The Stolen: An American Faerie Tale (2 page)

“What happened?”

“It was me. I murdered them.”

“What?”

The footsteps drew closer, and Brendan clenched his jaw tight when he sensed, rather than saw, Dante notice Áine.

“No—­” Dante stepped around Brendan and knelt on Áine's other side. His black frock coat skimmed the ground as he leaned forward and touched her neck with two fingers, looking for a pulse that Brendan knew wasn't there. Light blond hair that was normally oiled and slicked back on his head fell across his temple, revealing the tips of his pointed ears. After a moment his shoulders slumped, his head bowed, and the solid green glow of his eyes dimmed.

Brendan pulled Áine closer and kissed her brow. “Kill me.”

Dante's head snapped up. “What? No.”

“If you call yourself me friend,” Brendan said, “don't let me live with this.” His voice broke, and it took a moment before he could speak again. “I let it get control. It's just like they said would happen.”

“What happened? I mean, what would cause you to—­” Dante's head turned, and Brendan saw him look at Áine's torn dress, then at the bodies. “Who . . . ?”

Brendan didn't say anything.

“Oíche.” Under the surface of Dante's voice simmered a long-­held anger.

There was silence for several minutes. Brendan just held Áine closer to him.

“You can't stay here,” Dante said. “Let me get you out of here.”

“No.”

“Brendan—­”

“It was me what done it, and I have to account for it,” Brendan said. “I'll stay here and get what's bloody well coming to me.”

“They'll kill you.”

“Aye, but not if you do it first.”

“Don't ask me to do that.”

Brendan let his head fall forward, and he buried his face in Áine's neck. He knew Dante was right. This was Brendan's to carry, but he had to make sure this could never happen again.

“Can you get it out of me?”

“Get it out—­?”

“Can you get the bleeding
deamhan buile
out of me?”

“I don't even know what your parents did to put it there.”

“So, no, then.”

“I'm sorry.”

Brendan inhaled Áine's scent and gritted his teeth. “Can you bind it, then? Chain the bloody thing down at least?”

Dante sighed. “I don't know, maybe, depending on how strong it is. Even if I could, there's no telling what effects it could have on you. It might kill you.”

Brendan forced a chuckle. He wouldn't be so lucky. “You do what you have to, then I'm leaving Boston.”

“You're not in any shape to make a decision like that!”

“
Dar fia,
man,” Brendan said. “Word will spread fast, ­people will know. I have to leave, don't I? Maybe if I can find some way to make this right—­”

“And where will you go?”

“Away.” Brendan took a breath. “I'll be needing me a horse.”

“I—­”

“What else can I do, then?”

“I don't know, maybe . . .”

Brendan felt Dante's eyes on him. He tried to resist meeting the bright green gaze of his friend. He failed, lifted his face, and they stared at each other in silence for several long minutes.

Dante closed his eyes and bowed his head. “All right, I'll do it.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

B
rendan took a final drag from his cigarette and flicked the ash out of his old truck's open window. Traffic was light on I-­93 as he crossed into New Hampshire.

Sure, he'd taken the long route, but it kept him far enough away that he didn't even have to see Boston's skyline. He'd have gone back more, but the first time he'd risked a visit to Áine's grave, when he'd heard her friends speaking about the child, their child . . . Well, he still wasn't ready to face Dante again, not yet.

He turned his attention away from his current line of thinking, but it was too late. Somewhere inside, something stirred, restless and hungry.

You can't keep me locked away forever.

“We'll see about that, then,” Brendan said to the empty truck.

Distantly, he could almost hear laughter.

Absently, he scratched at the sigils tattooed on his sternum. When he noticed what he was doing, he lit another cigarette and ignored the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't have the luxury of doubts. There were things to be done.

A car with Massachusetts plates cut him off, but he didn't flinch. He just slowed down, and as he did, he noticed the car's bumper sticker.

Time heals all wounds.

(And so does revenge)

Brendan half smiled. “Aye, we might just be finding the truth of that, then.”

C
aitlin Brady walked out of the Manchester, New Hampshire hospital, her nurse's scrubs in the bag slung over her shoulder and her daughter Fiona's small hand in hers. The four-­year-­old girl was skipping and humming a happy tune. She was always like this after a visit with Eddy. Caitlin completely understood. He'd always made her feel better, too. In fact, without him, she wasn't sure how she would've made it these last few years.

Kris's car pulled up in front of them, and the willowy young woman got out with a smile.

Fiona struggled with the back door for a moment before Caitlin opened it for her and the little girl climbed up on the seat.

“Thanks again,” Caitlin said to Kris. “I know it's short notice.”

“No problem,” Kris said, smiling. “You go out and have a good time. You could use it. We're going to have a night with everyone's favorite pixie.”

Fiona cheered as she settled into the child seat.

