy into looking as dead sexy as humanly possible. There’s one shirt in particular I’ve never worn because the innuendo is a little much even for me, and it’s the tightest thing I’ve ever bought—a sizing mistake, actually—but it’ll show off every muscle in my chest and arms.

Not that I’ve taken interludes from writing this morning by doing impromptu push-ups in my room.

There’s a lot of denial floating around.

I tug the shirt on. It’s bright cherry red. With a candy cane in the center. And the words I’ll Lick It For You.

I start to pull my hair up, but then leave it down so it hangs past my jaw. My black jeans are appropriately tight, too—I want this fucker to suffer.

But that’s all I can do. I’m not as into styling as Coal or Iris, so I stand in the bathroom and survey myself and hope it’s enough to make Loch stew, because I know whatever he wears is going to make my inner thoughts be the equivalent of a keysmash.

My phone buzzes, rocketing my heart nearly out of my chest, but it’s Iris.

If Loch hasn’t responded to what I said by now, he isn’t going to. Just. Accept that.

PEEP, MINI CANDY CANE, AND THE BEST CLAUS

IRIS

WE’RE HERE GET YOUR ASS DOWN TO THE FOYER

I grab my coat and race out the door. I have no reason to be nervous. But if Loch is down in the foyer first… or, god forbid, Siobhán…

It feels like two worlds are colliding and the idea of that fallout is terrifying.

In the foyer, Coal, Hex, and Iris are there with Colm.

I should have asked Coal and Iris to dress me. Hex, too. They’re all decked out as befitting a night of pub hopping in Belfast. Iris is in a sequined purple dress with knee-high boots, heels so sharp I legitimately fear for her ankles; Hex is in one of those corset vests that Coal will not shut up about; and my brother has chosen to wear gray on gray with a gray scarf, understated but giving appropriately pub-happy vibes.

While I’m in jeans and a T-shirt, the fuck was I thinking?

Iris squeals and jumps on me. Colm excuses himself from talking with Coal, who then leaps into the hug, nearly shoving us all to the floor.

My chest releases, stress unable to keep its stranglehold on me with them around.

“Good god, you guys, it’s not like I’ve been off at war.” I’m grinning as I disentangle from them. But I have missed them—I’ve missed this, this easy friendship.

I nod at Hex, who looks potently relieved not to have been part of the tackle-hug situation.

Iris hooks her arm through mine. “Based on your texts, I wouldn’t be so sure. It’s been a bit of a battlefield here, hm?”

“Battlefield?” I blink innocently. “What? No. All I do is lay around and drink whiskey and regret it immediately. It’s been smooth sailing—”

“Kris! Introduce us!”

Finn and Siobhán are at the threshold of the hall. Siobhán is dressed similar to Iris, in a short pink dress and boots, while Finn is in ripped jeans with a thick black sweater sporting strategic holes to show a shiny silver tank underneath. Her more casual outfit helps balance out the scale of fashion on my side and I relax a little.

Until she eyes me, head to toe. “I see why you called in reinforcements now.”

My eyebrows slide up. “What?”

“You’ve given up your sham of professionalism and need someone else to represent your Holiday.” She waves at my shirt.

Siobhán elbows Finn. “Be nice. Kris, you look”—her veil of cordiality wavers—“very, ah, comfortable.”

“We’re going pub hopping. It’s hardly—” But I stop.

Finn’s right.

We’ll be photographed; I’m here as a guest of St. Patrick’s Day.

And I’m wearing a shirt with a blowjob joke on it.

Finn catches the horror my face must show and bursts out laughing.

My jaw drops. I don’t think I’ve made her laugh yet. At least, not without an underlying air of murder. Even Siobhán gapes at her.

“Christ, you’re easy to rile.” Finn slaps my shoulder. “It’s funny. If people canna handle your shirt, they definitely canna handle today’s aspect of our Holiday. Getting proper shitfaced. Keep your depraved clothes.”

Siobhán rolls her eyes. “Make up your mind whether you’re plotting his grisly end or accepting him. I canna keep up with your mood swings, Finn.”

She ignores Finn’s responding mew of offense and turns to the group behind me.

