Page 19

Calla

The aroma of rich leather filled my nostrils. The chrome gleamed, and the dark paint sparkled. I backed the sexy little coupe from the garage and sat idling in the courtyard.

I checked the rearview mirror for any sign of the mysterious little man but saw none. Since discovering the truth about my past, Seamus had made himself scarce, and his absence had me on edge. Questions plagued my mind. He had suggested my father wanted to meet me. Finvarra—if Orlaith’s revelations were correct. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. Meeting a Faerie King would mean exiting the mortal realm and entering another. Would it not?

I shifted gears, allowing the classic car to glide over the cobblestones, roll slowly down the long laneway, and enter the enchanted forest. The woodland bordering Dermot’s property was a magical place filled with wonderful and horrible things, disconcerting and terrifying, and today proved no different.

The wind moaned, and time lost its grip. Daylight shifted into purple twilight. Mist appeared out of nowhere, weaving through the trees—long fingers seeking the dead. Haze crept in through the driver-side window, touched my face, and held my hands. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

Fluttering wings broke the silence as a trio of birds took to the sky. I debated punching the accelerator but faced the horror instead. I told myself that what I saw could not be real—a trick of the imagination—someone or something playing games with my mind.

I had laid among the soft ferns only yesterday, gazing at puffy white clouds accompanied by whispering winds and the singing stream.

But that was then.

Their voices prowled beneath my skin. An army of men, long dead, littered the scorched earth—soldiers from another time. The acrid scent of burnt flesh stung my nose. Tendrils of smoke clawed the sky.

My heart bled for all they had lost. I scanned the river banks for survivors but found none.

Carrion crows darkened the velvet skies. They descended, picking what remained of singed flesh and wasted bones. I forced my foot to engage the accelerator, propelling through the shadows of time. I hesitated at the stone bridge, unable to proceed. My hands trembled, and I reminded myself that the battle scene was imagined. And yet, the six decapitated heads impaled upon the stone spikes centuries ago whispered in unison, “O’Donnell Abú.” Their resounding call to arms rose with the howling wind. “O’Donnell Abú.” Their rallying cry rang through the greenwood.

I squeezed my eyelids shut, refusing to acknowledge the ghostly apparitions. When the car thumped over the last tumbled stone, I dared a glance over my shoulder at the verdant forest staring back. The mist had wandered away, and the sun blinded me.

When I pulled onto the road, I saw only the farm tractor hauling a load of turf. When I arrived at the crossroads, I sank deeper into the bucket seat, seeking the anonymity I had sought when landing at the airport.

And yet there I was, traveling to Donegal town, obliging Colm O’Donnell his raincheck. I had dallied in front of the mirror. Black leggings or cropped blue jeans? The leggings won out, topped with the camel-colored canvas work shirt I had found hanging on Dermot Sweet’s back porch. Washed and tumble-dried, the long shirt added an extra dimension to my simple wardrobe. I mused over Colm’s anxious voice, insisting he pick me up.

My mind wandered with every twist and turn of the winding road. Somewhere along the way, I engaged the roof and drove through Ardara with the top down, the salt breeze taking away the last horrors.

Thoughts of him slammed into me—two encounters with that man, and I had lost myself completely. He had teased me and taken me to the brink of pleasure. Butterflies danced in my stomach, and bees hummed overhead. That was my kind of office gossip.

I pulled into Donegal town with my head on a swivel and found a parking spot in a public lot near the GPS location I had plugged into my phone. I slung my bag over my shoulder, hurried my steps, and realized I had arrived too early.

I stood on the sidewalk, admiring the quaint town. The cobblestone diamond intersecting the roadways surpassed Ardara’s in terms of scale. Despite the absence of market vendors, the plaza was alive with chatter. People occupied every bench, engaging in lively conversation. I listened to the warm Irish lilt and smiled.