Caitlin leaned in and buckled up Fiona. As she did, it struck her again just how much her daughter took after her. They both had the same curly, fiery red hair, unmanageable, to be honest. The same green eyes, though Fiona didn't have the matching set of luggage under hers. They were both light skinned and liberally dosed with freckles, though Fiona, like all children, pulled off the look better. Caitlin silently hoped that Fiona wouldn't also inherent the extra twenty pounds Caitlin carried around, or that she'd at least be tall enough for it not to be as obvious; Caitlin was several inches shorter than every other woman she knew. If she just worked less and slept more, she knew it would make a world of difference, but she had more important things in her life than sleep.

Caitlin ran her hand down Fiona's cheek and let out a breath. “You behave for Kris, okay, peanut?”

“I will, Mommy.” Fiona's green eyes lit up. “I love you.”

Caitlin felt a twinge at the words and smiled; even that matched her daughter's. “I love you, too. Now give me a kiss.” She leaned down, got her kiss, and gave one back before closing the car door with a sigh.

She waved and tried to ignore the pang of guilt as the car pulled away. Eddy was probably right. No, he was always right, and it was annoying as hell.

After a minute or two, she convinced herself it was okay to go to the art show. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air. When she exhaled, she found the guilt assuaged enough that she could probably do an hour or two with the girls. Baby steps, right?

Emerging from the parking garage stairwell, she pulled her keys from her purse and pointed the fob at her car. A sudden, overwhelming chill of dread and hopelessness washed over her. It stopped her so abruptly that she nearly fell on her face.

Caitlin could sense someone behind her, watching her. She could almost feel cold breath on her neck.

She stood there, frozen in place. The only sound was her shallow breathing. She struggled to move her legs, but fear had them cemented in place.

“Come on, Caitlin,” she whispered. “Just remember the self-­defense class.” For the first time she could remember, she was glad Fiona wasn't with her.

Hands still shaking, she gripped her keys so that they protruded from between her knuckles. Then she sucked in a breath and turned to confront whoever it was, spiked fist at the ready.

An empty lot stared back at her.

She blinked and looked around, knowing that she should be relieved, or at least feeling silly, but she wasn't. Her heart still pounded, and a cold fist still held her stomach in a death grip.

The garage looked empty, but she knew it wasn't. More disconcertingly, she couldn't explain how she knew. When she saw the shadows at the far wall, her stomach lurched and her breath came up short.

She inhaled, then exhaled. It was a patch of darkness, that was all. She could see the wall through it. Nothing was hiding in the shadows. Nevertheless, she knew with absolute certainty that something, or someone, was staring back at her. A primal and desperate need to flee seized her and returned life to her legs. She bolted for her car, fell into the driver's seat, then slammed and locked the door.

Fumbling with the keys, she stabbed at the ignition. “Come on, damn it!”

Finally, the key went in. She turned it, and thank God, the motor came to life. The sound of the engine evaporated the terror and dread. She let out a breath and leaned her head against the steering wheel as her body slowly stopped shaking. When it had, she started laughing.

She lifted her head and looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror. “You're losing it, girl.”

In the mirror, she saw the shadows again. The cold and empty feelings returned.

She backed the car out, shifted into drive, and sped out of the garage, almost certain that she heard laughter buried under the squealing of her tires.

T
here's comfort in lit spaces filled with other ­people, even if they're strangers, which is why Caitlin still went to the art show that evening. That, and going home would be admitting her brief lapse of sanity in the garage hadn't been a delusion.

Also, a beer sounded absolutely divine just then.

The shaking in her hands was fading as she walked into the warehouse turned art gallery. The space retained much of its industrial history; the walls were exposed brick and the ceiling was all ventilation ducts. Scattered about the space were several temporary walls, on which hung various paintings and photographs. Caitlin's friends stood around a small, high table, waving her over.

As Caitlin approached, Casey motioned to a pint glass of brown ale. “I ordered you a—­”

Caitlin lifted the glass and downed half of it in a series of large gulps. The cold beer poured down her throat and smoothed over the last of her frayed nerves. She set the glass down, sucked in a lungful of air, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, her friends were staring at her.

“Uh, rough day?” Janet asked.

“Just some neuroses and hallucinations.”

“What?” Casey asked.

“You sound like Eddy,” Janet said with a smile.

Caitlin waved her hand. “I'm fine.”

The friends left the table and wandered around, examining the various pieces of art on display and making small talk. Caitlin was only half listening to them. The show was Celtic themed, so every piece stirred memories of Ireland and James.

As she forced her eyes away from a black-­and-­white photo of the Dingle coastline at sunset, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. A tall, slender ­couple in their early twenties stood several feet away, examining a painting. They were both blond, tan, and so put together it looked as if they had a staff that did nothing else. Aside from that, they looked normal, but just moments before, she could've sworn they'd been looking at her and that their eyes had been, well, glowing.

