I will know if you succeed, if my bones knit strong, and my skin heals smooth, if my joints grow supple, and my muscles stretch limber. I will know if trees bud and flowers bloom. If the hills and valleys of Ireland are blanketed with life, green, lush, colorful, and full of song—from the giggling streams of clearwater to the symphony of birds and bees.
But you will fail. You’re a man, after all—not a god.
Your eyes will grow dim, and your hair will fall out. Your back will stoop, and your blood will turn to sludge. You will write these words and more to the young man you sire—for he, mayhap, be the hope of Éireann. He, mayhap, is the truest of true hearts, and he, mayhap, is the man destinedfor a queen—or not.
“Clare, I’m leaving to go to work.” Sorcha’s voice snapped her out of the fairy tale. “I might be able to sneak into the lab tonight. Can I take the Heart of Brigid?”
Clare slipped the Green Notebook underneath her mattress and pulled out the crystalline amulet. She studied it and shook her head. It was most likely a worthless bauble, embellished by Griffinto be a magical thing. “Sure, be careful and keep it safe.”
Maeve peeked through the door. “How’s the story coming along? Don’t forget to write me in as the sexy strumpet fairy.”
“I’m beginning to realize it’s not all about sex and romance,” Clare said. “Real relationships between humans and fairies can be very complicated, and they might not end well for the humans. Fairies arevery tricky.”
“I prefer the sexy ones,” Maeve said. “Like the warriors and high kings.”
“How about horror mythology?” Clare stretched out her fingers in a creepy motion, stalking Maeve. “Fairies luring humans into the Otherworld to prey on them, drink their blood, and eat their heart?”
“What’s gotten into you?” Sorcha put the Heart of Brigid in her messenger bag and slungit over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go.”
In deference to all of them keeping a low profile, she was wearing jeans, suede boots, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a denim jacket. Her double-braided hair was wound into a tight bun.
“I’ll get you the material on both Brigid the goddess and St. Brigid,” Maeve said, clipping her long blond hair into a bun. She, too, was wearing regular streetclothes: ripped jeans, and a sweater with a calfskin jacket. “Some say that the relics of Saint Brigid were destroyed during the reign of Henry VIII. No one’s ever heard of a heart.”
“Griffin probably made it up,” Clare conceded. “But whether he truly believes it or he’s just playing a game with me, I can write a screenplay around it and get him to fund my movie. After all, wouldn’t hewant to see his story made into a movie?”
“Would he be interested if he’s as weird as you say?” Sorcha pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose and blinked at Clare. “I think you need to get some sleep. You’re sounding as strange as him.”
“He’ll want to see it in a movie or book,” Clare said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have talked so much after finding out I’m a writer. Peoplewant to see themselves. You know how they’re always stopping me on the street to tell me they have an awesome story that should be made into a movie.”
“True, true,” Maeve said, wiggling her shoulders. “I’m the sex-starved Queen of the Fae. Write something for me.”
Sorcha twirled around, swinging her messenger bag. “Right, and I’m a sorceress from the Irish springs. I have great magicstored in my bones.”
“Okay, okay, I’m saving you two for another book series,” Clare said.
Her two besties waved goodbye and sauntered out the door, both talking at the same time about their big break into the movies.
As soon as their voices faded into the lift, Clare rushed back into her room and retrieved Griffin’s green notebook. She had a great idea for a new series basedoff Griffin’s story—the fight between the Morrigan and Brigid for a griffin’s heart.
She opened the notebook and flipped to the last page she’d read. A postcard dropped out—an appointment reminder mailed to Griffin’s address up in Donegal.
Now she had an address. Great. But what was this?
Clare checked the date on her mobile phone. He had a doctor appointment today at thePoddle Neurological Institute.
Curious.
Not only was Griffin an imaginative storyteller, but he could possibly be crazy, too.
She looked up the Poddle Neurological Institute. It was north of the River Liffey and a half-hour bus ride from their apartment.
Clare stifled a yawn and brewed herself a large cup of coffee. She’d learned in her year in America to appreciatethe caffeine kick. Jet-lagged or not, she was going to find out all she could about this lunatic would-be investor of hers.
After drinking the coffee, showering, dressing in nondescript clothes, a plain blouse and a pleated skirt, and pulling her hair into a boring bun, Clare boarded a bus headed north toward the institute.
She wasn’t sure what to think or feel.
Griffin hada neurological disorder. Maybe he coped with it by making up stories, or his arrogance was a defense mechanism. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as she assumed, and he wasn’t mocking her or being rude.