“Welcome to Ireland!” she says brightly. Iris is closest, so Siobhán grabs her in a hug. “I’m Siobhán. That’s Finn.”

Am I imagining the way Finn’s face is red? It wasn’t red when she was laughing at me. So—

She does not go in for a hug with Iris like Siobhán. She extends her hand instead, board-stiff. “Ah, yeah. Easter? Iris Lentora?”

Oh.

Finn is blushing.

“Yes.” Iris accepts Finn’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Finn shakes her hand.

Again.

And again.

Iris squints at her.

Finn drops Iris’s hand and leaps back like she saw a mouse. “I, er—”

I wave at Coal. “And this is my brother, Coal, and Hex, from Halloween.”

Finn cuts her eyes to me in a look of bare relief at the shift in focus. It damn near makes me jump spastically too, but I smile at her.

Siobhán hugs them both, and even Hex relents at her effusive joy.

As the foyer fills with the jabber of introductions, an out-of-place jolt rushes up my spine, hips to hairline. I turn, seeking it out—

Loch is off to the side of the hall’s entrance, arms folded, a bag hooked around one wrist. He’s in another Aran sweater, this one a deep blue that sets off coppery undertones in his hair and beard.

Goddamn those sweaters. Like he’s a sexy, mysterious lighthouse fisherman.

I catch the pulse of him checking me out too, but his face sets with an intense throat-clear before I can figure out his reaction.

Everyone pivots to him with such a myriad of various intentions that I’m shocked he doesn’t tip over.

Siobhán rushes to him. “This is my brother, Loch—oh, you brought it! Excellent!”

She takes the bag from him and pulls out—paint bottles?

To my confused look, Loch’s eyes glimmer with mischief, finally a little more like himself.

“You did na think you could go to Belfast without being proper done up, did you?” He nods around the room. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you all.”

I point at everyone mechanically. “Coal. Hex. Iris.”

Loch smiles at each of them. Stops on Iris.

He swivels back to Hex and, in an awkward burst, tells him, “You lot owe your Holiday to us.”

There’s another beat of silence.

Hex cocks an eyebrow.

“St. Patrick’s Day started Halloween?” I clarify.

Loch clears his throat again. “Ah, no—Ireland. Originated in the festival of Samhain.”

Hex appraises Loch, letting the moment stretch in silence again. I can’t help thinking Hex is fucking with him on my behalf, and my chest warms that for all the ribbing Hex and I give each other, he’s got my back.

Finally, Hex smiles. “I’m not surprised you know that. We have started to bring the roots back into popularity, but most people still don’t know of Ireland’s influence. There is credit due to Scotland and England too that we—”

Loch frowns. “Pardon?”

Hex’s eyebrows lift a tad too naively as he says, “Well, Samhain is not solely Irish, is it? It’s Gaelic, and extends into parts of Scotland, England—”

“ England? ” Loch licks his teeth. “Go way outta that. Halloween came from Ireland, lad. Those other bits are poor imitations.”

In the midst of this, Coal sidles up to me and nudges my arm. One look, and he doesn’t even have to ask it. You all right?

But I don’t want to—can’t—answer here, so I nod at Loch and Hex now debating England’s contributions to Halloween versus Ireland’s. “You’re not going to defend him?”

“Nah. He’s hot when he gets all fired up over his Holiday.” A pause. “Hex, not Loch.” Another pause. “Although—”

“You sure you’re okay to be away for the evening?” I cut him off. “No pressing winter collective business?”

Coal snorts. “Oh, the other Holiday leaders insisted I leave. They all wanted a break too. Apparently—get this—I’m a workaholic. Me. Mister Barely Maintaining a C Average. The other leaders demanded a break from the, and I quote, obnoxiously thorough meetings. ” He’s grinning. “They’re great people. This collective’s going to be fun.”

My smile is true and glowing. “I’m glad you’ve found your calling, Santa.”

He shudders. “That still sounds wrong.”

Hex is beaming in his innocent yet maniacal way, and Loch laughs, mildly horrified, so this feels like as good a time as any to think about something else.