I left my imaginings behind and followed the sidewalk toward the castle looming in the distance—Donegal Castle, the O’Donnell’s Castle. I recalled Colm’s conversation. His ancestors had once resided within that fortress. I passed by the tearoom and the many cafes spilling onto the sidewalk. I pressed my face against a glass window and gazed at all the lovely tweed. I waited for the streetlight and crossed the road with a melee of other looky-loos. I walked beyond the gatehouse and peered through the iron rails, searching for a view of the castle grounds.

They had restored the Tower House to yesterday’s grandeur with steep gables and bartizan turrets. The ruined English Manor house sat roofless, the stones blackened with empty mullions staring into a manicured yard.

The gatehouse beckoned, offering entry for a fee. I passed through the turnstile, lingering behind a group of children on a school field trip. Their guide explained how the site once housed a Viking fortress—later developed by Sir Hugh Roe O’Donnell, The O’Donnell of his clan and King of Tyrconnell. He had built the O’Donnell castle on a bend in the River Eske, where sentries could guard against invaders approaching from Donegal Bay.

I followed the chattering group, taking in all the castle once was. Stunning gothic-style doors led underfoot across fifteenth-century cobblestones into a shadowed stone-and-mortar storeroom, where only half of the barreled stone ceilings remained. I hugged my chest, a shiver passing through me. Relics of the past stared back: barrels and baskets, crockery, stuffed fowl hanging on the walls.

I ran my fingers along the ship’s mast, leaning against the ancient stones—the O’Donnells were called the Kings of the Fish. I studied the O’Donnell coat of arms, on display beside the Brooke coat of arms—the captain in the British forces awarded the castle for his service to the English. Hmm.

Spiral stone steps led to a banqueting hall with beamed ceilings and white plastered walls. The ornately carved Jacobean fireplace told a story of opulence and celebration. I climbed the wooden staircase to the great hall, where magnificent beams arched the ceilings and displays showcased the history of those ancient times.

I was drawn to the spiral staircase climbing the corner turret, a series of uneven steps the brochure referred to as a trip staircase. My knees buckled as I envisioned the mighty O’Donnell, sword in hand, vanquishing the enemy foe on these same uneven steps. The arrow slits deep in the stones told of archers defending these lands. I left the castle breathless, yearning for more.

The expansive green lawn was crowded with tourists—I paid close attention to the schoolchildren’s guide. Following the Battle of Kinsale, Red Hugh O’Donnell II, the young prince, set fire to his home lest the stronghold fall to the English.

I stumbled, landing on one knee, my hand resting on the manicured grass. Beneath the soft layer, something sharp jabbed into my palm.

A uniformed attendant who witnessed my mishap made his way toward me. I reached into the soil, closing my fingers around the culprit. A triangular spike the length of my palm glimmered in the soft light. My stomach flip-flopped, and an icy wave enveloped me. The whirring sound faded into nothingness, and time slipped away.

Black smoke drifted from the windows while flames licked the tower walls. Soldiers of war surged into the castle keep.

My throat closed, and my eyes stung. I witnessed the revenge of a young man, copper-haired and battle-scarred. Filled with blood lust, he shouted orders to those under his command while the tower house burned.

Draped over his broad shoulder, a thickly woven Irish Brat, a fringe of silk threads layering the bottom edge. The hard-wearing cloak would keep a man alive on a frosty night or a woman warm beneath him. Through the heavy folds, the hilt of a short sword poked from a leather sheath, revealing his warrior status. He turned his head and looked into my eyes. When the smoke dissipated, he had vanished.

“Miss? Miss? Are you okay?” The attendant looked at me with worried eyes.

“I’m fine. Just fine. Thanks.” I walked backward, away from his concerned gaze.

I had no memory of departing the castle grounds. Car horns honked, and brakes screeched as I ran across the busy road. I zigzagged through traffic with Red Hugh O’Donnell’s ghostly image burned into the back of my eyelids.

