Page 18

“Could stand a lick of paint.” Cillian O’Donnell shielded his blue eyes from the midday sun, looking at the peeling boards of the empty storefront with a keen gaze. He spoke to no one, yet everyone listened. He commanded an unerring eye and a quick mind.

His tattoos and half-shaved head declared a rebellious image, but his clothing contradicted that. He looked fine, dressed quietly in a close-fitting black turtleneck, straight-legged black trousers, and supple leather loafers.

Cillian was the silent one, charming when he wanted to be—hunger burned in his eyes and raged in his soul. A rage pent up for so long, one could only imagine what it did to the mind. The fact Cillian intended to stay in Ardara town bewildered me. I didn’t know what to make of it.

Tadgh, shorter than his brothers and mack-truck-wide, shadowboxed with the Faeries and then threw a solid punch, nailing Cillian in the upper biceps.

“Are we doing this again?” Cillian didn’t even flinch.

“Big match Saturday.” Muscles rippling beneath an olive-green tank, he fancied back and forth in white high tops and ripped jeans—always smiling, always happy. He fancied me a little too much.

“Have you signed the lease, bro?” Pádraig rubbed the red bristles sprouting from his chin with his index finger and the fat pad of his thumb.

“Aye, moving in today.” Cillian glanced at the gold watch on his wrist, the designer wristband glinting in the sunshine.

“What do ye mean? Does Mammy know?” Pádraig lifted his eyebrows, surprise in his eyes. He was his mother’s son.

“What are your plans for it, Cillian?” Old Eamon sat on the bench outside the Black Horse, one hand resting on his shillelagh.

“Tattoo studio, Eamon.” Cillian jingled a key ring in the air.

“A tattoo parlor? Aye. A nice addition to the town. What’s the name of the place?” Eamon rose to his feet, taking slow steps forward. He tapped his stick on the dirty window and peered inside.

“How about the Black Rose?” I looked sideways, inspecting my work—today’s special scrawled across the sandwich board in white chalk.

Colcannon Mash and Champ: the traditional dish of floury potatoes blended with butter and milk and a generous dose of kale, served with Irish sausages. Our very own Ulster Fry served in a cast-iron pan.

A hearty all-day breakfast consisting of Irish sausage, rashers of bacon, soda bread, and white pudding, all surrounding a yellow-faced egg garnished with vine-ripened tomatoes, would fill a hole in many an empty stomach.

“I was thinking something more like Body Art Tattoo & Design.” Cillian’s gaze bored into mine.

“Pure shite, mate. The Black Sheep Returneth Home. That’s more like it, aye?” Tadgh grabbed the keychain from Cillian, tossing it high overhead.

“Whatever, man. It’s great having you back.” Pádraig threw his broad shoulder toward Tadgh, knocking him off balance.

“Why don’t ye put that energy behind a paintbrush?” Cillian caught the jangling ring with one hand.

“Painting? Jaysus, man. I’m no painter.” Tadgh dropped onto the sidewalk, giving his brothers ten quick pushups, then popped onto his feet.

“Does Mammy know you’re leaving home?” Pádraig said in a worried voice.

“Poker nights every Wednesday, aye? I’ll bring the whisky.” Tadgh gave him the thumbs up.

“Are you on the card this weekend, Tadgh?” I jostled the sandwich board again, positioning it perfectly on the sidewalk.

“Aye. I’ll be there. How about a kiss for luck?” Tadgh shifted his stance and planted a quick peck on my cheek.

Since Ciarán disappeared, Tadgh O’Donnell had taken on the role of guardian angel, stepping in whenever I needed a shoulder to cry on.

I left the O’Donnell shenanigans behind and entered the pub. I smiled, breathing in the faint aroma of last night’s dinner, and looked over the premises: the polished tables, the gleaming copper accents. I grabbed the broom from the closet, giving the stone floors one last sweep before the day began.

The door creaked, shaking me from my quiet reverie. I faced down two men, not from these parts.

“Are you Saoirse Dunne? The owner of this establishment?” A man dressed in a slim-fitting grey suit and a white-collared shirt peered over the rim of dark sunglasses.

The other man gave me a warm smile. He wore a red plaid sweater vest sandwiched between a white button-down shirt and a navy blue cardigan, cuffed chinos, and white tennis shoes. He forgot to wear socks.

“Yes, I am, and you are?” I relaxed my shoulders, composing myself. I focused my attention on his horn-rimmed glasses while taking note of the selection of colored pens in his cardigan’s breast pocket.

“Sean. Sean Hamstead.” Sweater-vest returned my smile, crinkles fanning from watery blue eyes. He handed me his card, which read Dr. Sean Hamstead, University of Oxford, Biologist. “I’m with Oxford. The University.”