“Okay.” I clap loudly. Siobhán has finished laying out the paints on a side table and I motion to them. “So—are we doing arts and crafts or what?”

Loch pivots to the paints. “Belfast is basically a precursor for the big Dublin parade in a few days, so you gotta go all out.” He picks up a jar of orange paint and a small foam brush. “Face painting. You can tell how good a time you had by how fucked up the paint is at night’s end.”

Iris bounces. “I’m in!”

She joins Siobhán at the table and picks out colors. Finn trails her like a puppy; I honestly have no idea who Finn even is now, her whole demeanor all soft and wilted.

Coal loops his arm around Hex’s waist. “I’ll paint you if you paint me?”

Hex hums uncertainly. “I am not sure I trust you not to paint something obscene on me.”

“I’m happy to do it for you both,” Loch says. “Kris can attest. I know my way around a paintbrush.”

“I haven’t seen you use a brush,” I note. “You know how to use your fingers, though.”

I hear what I say as I say it.

Mixed panic and horror knot in my throat and my gaze collides with Coal’s. His face takes on a look of such bliss, oh the gift in the euphemism buffet he’s been given.

To my eternal surprise, my brother tips his head demurely. “Thanks, Loch. But why don’t you help out Kris?”

That is definitely not the worst thing he could have said, yet it shoots that panic-horror mix down into my gut.

Coal drags Hex to the table, promising none too convincingly not to debase him.

Loch’s eyes are on the floor by my shoes. “It does na need to be elaborate. A few strips of orange and green, you’re good.”

“Are you sure you want us doing this? Doesn’t it feed into assumptions about your Holiday you want to undo?”

Loch looks at me. A quick impact, emotions rapidly flickering over him, surprise and gratitude, then it all dissolves in a small grin.

“This is na an assumption about my Holiday. It’s just become one of the biggest parts. It’s still an aspect I will na deny.”

“Yes, I can see how it’d be heartbreaking not to celebrate the impending headaches and projectile vomiting.”

“That’s only you, boyo. Some of us know how to drink good and proper.”

I smirk. I can’t help it. “Piss off.”

When I reach for the jar and brush in his hand, he waves me away.

My stomach tightens. “I can do it myself.”

“Nah. You don’t know how to use your fingers.”

Heat bursts over my face. And I so badly want to say you have no idea what my fingers can do.

“Just hold still, ya eejit.” He pockets the brush, opens the jar, dips in a finger, and glides paint across my cheekbone before I can object. Not that I would have.

I stop moving. Stop breathing. Held there with his finger on my face, the hand with the jar propping under my chin and angling me up to him. I stare at his eyes even though he’s pretending to be focused on getting more paint, putting a second stripe under the first.

I wrote so many things about him in that notebook upstairs. I wrote and wrote and I could recite it to him now. Would it help? Would it change how he sees us? But my brother and Loch’s sisters are giggling over paint behind us, and my throat goes dry.

“Are you going to let me paint you?” I ask. It comes out rough and low. “It’s only fair.”

Loch hesitates, muscles stiffening up his arm, in his neck. “I, eh—I will na be coming with you tonight.”

My lips part, brows scrunching in confusion.

Siobhán hears him. Finn too. They stop what they’re doing and frown, and I’m staring up at him the same, three fronts of unspoken questions he responds to by swapping the orange paint for green and working on my other cheek.

“What are you talking about, deartháir?” Siobhán asks.

Iris, Coal, and Hex are working with the paint, but they watch us none too subtly.

Loch exhales like he’s preparing to free-fall out of a plane, and the rush of air makes the paint drying on my skin contract, a jerky spasm of sensation that scrapes along my nerves.

“I have guests coming tonight.” He finally looks at Finn and Siobhán. “Aislin. Tadhg. Eamon.”

Those names mean something to them. They gape at each other, then back at Loch.

“You invited them here?” Siobhán asks.

“Who?” I look between them all.

“They’re each the head of a branch of our Holiday,” Finn tells me, her eyes on Loch, analytical.

Loch invited his court here?

Relief fizzes through my chest in a geyser burst. He’s going to show them what he’s been doing. He’s going to explain to them how wrong Malachy has been about him.