I stood in the arched doorway of O’Donnell’s Lair, a pub boasting gastronomic delights. I breathed through my nose, savoring the ancient scent of stone, beer, and hearty Irish fare. The pub provided a refuge for my unhinged mind. I navigated the dimly lit maze of aisles, pressing myself against the uneven stones as servers rushed past with platters held high overhead, oblivious to my searching gaze.

“Are you looking for me?” He rose from a wood-lined booth, his head grazing the lantern hanging from the timbered ceiling—a gentleman of noble ilk.

“I was.” The bees hummed, and the butterflies danced. My mouth dried as I considered my present circumstance—a date with Colm O’Donnell, an actual date.

He ushered me into the dimly lit booth yet looked beyond me, casting his gaze into the dark corners of the long passageway.

“You look nice.” I admired his cable-knit crew neck and dark tapered jeans. His copper locks shone in the yellow light.

“So do you.” He grinned.

“Thanks. This belonged to Dermot. I thought I’d make use of it.” I played with the caramel canvas.

“What’s that?” He pointed at the spike clenched in my hand.

I dropped the pointed dagger onto the table, particles of dirt flying in every direction.

“I think it’s an arrowhead. I, uh, found it at the castle. Well, I tripped and fell on it.” The smile froze on my face. All I could see was the ghost of the bloodied young man.

“You went to the castle? Alone?” His gaze darted sideways, following a server down the aisle.

“I did. Why?” I brushed my hands together and let out an exasperated huff, swallowing the bitter aftertaste of fire and soot.

His expression softened as he picked up the arrowhead, brushing embedded dirt from the tapered shaft. “You’re right. This is a bodkin arrowhead. It would punch through mail armor or the hide of an elk with no problem. I haven’t seen an iron one in years.”

“Huh, you can have it. It’s giving me a headache.” I pressed my hands against my temples, stilling the pulsing throb.

A serene silence filled the space between us when he moved his hand across the table and touched my fingertips. “I called you three times.”

“Hmm…only one bar.” I lifted my phone, gazing at the lack of data. “You’re not worried about me, are you?”

“I could have picked you up and saved you the drive.” He drew his thumb over mine.

“That’s true.” I moistened my lower lip. “But then, you would have to drive me home, allowing me to have my way with you.” I batted my eyelashes. Pretending to be a regular person on a date with someone who wasn’t a ghost was fun.

“Valid.” He lifted my fingers, bending my knuckles to his lips. “And something I’m okay with.”

“Hmm…I thought you were bent on driving me crazy.” I referred to how he tantalized me. My thighs heated on the spot.

“Would you like to see the selections?” He chuckled and then passed the menu board to me.

“Sure. What would you recommend?” I scanned the listed entrees while Colm’s gaze consumed me.

“Lady? What would you like?” The server, a burly man with a heavily accented voice, interrupted our romantic interlude.

“Water, please.” I smiled into his broad face.

“Tap or sparkling?” He scribbled on his pad.

“Tap is fine. With ice, lots of ice.” I grinned.

“Anything else?” He nodded at the menu.

“How are the oysters served?” I leaned against the high back of the booth, taking in the ambiance of the same castle design…stone floors, stone walls, and cross-hatched timbers beaming the ceiling.

“Raw.” His eyes wide, he spat his answer.

I wondered what journey brought this man to O’Donnell’s Lair.

“Yes, but what are they served with? Horseradish? Mignonette?” I expected a response but received none.

“Lemon and a dash of hot sauce are all you’ll likely find in these parts.” Colm’s textured locks caught the light, glowing every shade of gold. All I could think about was his soft lips brushing against mine.

“Sure, sounds great. I’ll have the Gweebarra Bay oysters. Please and thank you.” I nodded toward the server. I couldn’t ignore the full-body quiver running from my toes to the top of my head.

The lights dimmed and then shut off, plunging us into shadowed darkness. Voices rose, and glass shattered before a generator kicked in, lighting up the aisles. Colm hadn’t moved a muscle, unaffected by the surrounding pandemonium.

“And you?” The server remained where he was. He jutted his chin toward Colm.

