Page 21

SNEAK PEEK

C alla

Fog clung to the earth, drifting in a circular formation, shielding me from whatever dangers lived within the dark wood. I lifted my hand and extended my fingers. The mist responded, flowing backward, then drifting closer, playing a game of cat and mouse. The haar lived and breathed and had a purpose. The life breath of a being unknown within the mortal realm, called upon to collect and bring me here, to this unknown land, this Otherworld, the one the Irish whispered of in hushed tones.

I searched the shadows for whoever or whatever being was responsible. I saw no spectral beings or mortal ones. I was alone, and yet I was not.

I gazed upward into a lacy green veil, tried to piece together the last few moments, and came to one conclusion—this was a different Ireland, untouched by the hand of man, by civilization. Lush ferns captured the forest’s spirit, emerald fronds wafting in a still breeze. Red squirrels chittered overhead, leaping from one gnarled branch to another, rustling the broad leaf canopy.

Colm—the copper-haired Celt who had promised me forever. His fingertips leaving mine were the last thing I remembered.

The sky shivered, and thunderbolts had struck the sea. Ice pellets shot down, and balls of hail battered the sand, striking everything in its path.

I turned away from Colm’s anguish, from his love. A greater force had called to me, and I was helpless against it. No, that’s a lie. I wanted to know. I needed to know. Who I was. What I was.

The haar wrapped me in warmth and swallowed me whole, the whorling sea giving me up to the sky. And that’s when it happened—the needle bounced out of the groove, and everywhere became elsewhere. One moment, I was grounded to the earth—the next, thrown into a sparkling abyss, like a fly caught on a gust of wind. I had fallen from the sky, landing in superhero fashion—crouched on my heels, fists flailing. How far I had traveled, I could not say—this place was that and so much more. The aroma hit me first—damp earth touched by a faraway sea.

I stood up, taking stock of my current condition, running my hands over my bones and finding none broken. My leggings had ripped at the knees. I stared at my bare feet at my toes curled into the soft earth. The oversized caramel-colored work shirt had held up splendidly, but where were my shoes? I ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to tame the Kraken, realizing I had lost my hair scrunchie, leaving me no choice but to leave my hair in its natural state, untamed in all its snake-like glory.

When I was young, I would chase the wind, leaping into the air and relishing the sensation of flight. Arms outstretched, I would soar high above the tall grass, unafraid of where I might land. I would lay on my back, lost in the rolling skies, at one with the universe.

What happened on the strand in Ardara brought back those same sensations.

My gaze followed the moving shadows and the whispering air—a stray sunbeam illuminating a man in its path. Dressed in soft leathers, an archer’s bow slung over his broad shoulders, stood a man—Finvarra, the King of the Faeries.

I rubbed my eyes and looked again. He was the man from ériu’s vision—my biological mother, the Princess of the Dead. That was an eye-opener.

I held my head high, anticipating the moment our paths would cross. This meeting was inevitable. Orlaith had confirmed the impossible—this immortal being was my natural father. Was it only yesterday that the older woman served tea to Colm and me in her sister’s flat and in no uncertain terms, revealed the truth? I had sisters. I was the progeny of a Faerie King.

He stood taller than any mortal man, thick-limbed and broad-shouldered. His nose was straight, and his lips were full. But his eyes—nothing could prepare me for those. Shimmering silver streams circled dark pupils of a crushed velvet hue. Banded in smoke and framed by long lashes, those lustrous orbs held me captive.

His jet-black hair was swept away from his face with a leather thong, revealing the sharp, chiseled features of a respected king. A golden diadem adorned with blood-red rubies rested upon his regal head.

I crossed my arms across my chest and swallowed the rock lodged in my throat.

“Rioghain, may I have a word?” He called me by my middle name, Ree-an, his golden voice piercing the silence. Even the squirrels paused to listen—they sat at attention, twitching their tufted ears, awaiting his royal command. Leaving the footpath, he joined me among the ferns and, with a slight bow, presented himself. He seemed ageless.

I found myself caught in his silver-eyed gaze. I wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time. He should be dead if he ever existed at all: myth, legend, the Faerie Folk. This Other Crowd, this Otherworld the Irish whispered of, existed. I recalled the words of a believer—what is faith but belief in the unseen?

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