He’s finally taking charge of his Holiday.

Loch’s face is an odd, sickly mix of pale and red.

Siobhán tosses a paint bottle back on the table. “When are they arriving? We’ll go change to—”

But Loch holds up his hand. “No. Go out to Belfast. Keep the schedule. This is—it’s na a—” He falters, mouth opening and shutting, before he swings his attention to Coal and Hex—and me, briefly.

He stands straighter. “I’ll be talking to them, then they’re off, probably to Belfast too. It will na be a long meeting. So go, have a presence there. I’ll handle this.”

Finn and Siobhán stare at Loch in concern, excitement—and anger, from Finn.

“You were na gonna tell us?” Finn hisses.

“I just did.”

“At the last fucking minute.”

Loch turns back to me, adds another green stripe to my cheek like nothing’s wrong. “It’s na a big deal. You’ve been wanting me to do stuff like this, haven’t you? So let me.”

Finn glowers at the side of his face before she rejoins Iris at the table, obviously ignoring her brother now. Siobhán follows, glancing back at Loch once or twice like she wants to argue, but she holds her tongue.

“You invited your court here,” I whisper.

Loch’s fingers twitch on my face. He purses his lips. “Do na talk. You’ll wreck the paint.”

“You invited them here,” I say again. I have to, I have to make him feel this.

I smile.

Loch flinches, eyes cutting across the millimeter of space between his fingers and my lips.

“Do na look so smug,” he mutters, but there’s no annoyance in it, just a choked yearning I think he meant to cover up.

It damn near kills me to ignore it. “Are you kidding? The mighty Lochlann Patrick listened to me. My face might be stuck looking smug forever.”

“It was na you. ” He shifts uneasily. “Finn’s been getting on my arse about all these same things for years.”

My smile goes sly. “But why’d you do it now? What made you finally reach out to your court?”

Loch doesn’t speak. He screws the lid back on the paint jar and studies the marks his fingers left on my face.

His eyes go to the small bandage on my forehead. The reminder of my fall.

With a grimace, he ignores my question. “Be careful tonight, yeah? No more injuries.”

“Worried about me?” My smile’s failing so my words come out coarser than I mean.

Loch flexes his hands on the jar, veins bulging in his wrists, up the backs of his arms where his sleeves are rolled to his elbows.

He looks in pain.

Siobhán bounds over. “You ready? Look at you, Kris!” She touches the drying paint on my face.

She has a messy shamrock on one cheek. Iris has stripes that vaguely resemble the Irish flag. Coal and Hex have matching bands of orange and green that run from ear to ear across their noses, and Finn has a single thick band of orange down one side of her face.

I honestly don’t even know what Loch painted on me. I don’t care.

“We’re driving?” Siobhán asks—with a pointed look at Coal. “It is a trek—”

“Ah, Siobhán, no—” Loch starts, but she’s pouting at my brother, who is obliviously looking down at Hex, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear.

“It’s not every day we have such esteemed guests with transportation magic,” she says, loud enough that Coal does hear.

“What now?” he asks, and I step in.

“We’d be happy to get everyone to Belfast,” I say. That much magic won’t break us.

Coal blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah! Christmas is more than pleased to extend this offering as thanks for St. Patrick’s Day’s invitation to—”

“Don’t overdo it,” I cut him off.

He shrugs. “Hey, I’m a diplomat now—you can’t shut that shit off. Loch knows what I’m talking about.”

Loch seems stunned that Coal is joking with him. “It’s hard to live a split life.”

Coal conjures some mistletoe. As he approaches the nearest door to set it up, I stay with Loch. Siobhán does too; Finn’s the only one who keeps her distance.

Siobhán squeezes Loch’s arm. “You’ll let us know how it goes, yeah? Do na make me pull it from ya.” She pauses, and her joy falls. “You owe us that at least. We could’ve helped. We’re in this too.”

Loch wilts. “I know.” He yanks her into a hug, face resting on her shoulder. “I know, deirfiúr. I did na mean it as a snub. I—”

His eyes hit mine.

