“You’ve had another one of your seizures. You banged your head and bruised your knuckles pounding on the door to your walk-in closet.”
“Did I say anything? Write any notes? Was there anything strange or out of place?”
The butler walked to an armoire and opened it. He picked up a dull black rock and set it onthe nightstand. “You were holding this dirty piece of coal, and you were calling a woman’s name.”
“Who?” Griffin stared at the lumpy piece of coal. It was suspended inside a hastily tied together net of knotted yarn.
“Clare took my heart, you said over and over again.” The butler quirked one eyebrow and smirked. “You had one hand over your chest, like you were in pain. Frothing atthe mouth over this Clare, eh?”
“I don’t know anyone named Clare,” Griffin said.
“I suppose you can check your annals. Of course, you last updated it before your trip to America.” The butler plopped a package on Griffin’s lap. “This came in the mail. From Seamus.”
“Seamus who?”
Instead of answering, Pierce pointed to the golden shamrock. Each lobe of the shamrock hada letter engraved on it.G. E. M. S.
Griffin got busy as soon as Pierce left him alone. He tore off the Turkish cotton robe and dressed himself in a black, long-sleeved turtleneck and a pair of black jeans. He had no clue who Seamus was, but if the golden shamrock showed they were in a secret society, then he’d better figure it out quick.
He tore the package open. Out dropped a purplishtranslucent rock about the size of a small egg. The enclosed note was written in the sharp, strong handwriting of a man.
Dude. I’ve found the Morrigan you need. She thinks she’s a fairy queen, and she’s an easy mark. I’ve arranged for her to sit next to you on your flight to Dublin. She’s sure to hit you up for money and let you know she’s a romance writer. Use the Heart of Brigidto lure her into the bedchamber.
You can do it,
Guardian Seamus, G.E.M.S.
“Heart of Brigid, Heart of Brigid,” Griffin muttered to himself while turning the rough stone in his hand. Why was it important? And who exactly did he sit next to on the airplane?
He made a note to ask Pierce to investigate his movements in the last few weeks. He had ticket stubs and receiptsfrom San Francisco and a boarding pass along with stamps on his passport.
Why was he out of the country?
Since Pierce told him to read the annals, he slid a monstrous leather-bound book from the bookshelf. A note inside the cover read:
Your name is Griffin Gallagher. You are one of the four guardians of our race. Every time you visit the Otherworld, you will returnwithout memory—a blank slate. Go through these pages to receive the lives you’ve lived. But beware. If you did not religiously update these annals, you will be filled with regret.
Griffin flipped through the pages. The earliest entries were full of lyrical poetry, written during the time of the Tuatha Dé Danann. It was filled with battles and beautiful women being given as bridesto cement alliances. There was one named Brigid, whose heart was generous and loving. She was his true love, but she was forced to marry a war hero who turned out to be a despot.
He had the distinct impression of Brigid standing at the foot of his bed. But when he turned his head toward the fleeting image of a redhaired fairy dressed in white, it wasn’t there. Traces of her perfume lingered—aspring day in an orchard of apples with the clean scent of rainwater-washed clothing. He could almost hear her light and airy laughter, giggling like ripples of water.
He was allowing himself to be absorbed by the story, and he didn’t have the luxury of time to wallow in it. The key fact of that lifetime was that Brigid was shut away behind the walls of her husband’s castle.
Griffinflipped through more pages and grimaced at how spotty the record was. There were huge gaps, especially after the Christians came. Brigid would appear here and there as a saintly woman, and more than one incarnation of Griffin had been a priest or monk. Love was not spoken of beyond a passing glance or a word in the cloisters. Snippets of poetry mixed with expressions of piety and worship. It wasobvious the writer deeply admired the beloved saint, even though she was unattainable.
Not all of the stories were sad. In the eleventh century, Brigid led a band of female warriors who helped drive the Norsemen back out to the sea. She’d returned home loaded with booty, and apparently, he’d sired many children with her. The annals listed grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but in thetwelfth century, the lineage stopped.
Treachery and betrayal. The Norsemen are gone, but a new threat arrives. Norman invasion from the house of Clare. My precious heart is gone. Taken by the invaders. Brigid is ravished and with child. She weeps from the hills of Tara, watering the fields of shamrocks with her tears. She is trapped in the castle of her unwanted husband. She reachesfor a knife to plunge into her heart.
No, no, no, a goddess must not die.
A goddess must endure.
Griffin’s heart jolted with a deep ache. How had Brigid endured war, rape, and conquest? She had to have survived, right? As difficult as it was to be a goddess, Brigid was Ireland. Even if she had to go underground, she would emerge stronger and eventually escape the castleof her bondage.
He turned the page, eager to read about her leap to freedom. Alas, thick words of blotted ink told of more tragedy.
Brigid is lost. She is no longer in Ireland. I can’t find her. Can’t feel her. Can’t live without her. Maybe she left during the potato famine, but unforgivably, I did not make any entries and leave any clues. We should have lived happily everafter defeating the Norsemen. I must have failed to rescue her from the castle of the Normans. What have I been doing? Have I failed her? It’s unthinkable, but horror of horrors, I continue to exist without my precious Brigid. Could she have died?