“Fish and chips and a pint.” He ordered, sending me a quiet smile.

The server turned his back and strutted away.

“How is this going to work, Colm? You and me?” I wiggled on the bench seat, unable to ignore the heat striking my core.

“Let’s eat, and then we’ll talk. I need you healthy.” His mouth quirked into a mischievous smile.

“Healthy? For what? Chopping down trees?” I considered my options. He knew more about me than any human alive. That thought made my heart thrum. Our lives had become so intertwined so quickly. Or were they? I studied him, wanting to believe his intentions were genuine. Was there more to that equation than met the eye?

“What is it?” He pinched his brows together, sensing my hesitation.

“I’m worried about Saoirse. She truly believes I can find Ciarán. I’m worried about you, too.” Should I share my most recent vision with him, the young chieftain of the O’Donnell clan? The resemblance was uncanny—the set of his jaw, the copper locks swept back from his face. I rested my hands on the table’s edge, deciding against it. How much crazy could one man cope with? I was a lot, too much for most, in a league of my own. I sighed through my nose.

“You don’t need to worry about me, mo grhá .” His voice sent fiery arrows straight for my heart.

“Am I a means to an end, Colm? Is that what I am to you?” I popped the question, nagging my every thought. Why did I care? He made me hot. Was that not enough? I planted my palms onto the wooden table, freeing my mind of haunting concerns.

His silence sent needles of doubt prickling down my spine.

“No.” He clasped my hands, dragging my elbows across the table until we were face-to-face.

“I’m not na?ve. You’ve been all over me about Ciarán. About this whole ‘Other Crowd,’” I whispered, my voice hollow. My stomach fluttered, and not in a good way. Finvarra’s image floated through my mind. And what of the crazy visions? Some would have locked me up a long time ago.

“You don’t believe Orlaith? That you’re Finvarra’s daughter. That you have sisters.” He opened my palm, tracing the long lifeline. “Look at this vein, Calla. I do not doubt you’re the glitterati.” He circled the birthmark, marring the heel of my hand, a port wine blemish prowling under my skin.

“Trust me, O’Donnell, I bleed red just like you.” How could I deny what I knew to be true? To say it out loud scared the shit out of me. What should I do with that knowledge? “It’s not every day you find out you’re ‘not of this world.’ Why are you looking at me like that? Like you’ve seen a ghost?”

He twined his fingers with mine. “What do you see when you look into my eyes? Do you see a scoundrel? A rogue? Please do not doubt my intentions, mo grhá . I would give anything to have Ciarán back. He’s my brother. My blood. But if finding him meant losing you…that’s not an acceptable option. Not now. Not ever.” His voice hitched with an emotion he had never shared before.

I studied the bristles casting shadows over his chin, the jugular vein pulsating beneath the collar of his button-down shirt, and his eyes gleaming too bright.

“And seducing me? Is that part of your plan?” I heard the lunacy of my words and wondered if I was indeed mad, if somewhere between here and there, I had tipped over the edge, and he was fool enough to join the crazy train. I clamped my lips together, squashing the heated sensations racing over me. Why was I so attracted to him?

“Is this our first fight?” He played with my fingers, one at a time. His game had an unmistakably erotic undertone.

“You didn’t answer my question.” I planted my fingers against his, opening his palm. His hand was so much bigger than mine.

“You’ve raised the bar. Visiting my dreams, holding me under your spell. I wonder sometimes if you are a witch. But then, when I look into your silvery eyes, I see the truth. I am a mere mortal. Could I ever be enough for you?” He closed his fingers, swallowing my hand.

“What do you want, Colm? Tell me the truth.” My skin tingled from head to toe.

“I’ve told you, mo grhá . I want you, and only you.” He leaned close, his breath tickling my ear. “Your sweet delight will be mine.” The laughter returned to his voice, and the shadows walked away.

“My sweet delight? No one’s ever said that before. You’re quite the charmer, O’Donnell.” My heart soared. My mouth watered.