“I owe it to you,” he whispers to her. “To fix what I broke.”

She pulls back and swats him in the chest. “You broke nothing, Lochy. This is all Malachy and his shit.” She smiles, happiness and sunshine again. “Now go and show them how great you are. Go and show them how worthy you are.”

One half of his lips tips up. “Thanks.”

She winks at me as she slips over to grab her coat off a wall hook.

Loch stuffs his hands in his pockets, tension winding between us, within us, a rebound of unsaid words and unfelt emotions.

“You are,” I tell him, throat welling, “worthy of this.”

Even if he’s the one stealing from Christmas. Is that where his reticence is coming from? Or is it just who he is, someone incapable of accepting praise?

Regardless, I’m not going to make room for his discomfort. He’s going to know how great he is if it kills him, because even if he is the thief, I’ve seen why he had to steal from us. It doesn’t make it okay, but it makes it understandable.

Expectedly, Loch cringes and drops my gaze.

“Enjoy Belfast,” he says, then he’s gone, hurrying up the hall.

My heart does a hard twist, lurching me forward a step.

But Coal’s next to me, and he throws his arm around my neck before I can do something stupid, like run after Loch. “Don’t let him sour your day. We’re here, and we’re going to have fun. ”

The Belfast street where Coal takes us is packed, old black cobblestones crowded with people just like us, faces painted, but taken further too—massive green hats and shamrock headbands and bright green coats. Storefronts around us are mostly pubs, doors thrown open and various bands competing for airspace with screaming fiddles.

This seems to be the epicenter of the festivities, which is why it isn’t surprising when the Holiday paparazzi find us after about twenty minutes of walking around. I clock them snapping our pictures, but I don’t feel that usual twist of offense or repulsion. What will their speculations be about why Loch isn’t here?

Siobhán and Finn transform into our tour guides—Siobhán willingly, Finn halfheartedly, still upset about Loch, but she at least seems distracted by Iris. We start at one pub and let the night carry us up the road, from bar to bar to a brief stop at a street vendor for flaky beef pasties, then back into it, until it’s a fog of music and laughter and bodies getting progressively looser.

Which is how we end up at one pub that’s playing the greatest hits of Irish musicians, and the crowd belts out each one like singing is giving their livers a pep talk. There’s a giant chunk dedicated to The Cranberries, and Iris downright screams when they start playing “Zombie.”

I’ve lost track of how many glasses of whiskey she’s had—she’d make Loch proud, honestly—but she jumps up from her chair at the table we’ve crowded around and sings alongside most everyone in the pub. Siobhán joins her, and Finn sits there and laughs and takes video blackmail.

Coal and Hex are making out. Unsurprisingly. Coal isn’t even drunk—he doesn’t really drink anymore since Hex, and I think he’s the only one clocking that I keep ordering soda. But with the night wearing on, they’re fully consumed in each other as the band croons about what’s in your head, in your head, zombie-ie-ie ohhhh—

I cup my hands over my mouth and whoop up at Iris and Siobhán as they screech the chorus, and I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much, this deeply.

Iris grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet. “I know you know this one!”

So I join in, arm in arm, and Finn catcalls us, and for a moment, I feel like I’m watching myself from far away. The noise of the pub fades to a droning hum and everything slows way down, like moving through molasses.

I don’t know where to start with fixing my internal mess. Or if I’ll ever be able to fix it. But I do know that I’m overthinking like all of it, and if I want things to be different, I can’t sit around waiting for them to change.

So I lean close to Iris and whisper-shout into her ear, “I started writing again.”

Breath sucked in to belt the final lines, she whips her head at me so fast her braids smack my face.

“Oh my god!” She jostles my shoulder. “I loved your stories!”

“Remember what you did for them once?” This delirious wish is a hundred wants crashing together, forcing me to keep going. “You drew my characters?”

Iris’s grin widens, her eyes a little unfocused, and I wonder how much of this conversation will stick.

“Of course!” She giggles. “Oh my god. I was, what, fourteen? They were probably awful.”

“They were awesome and I loved them.” The music swells, deafening, so I lean closer, heart faltering. “Do you think you’d do that again? If I wrote a book. Do you think you could draw things for it?”

