Chapter 9
A hike overlooking the ocean always cleared Griffin’s head. Of course, these days, his head was too clear of clutter, and he was busy refilling it with memories.
Pierce kept videos, photo albums, and timelines for him. He relearned names and places, events, birthdays,and favorites.
All of these were trivia and didn’t help him make head or tails about his purpose in life or give any clues about the Heart of Brigid and his role in it. He needed his notebook for that, and no one could find it.
Griffin crested a ridge and stood on the edge of the headlands of the Inishowen Peninsula. The wild, wooly sea foamed and churned around a jutting rock fartherout. Beneath that rock lay the bedchamber of Brigid.
He knew that now, after surveying the maps of his property, but he dared not descend the steps which would lead him to the Otherworld and Brigid without her Heart.
All he could do was wait for the private investigators to trace everyone he’d had contact with—down to the travelers who visited the restrooms with him, the people standingnear him at the baggage check, the flight attendants who served him, and obviously, the outlandish woman dressed in black feathers who’d sat next to him.
Her name was Clare Hart, a writer of romance between humans and supernatural beings, and she’d disappeared. The investigators had tracked her to Dublin, but she’d apparently walked out of her friends’ apartment a few days ago and was notseen since.
Seamus O’Toole had also dropped out of sight, not answering calls, texts, or email messages, and Griffin doubted the four families had ever worked together to do their duties. He couldn’t count on Seamus being an ally nor could he assume he was an enemy—not until he found more evidence.
Griffin stared at the rocky outcrop, breathing deeply of the scent of the sea mixedwith wildflowers and moss. The rocky ground held no trees, so unlike the description of the ancients which told of a land so dense with trees that the rays of the sun never reached the loamy soil beneath them.
He could picture the billowy sails of the Tuatha Dé Danann rising from the horizon. How different had Ireland appeared back then, an enchanted land teeming with life. Green and lush.Unspoiled.
It was his job to bring back Brigid’s heart, and all he had was a lump of coal. Taking it out of his pocket, he scratched off flecks of black.
“Come to me, Clare Hart, you witch. I dare you to appear. Why haven’t you shown yourself? Evil Morrigan.”
As if an answer to his summons, a peal of female laughter echoed from the valley behind him.
Griffin whippedhis head toward the sound. He narrowed his eyes as a stiff wind chilled the hairs on the back of his neck.
A small cloud rolled overhead, and the sky darkened.
Warbling laughter blended with the crashing of waves.
“Who’s there?” Griffin gripped the coal tightly and descended the trail off the headland.
A boulder stood in his way, so he went around it, and when he liftedhis eyes, he spied a maiden dressed in white basking on the top of the granite gneiss rock.
Her eyes were closed, and she leaned back with her face turned up toward the weak sunlight. Long, auburn tresses fluttered in the wind, and her legs were crossed to keep her white skirt from flying too high.
Brigid? But no, it was only a tourist.
A gray convertible was parked on theroad leading up to the rocky ledge.
Griffin didn’t want to disturb her, so he crossed to the other side of the boulder and descended the path opposite where her car was parked.
“Hello,” the bright, feminine voice called after him. “Are you from these parts?”
Griffin stopped in his tracks. She was actually on his property, but he never accosted the occasional tourist who trespassed.
“Did you hear me?” the woman’s voice rose. “I’m wondering if you could show me around.”
Slowly, Griffin turned, and his jaw dropped at the sight of the angelic vision. The woman walked toward him, shimmering with light. Golden highlights danced on her reddish-brown hair, and her skin was as fair as fresh fallen snow.
“You’re on my property,” Griffin said. “Did you take a wrongturn?”
A smile broke across her face, and her eyes crinkled with mirth. “Then it’s my fate to meet you. My name’s Brigid O’Brien.”
“Brigid?” Griffin’s voice choked in his throat. “Were you named for the saint or the goddess?”