“You’re a greedy wench. You visit my dreams and take what you desire.” He dropped his head and kissed my knuckles.

“I can touch you and not see the future.” I shifted on the bench, imagining what my first time would be like. I gazed at his long, thick fingers, imagining what he had in store for me.

“You’re wearing your mother’s bracelet.” He didn’t grasp my meaning. Instead, he turned my wrist.

“Look. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. All of this.” I pulled away. “I don’t ‘connect’ with other people. Not like this.”

“But you have, Calla. How long have you been here? A week? You’re part of the community. You belong. Even more than I do, it seems.” His smile sent liquid heat fluttering over me.

The server placed our beverages before us and left behind napkin-wrapped cutlery.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” Playing dumb was not one of my strong suits, but I raised my eyebrows and gave it a go.

“Are you enjoying my company?” He stretched his long legs under the table.

“Maybe.” I broke the seal, opened the napkin, and set out the utensils, refusing to commit.

“I want to be with you, Calla Rioghain Sweet, for the rest of my days.” He said my given name with a full-on Irish lilt.

“Hmm, sounds like you’re asking for another play date.” That touching thing proved addictive. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything. My life is an open book, dog-eared and stained but always open.” His grin touched my soul.

“Do you think Ciarán is with the Other Crowd?” I watched him through my eyelashes.

“It’s a possibility. Ciarán was always one for the craic.” He wrapped his hand around the back of his neck.

“How does that make you feel?” I whispered low so that he had to crane his neck to hear. I wanted the truth. I wanted him to think.

“What do you mean?” He shifted in his seat and flinched for the first time.

“You mourned him. Your family mourned him. Saoirse still mourns for him. What if he left voluntarily?” I bit into my lower lip and waited for his response.

“He might be trapped and unable to leave. If you believe the tales, those freed from the Otherworld soon fade away. The Faerie King keeps their souls.” He teased me with a smile, but his eyes held sadness.

“Would you forgive him? If he did?” I refused to dive into that rabbit hole. God only knew what awaited me on the other side. The afterlife, perhaps? How often had the three horsemen come my way?

“He’s my brother.” His voice remained steady, yet the muscle tick in his jaw told me otherwise.

“I have one more question.” Should I leave that one alone or go in for the kill? I grinned.

“Just one?” His gaze robbed me of courage. Not.

“Are you really a tree farmer?” I pressed him, delving into his personal life.

“Hmm.” He drew his thumb between the cuff of my sleeve and my wrist, the gold flecks in his eyes deepening.

“The truth. The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I drummed my fingers on the table.

“If I tell you, I might have to kill you.” He covered my hand, stilling my tap dance.

“Really?” I grinned.

The lantern overhead flickered and then went out.

“Perhaps.” His voice surrounded me.

“Perhaps?” My curiosity piqued. His past seemed shady and secretive.

The lights flickered and then sparked, bathing the booth in a golden glow.

“I do freelance work for the government.” His face colored a delectable soft pink.

“The government?” The bench groaned as I sat back. “Whose government?”

“The Irish Republic. Dark ops,” he murmured as if the world was listening.

My imagination fired in all directions.

“Dark Ops? Oh my God, are you a hitman?” I exclaimed in a loud voice.

“No.” His matter-of-fact voice expected me to believe him.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” I lifted his chin with my forefinger, holding his heart captive.

“I can’t. I can tell you one thing, though. I’ll be staying in Ireland for a while.” He set his knife and fork on either side of his place setting.

“A while?” I ran my thumb over my bottom lip. That was a bombshell revelation.

“Here we are, folks.” The server brought our order to us: Colm’s fish and chips, my oysters served on the half shell, and a farl of dark and dense Irish Wheaten bread.

“Wow, that looks amazing.” I reached for one of Colm’s crispy fries. “I should have ordered some.”

“Help yourself. I’m watching my figure.” He slid half the fries onto a side plate.