She cocks her head.

“I mean—I haven’t even started writing anything book-like yet,” I stammer. “It was a… just a thought. I loved your art. Still love it. And I think—I don’t know. It could be cool to collaborate on something like that? I know book illustration is a whole separate thing from book writing and it would probably never amount to anything, but I—”

Iris throws her arms around my neck. “Yes! Of course. Fuck yes. That sounds like fun.”

I squeeze her back. “We could both use some fun, I think.”

Iris leans away to bookend my cheeks with her hands. Her whiskey-loopy gaze focuses on mine, drifts away, refocuses, and she laughs. “There are more of you than I remember. But the real you is riiiiiight —” She boops my nose. “Here.”

“We should have had this conversation when you were sober.”

Her eyes get round. “Oh no. Oh no oh no. If”—she hiccups—“if I don’t remember this tomorrow, ask me again. Better yet—wait.”

She shrugs me off to dig out her phone, taps away on her screen, and a second later, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

PEEP, MINI CANDY CANE, AND THE BEST CLAUS

IRIS

future iris this is past iris

draw for kris

it is his dreeeeeeeeam

a book a book a book

Her face is totally blissed-out. “I will probably be confused by that text tomorrow. But you can remind me and tell me there are no take-backs for drunk promises.”

“Um. There should definitely be take-backs for drunk promises.”

Iris shoves her finger against my lips. “Ah-ah. Shush, you. No take-backs. We’re gonna—” Another hiccup. “We’re gonna write a book together, my friend. You will write the book. I will draw the book. OH MY GOD!” She smacks her hands on my face again, her expression collapsing into pleading adoration. “You like my art?”

Wow. She is skillfully barreling from drunk to shitfaced.

“I really do, Iris,” I say, and her round eyes get teary.

“Kris.” She sniffs. “I—even with everything that happened. I want you to know.”

Oh god. “Iris—we don’t have to—”

“No. Kris.” She tips my face so our foreheads are pressed together. “Kristopher. Even with everything that happened. You are going to be great at drawing things. I will teach you so much.”

I pause.

Then snort. “That’s not what—actually, that’s fine. Thank you, Iris. I appreciate that.”

She shoves my face back, rocking me like a bobblehead. “I’m serious, Kris. You’ll be such a good artist. We’ll be artists together. ”

I definitely could have timed this conversation better. “You’re very drunk.”

She giggles and throws her arms around me again. “I know. Isn’t it great ?”

The song ends and up kicks one by The Script. “Hall of Fame.” Iris flails to Siobhán with a gasp so loud half the oxygen gets yanked out of the room, and they both bellow out the lyrics.

A hand grabs my arm.

It’s Finn, and that shocks me enough that I immediately feel like someone must’ve died.

“What?” I shout over the music.

“He’s a stubborn arse,” she tells me. “But you got him to talk to our court today. Siobhán was right. You are good for him.”

I gape at her. Fully open-mouthed staring. “What?”

She grimaces. “Do na make me repeat the nice thing or I’ll vomit.”

“She’s into art too.” I nod at Iris.

Finn’s face goes stricken. “Eh?”

“She’s into art too,” I say a little louder. Iris is enraptured in singing. “If you point out unusual things, stuff she could use as inspiration, she’ll eat it up.”

Finn gawps at me. “Thanks,” she says, sounding winded.

“Thank you.”

She punches me. And I think I finally cracked her over to my side.

Coal pops up from his chair, sending Finn startling backwards, and shrieks the chorus to “Hall of Fame.”

I bust out laughing and point to Hex, sitting primly on the chair Coal vacated, sipping a glass of water.

“Your regularly scheduled make-out session is over, I take it?”

Coal bats the side of my head. Fuck, everyone’s handsy tonight.

But he gets a deeply serious look on his face and sings the lyrics as if they’re a ballad, directing all that cheesy energy at me. I try to grab Hex to put him between us but the little shit slips out of my hands like an eel. Coal snatches a fork from the table to use as a microphone and goes full-on serenading, and fine, that’s what we’re doing tonight?

