Chapter 4
Home for Griffin was his grandfather’s castle perched on a bluff in the northernmost peninsula of Ireland. It was remote and wild, timeless like the ancient mists when Ireland was ruled by chieftains and druids.
Griffin didn’t breathe easily until his family butleropened the door of the Rolls Royce Silver Shadow limo he was riding in.
The airplane ride had been annoying, especially seated next to that bubbleheaded woman who wore outlandish clothing, claimed to be a witch and a writer, and then capped off the flight by threatening to vomit over him.
These days, lowlife like her were allowed in first class. Her leather-like vest had patchesof superglue on it, and her bootheels were worn rounded. The carry-on bag she kicked under the seat in front of her was of cheap canvas and fake suede, and she didn’t even have the grace to barf quietly and discreetly.
Who’d paid for her ticket? Or perhaps she’d gotten a free upgrade by flirting with one of the pilots.
Too bad she was attractive underneath her gaudy makeup, feathers,and salad fixings. If he could pluck out her pinfeathers, pick the thorns from her hair, and throw the hazelnuts and vegetables down the garbage disposal, she could be worth getting naked with. Or, perish the thought, getting her pregnant with a cabbage patch baby?
No way.
He, Griffin Gallagher, had no time for fancying women. He was on a mission to restore the Heart of Ireland andto bring in the reign of the true Queen of the Fae—Brigid the daughter of a god—to heal the land from centuries of environmental degradation. The green forests of Ireland would spring up dense and lush. The hills would be full of song and poetry. Every landscape would be rendered in brushstrokes of beauty, layered with brilliant flashes of color. Love and joy would flourish in every heart, andpeace would rule in perpetuity.
“Welcome home, Master Gallagher.” Pierce bowed low but kept a squinting gaze on him. “Your grandfather expects you in his study for tea this afternoon. You should be refreshed and cleaned up from your flight by then.”
Pierce was ancient, with a full head of white hair. He had served Griffin’s family as far back as anyone could remember.
“Hada bit of a scuff-up on the airplane,” Griffin said, getting out of the limo. “Going to take a shower.”
“As you wish,” the butler said as two porters carried his luggage to his room.
Griffin couldn’t wait to be alone. The weight of the stone upon his chest urged him to complete the task first thing.
Would it work? Would he wake Brigid from her endless slumber? Was everythinghe’d painstakingly researched from his past lives true?
He had the Heart of Brigid, yes, but was it enough?
He should shower and dress himself up, at least change his club-soda splattered shirt. It would be only fitting for his beloved to see him groomed and clean. But he couldn’t spare another moment of not knowing—of not holding her in his arms, of not tasting her lips, and lookinginto those gem-green eyes of hers.
As soon as he was alone, Griffin locked the door of his suite. He turned on the hot water to give any listening ears the idea he was in the shower.
After opening and closing the shower door with a loud bang, he slipped out of the en-suite bathroom and slid into his walk-in closet. Wood-paneled drawers, shelves, and clothes racks covered every surface.
Griffin latched the door from the inside and pulled apart a panel behind the shoe holder. He activated a switch, and the main wardrobe full of suits turned aside, exposing a secret door.
He would soon meet his fairy queen, deep in the bowels of the earth where he’d buried her bones and set up a shrine.
Griffin rubbed his hands in glee at the secret meeting. He would preempteveryone and be the first one to greet the queen. He wasn’t going to even let his grandfather in on it.
But then, the glory was his, because he, only, was the one who’d returned the Heart of Brigid to Ireland. He pressed his hand against the stone tucked inside his shirt. Its weight was reassuring, but the stone hung hard and hot, so much that he imagined it would burn a hole through hisskin.
Oh, how hard it is to keep a secret, he lamented, then kicked himself. He hadn’t exactly kept the secret, had he?
Why had he blabbed to that horrid bird-girl, and she, a writer of fiction—prone to lies and exaggeration?
Well, duh. He wanted credit for pulling off the most legendary feat of the millennium. The best-kept secrets never came to the light of day, and theiranonymous heroes perished unknown and unappreciated.
It had been dangerous and foolish to expose himself to the black-feathered creature. But so well worth it to see her splutter speechless and chuck her club soda. What was she really doing hiding behind that outlandish costume?
A chill drew a shiver down his spine. Clare Hart claimed to be an ordinary writer. She looked young andacted foolish. Her facial features and coloring were typical Irish, wild as the green hills, and yet, he’d sensed a dark side to her. After all, what beautiful young woman would cover herself with feathers better used on a duster and wrap wilted lettuce and cabbage leaves around her waist?
Could she be impersonating the dreaded Morrigan? The terrifying goddess of war, destiny, fate, anddeath? She was the phantom queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann with her heart set at tripping up heroes and warriors. She alternated between seduction and trickery, and she, in the form of a large black raven, was a harbinger of death.
He was forgetting something. He knew it, but he couldn’t grasp it. There had to have been a reason for him to expose the heart to that Morrigan. There was a reasonfor everything he did, if only he could remember the script.