“And what are you? The bodyguard?” I glanced toward the grey suit, sensing trouble with a capital T. He loomed over the Doc, black leather folio in hand.

“We understand a person named Calla Sweet stayed on these premises.” He pinched the corner of a glossy photo of Calla’s smiling face.

“Yes, she was here. She stayed two nights. Last week. Is there a problem?” I stared at a professional headshot of a different Calla—one who appeared to have stepped out of a Hollywood movie.

The suit gave nothing away. The Doc, on the other hand, shifted from foot to foot.

“Did she leave a forwarding address?” He took out a folded tissue, carefully unfolded it, and dabbed the corners of his eyes.

“No, I don’t think so.” The hairs on my nape rose. The mad scientist seemed too affable, and the suit breathed evil. There was no way I would dish out on my new friend—no way in hell.

“We would appreciate your cooperation.” The suit placed the photo on the bar top and stabbed Calla’s smiling face with his forefinger. “Where is she now?”

“Like I said. Calla Sweet checked out.” I eyeballed the guy. Who did he think he was?

“What do you know about her? What was she doing here?” The Doc folded the tissue into a neat square and returned it to his breast pocket.

“She came, and she left. There’s nothing to tell.” I planted my hands on my hips, standing my ground.

The suit held my gaze.

“Did she happen to mention her plans? Where was she going next? Why she’s visiting Ireland?” The Doc smoothed his flabby palm over Calla’s photo.

“Hmm. What did you say you do?” I engaged him with a friendly smile.

“I am a specialist in DNA recovery. Evolutionary genetics. The reconstruction of extinct species.” His watery eyes gleamed. His exuberance made my stomach heave.

“DNA?” My mouth dried.

“Ms. Sweet submitted a sample that showed extreme irregularities. We must find her and speak with her.” He gazed lovingly at the glossy image.

“Are you talking about one of those ancestry kits?” I swept my hair behind my ear.

“Doctor Hamstead.” The suit placed his hand on the doc’s shoulder.

“Yes, exactly.” He nodded.

“What does that mean? Irregularities?” I covered my mouth with my hand, my thoughts flying like a black cat on a broomstick.

“Ancient genomes were present. I’m sure you understand the importance of this discovery. Perhaps the sample was compromised. Perhaps there was a glitch. Whatever the reason, further investigation is necessary. Where was Ms. Sweet going next?” The Doc looked over my shoulder, searching the corners of the pub.

“I have no idea what her plans were.” I shook my head back and forth, willing them to leave.

“Do you have her contact information? A cell phone number? Did she pay by credit card?” The suit pressed forward, his stance threatening.

I considered my next move in that game of cat and mouse.

I thought of my friend and what I knew, what she had revealed in confidence, what she had just recently discovered. It wasn’t hard to figure out how that happened. Calla arrived in Ireland with no friends or family. She had no idea she was not entirely human.

A DNA test would prove an unbelievable theory—that Faeries existed. I looked to the future and saw our little town swarmed with nut jobs of every kind. The notoriety would put Ardara on the map, not just for the Cup of Tae Festival.

Jaysus fecking Christ. That would ruin Calla’s life.

“Let me have a look around. I might have something.” I turned toward the twirly-dex filled with yellow cards, flipped through Orlaith’s recipes, and stopped at the letter S. “No. I’m sorry, we’ve nothing. It looks like she paid cash. If she comes this way again, I’ll call you.” I slammed it shut and sent it spinning.

“All we have is an email. It seems Ms. Sweet hasn’t accessed the Internet in several days.” The Doc searched for another tissue.

“Yes, well, the service is up and down. It’s not very reliable.” I picked up the Doc’s card and slipped it into my pocket.

The hinges creaked, and the door swung open. Tadgh filled the frame, his shadow stretching across the stone floor. Behind him stood Cillian, straight-faced and scary in his own right.

I smiled with delight.

The suit didn’t flinch. The Doctor took a step back.

“Is everything all right, Saoirse?” Tadgh’s glance moved over the two men, his gaze resting on the suit.

“Aye. Aye. These yokes were just after leaving.” I glanced at the suit, and my heart stopped.

“We’ll be in touch, Ms. Dunne.” He snapped the folio shut, curling his lips into a sneer. He seemed to gain inches, towering over the pallid doctor.

I held my ground, refusing to show any fear.

“Looks like you’re finished here.” Cillian’s eyes held that fiery O’Donnell temper in check.

Tension hung in the air. It was steely and filled with a burning tang.

I could see where this was going.

“Doctor Hamstead, I’ll reach out if Ms. Sweet returns.” I weaved through the group of four, holding the door open.

“Thank you, dear. We’ll speak again.” The Doc’s darting gaze changed from confused to penetrating. “Come along, Ramone.”

A deep sense of dread quickly replaced the relief washing over me.