I sing right back at him, matching his weird energy, and he breaks in belly-deep laughs. His laughter yanks me over the edge, and I have to catch myself on the table to stay upright in my own hysterics.

I open my arms to this simplicity. Maybe everything can be this simple, too. As simple as accepting it, not overthinking, not worrying, and whatever backlash comes, I can stand strong knowing that I did what I needed, what was true to me.

It’s past three by the time Coal uses more magic to send us all stumbling exhaustedly—and, in some cases, drunk off our asses—back to the foyer of Castle Patrick.

Iris leans heavily on Coal, her eyes shut, nearly asleep on her feet; her face paint is utterly wrecked, smears of green and orange muddled by sweat and exertion. Siobhán is Iris’s mirror on Finn, and I realize—only two of us got hammered? Well, damn. Did we fail this particular St. Patrick’s Day outing, then?

I give Coal a side hug, trying not to disturb Iris. “Going back to Christmas?”

My voice is rough from all the screaming, ears ringing in the heavy silence of the foyer.

“After I drop this lightweight in Easter.” He hefts Iris, who groans.

“She drank half her body weight in whiskey,” Finn pipes up. “While I dinna see you down a single drop. She’s officially Irish now, whereas you are an interloper.”

“Fair point.” Coal salutes Finn. “It was nice meeting and then instantly going pub hopping with you.”

Finn waves him off. Siobhán whines into Finn’s shoulder, and the two of them make their way deeper into the castle.

Hex smiles at me. “You are staying here, then?”

“Wow.” I smirk. “Coal, you sure can throw your voice. That sounded just like Hex.”

Hex rolls his eyes. “I told him you would see through that.” He leans in to give me a quick hug. “I, at least, understand why you are staying. You are not alone in your pursuit of doing the right thing.”

“I’m not against him doing the right thing,” Coal whispers. “I don’t want him doing the right thing for the wrong guy. ” He glances around, and even though we’re alone, Coal lowers his voice. “We have proof that the device we found in Christmas matches the one connected to their joy meter. Come back to Christmas, and we can strategize about how to approach both Loch and Malachy to get our joy back. You can be done.”

Hearing Coal say that, I know exactly what would happen: Malachy would pin it on Loch. Make him take the fall.

I exhale. “I told her about writing again.”

Coal’s eyebrows go up. “Told… who?”

I nod at Iris. “Told her. That I’m—wait, what did you think I meant?”

Relief droops Coal’s stance. “Shit, dude, I was terrified for a second you were talking to Mom again. God, don’t do that to me.”

“I didn’t—no. Fuck no. I wouldn’t.”

“So you did block her number?”

My lips part. “I will.”

“ Kris, ” Coal groans. “Hex, would you do me a huge favor and turn my brother into a scarecrow so I can pummel him without remorse ?”

“That is not even sort of something my magic can do,” he says.

“Block. Her. Number.” Coal adjusts Iris to punctuate each word with a finger in my chest. “Dad too. That’s my job now. That’s how I protect you. So let me protect you, dumbass. I can handle them.”

“And I can’t?” No, I can’t, but I can’t let him know that. Even if he already does.

Coal sighs. “I know you can. But you don’t have to. Block their numbers, Kris. Please. And whatever you do here—”

“I know. I’ll be careful. I won’t get hurt. I promise and swear and from henceforth do vow and whatever it takes to get you three out of this country.”

“Oh, woe is Kris.” Coal throws his head back dramatically. “He has people who care about his well-being!”

“Go home. Go to sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Coal conjures mistletoe into his palm. “ You go to sleep too. First, block their numbers. Then sleep.”

“I swear.”

“You’re such a dumbshit.”

I grin. “Love you too.”

They leave. And the castle is now unbearably quiet, achingly without noise, like the stones are absorbing even stray brushes of wind.

I drop my coat on a hook in the foyer and head up the hall, steps muffled by the thin carpet.

My body stops by a door. I don’t let myself think about why.

I push into it and drop down the spiral stairs. At the bottom, I can already feel and hear music. It’s moodier this time, full volume John Legend reverberating as I inch forward.

The door to his studio is open.