“Your figure looks great. Have some oysters.” I gestured toward the generous platter.

“I don’t eat those things.” He supped on his brew, watching me over the rim of his glass. His gaze told me one thing.

“They’re an aphrodisiac.” I bit down on my lower lip. Swallowing my hunger for that man became more impossible by the minute.

“My sex drive is one hundred and ten percent, and all appendages are operating at full capacity.” He defended his virility.

“I love this bread.” I slathered yellow butter on top of one thick slice. “Do you always hold your pinky finger in the air when you drink?” I slurped one oyster and washed it down with a hearty hunk of the moist and nutty bread.

“I guess I do.” He chuckled.

“Is it a family trait?” I smothered the chips with ketchup.

“Can’t say I’ve noticed.” He peeled the crispy batter away from his fillet, leaving remnants piled on the side of his plate.

“What are you doing?” I wolfed down two ketchup-covered chips at a time.

“My brother, Hugh Jr., is on a mission.” He parceled morsels of cod onto his fork. “He’s on about ‘healthy eating.’ Low sodium. Low fat.” He scooped another mouthful of naked fish into his mouth.

“You could have ordered the salad.” I smiled with a vengeance.

“Not a fan of green things.” He watched me impale two more of his fries.

“Are you eating that?” I pointed my fork toward the green mush on his plate.

“Want some?” He motioned with his fork.

“What does it taste like?” I studied his pained expression.

“Green peas.” He smiled a crooked grin.

“And you don’t eat them either? Don’t tell me because they’re green?”

“Tell me, how does this telepathy thing work? How do you do it?” He shrugged, offering me a spoonful.

“Not bad, kind of like mashed potatoes.” I opened my mouth and teased my tastebuds with the savory condiment. I turned his question over in my mind. How did I do it? “I don’t know. I’ve only encountered dream travel with you.”

“Hmm.” He chewed each morsel. “You agree with my demands, then. No other man will give you pleasure. You will ‘visit’ me alone?”

“I told you already, O’Donnell, you’re not the boss of me.” I twirled strands of my hair around my index finger.

“I will provide your pleasure.” He lifted one eyebrow, a smile tweaking his lips.

“You’re confident. I’ll give you that. You made me come. What once? Twice? Besides, assassins live a solitary life, don’t they? A cash box stowed away in a Swiss bank, a stockpile of passports. Long-distance relationships don’t work. Everyone knows that.” I dabbed the corner of my mouth with the napkin.

“I am not an assassin.” His gaze flowed over me, soothing and teasing all at the same time. “But yes, I work independently. I’ve given a lot of thought to moving back home.”

“Moving? Why?” My thoughts scattered.

“My priorities have changed.” He trailed his fingers over mine. He looked up, his gaze searching the dark hallway.

“You’re freaking me out, Colm.” I’d gone from solitary flyer to let’s join the band. When did I become that girl?

“Anything else for you? Dessert?” The server stuck his head into our enclave.

Colm looked at me for a reply.

“No, thanks.” I shook my head.

“We’re good, mate, just the bill, please.” Colm nodded.

“Let me.” I pulled my wallet from my bag.

“No, this is my treat.” He motioned, waving with his hands.

The server returned almost immediately, handing Colm the check.

“I ate your lunch. Well, most of it.” I lifted my eyebrows as he reached into his jeans.

“I insist.” He plunked paper bills onto the table. “Shall we?” He extended his hand, guiding me into the aisle.

“Well, thank you, Mr. O’Donnell.” I walked ahead with Colm in hot pursuit.

“Calla, wait.” He touched my elbow as we reached the exit together. He stepped before me and opened the door, allowing the moody skies to enter O’Donnell’s Lair.

“Wow! Would you look at that? Where has the day gone?” I stood on the sidewalk, my gaze straying toward the castle turrets. I swallowed hard, the vision of the young Red Hugh O’Donnell razing his home to the ground burning in my mind. “Thank you for lunch. It was enlightening, to say the least.”

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