She took another drink of her beer and brushed the incident off. Until it happened again, this time with a teenage girl, who was clearly the creator of a large painting, and then a third time with a large and ugly man who looked as though he might live under a bridge and harass young goats as they tried to cross. An old saying came to mind; if one person calls you a duck, you ignore it; if two ­people call you a duck, you begin to wonder; if three ­people call you a duck, you're quacking.

The door to the gallery opened. Caitlin glanced over as a man who had to be at least six foot four stood in the doorway, guitar case in hand. Powerful, working-­man muscles strained his black shirt. His long, copper red hair was pulled into a ponytail. He wore old work boots and a hand-­folded olive green kilt, held in place with only a belt. Instead of a sporran, an old leather pouch sat on his hip. At the bottom front of the kilt was a pin so battered Caitlin couldn't make out the design.

Caitlin started to look away, but her gaze locked on his face. Not because he was handsome, though he was in a classic sort of way. No, it was the two wicked scars that crossed his face. One ran from just above his left eyebrow, over his eye, and down to his chin. The second went from his mouth, across his face, and bisected the first, leaving lines of bare skin in what seemed to be several days of scruffy growth. She knew scars like that came from either serious injuries, poor treatment, or both. In his case, she leaned toward option C.

Before she could look away, he met her gaze. His face drained of color, and she thought his electric blue eyes went wide for an instant before he took half a step backwards. Caitlin looked away but could feel him still staring at her.

She looked back and opened her mouth—­

“Brendan!” someone shouted.

He and Caitlin both saw one of the musicians on the makeshift stage waving at him. Brendan shook his head as though trying to clear it, nodded, and started to look back at Caitlin, but he stopped short instead and walked over to the stage.

Caitlin watched him for a moment before lifting her glass and taking a ­couple large gulps.

Quack, quack.

“Testing. One, two, three,” Brendan said with a heavy brogue into the microphone. No sound came from the speakers. “Riley, is it any use back there?”

“You going to be okay?” Sharon asked from behind Caitlin's shoulder.

It wasn't just the accent. Even the timbre of his voice was like James's. Caitlin nodded to answer Sharon's question and closed her eyes as unwanted memories broke through.

James had been charming, romantic, and handsome: not the kind of man who usually went for her. His attentions had made her trip to Ireland seem like a dream. In retrospect, she knew that she'd been naïve, but she'd been fresh out of college then. It had taken four days for him to wear her down and get her into his bed. It'd been sweet and tender, everything she'd hoped and more. The next morning, he was gone. Only his backpack and guitar had been left behind, and no one in town had seemed to know anything about him. Eddy said she'd never found closure, and now, five years later, she only really thought about him on Fiona's birthday. But then, he was Fiona's father.

“The microphone isn't on, Brendan,” Riley shouted from behind the bar, and when he turned his head just right, the tips of his ears looked pointed. Caitlin blinked as Riley looked away and the illusion was gone. Must've just been the lighting.

Caitlin shifted her attention back to the stage as one of the other musicians switched on the microphone and said something to Brendan while pointing to the amp.

Brendan looked at it as if it were some sort of alien technology.

A guitar strum sounded through the speakers. “Aye, this better, then?” Brendan asked.

The bartender gave a thumbs-­up.

“Right, then. How about a pint of plain, if you please?” Brendan cleared his throat.

Caitlin drank the last of her beer as Brendan leaned forward again and spoke into the mic.

“Well, as you might've guessed, we'll be playing for you tonight. If there's something you'd like to hear, just let us know.”

He turned to the others on stage, and they started a nice pub song. The band was good, but Brendan was exceptional. Caitlin just watched and listened, until he started to sing “The Fields of Athenry.” She found herself being drawn in by the emotion and power of his voice.

Caitlin could picture the scene. Ireland, 1847, and a young woman, ravaged to nothing but skin and bones by the famine. Leaning against a stone wall, she spoke to her love, imprisoned on the other side for stealing food to keep their children alive. Every word Brendan sang was a brush painting emotions in Caitlin's heart. She could feel the lamenting sadness and pain as the man was led to the ship bound for Australia. The young woman's heart broke, and Caitlin's broke for her.

Caitlin opened her eyes, unaware of when she'd closed them, and shook herself from the daze. She looked up at Brendan; his eyes were wet, and he stared off into space as his fingers made the guitar sing. He looked almost, well, wistful was the only word for it. If she hadn't known it impossible, she'd swear he was singing his own story.

As she glanced around the room, her mouth went slack. The entire place was watching him. Every single person, including the staff, was staring in rapt silence. No one was moving. No one was talking. As the last note faded, her hands began to shake again.

There was a long and heavy moment of silence before abruptly, as if someone pressed the play button, life returned to the room. ­People applauded, or returned to their earlier conversations, and no one seemed the wiser.