“She felt bad for me and decidedto pay me for the design work I did for her Fae line of evening gowns.”
Griffin couldn’t help groaning at the thought of fairy garb on the fashion show runways. “She’s perpetuating false stereotypes.”
“Not really,” Clare said. “I call it creative arts. Maeve and I researched all of the legends. The beauty of the Fae is that there are so many stories that don’t have to be consistent.Brigid is said by some to be the daughter of Dagda, but in another telling, she is the wife. Sometimes, her mother is Boann, the goddess of fertility, and others have her born of the Morrigan. Does it really matter which telling is right?”
“Guess it doesn’t matter which version of my family annals is right either,” he said. “I’ve never really thought about it, but if all of us, my grandfather,my father, and I are supposed to return the Heart of Brigid to free her as fairy queen, then which one of us is her true love?”
“It might not matter,” she said. “Just like Brigid is everything to everyone. What matters is what we do with the story. Do we play it out exactly as it’s told, or do we make it up as we go along?”
An intense feeling he’d gone this way before, heard thesame sentiment, peered into the identical emerald eyes, and lived an entire life with the woman next to him clutched his heart and shook him to the core.
“Do you believe in déjà vu?” he asked. “Because I feel like we’ve been this way before.”
“On this exact bus route?” She giggled and tapped his chin.
“Maybe, but it’s more the discovery or rediscovery that we’re either playingout a tale that’s set in stone, or we’re making it up as we go. Are you sure you and I haven’t had this conversation before?”
“I’m sure I’ve never met you,” Clare said. “At least I would have remembered.”
“How would you know if you forgot?” he teased. “It’s a question I always ask myself. If I don’t remember, does it mean it never happened?”
“That’s why you need pictures andvoice recordings,” Clare said, opening up an app. “I’ve recorded our conversation and uploaded it to the cloud.”
“This cloud of yours must be magic,” he said, taking the phone. Even though she closed the photo gallery, she was still logged into her social media page. He checked the “remember me” option on her settings so he could get back into her account and check out all her party pictures.
Something didn’t feel right with the fact that she coincidentally hung out with Seamus, who was also one of the four Guardians.
His fingers itched to text a message to his grandfather about this coincidence, but the bus screeched to a halt, and Clare stood up.
“This is our stop. Make sure to take a picture of the sign when you get off, so you’ll know how to retrace your steps.We’ll walk the rest of the way.”
Clare led the way at a fast pace toward the NeurologicalInstitute. The last time she got off the bus, she’d finished reading several disturbing entries in Griffin’s notebook. She’d also been curious to find out what neurological problem he had and whether he was dangerous.
“Hey, slow down a bit,” Griffin said, chasing after her. “I didn’t get to set my fitness app to record my walking path.”
“We’re running late,” she said. “The bus ridetook too long.”
“Eh, they’ll understand,” Griffin said. “I didn’t lose all my memory, and I remember the nurses are particularly nice to me.”
It figured they’d be charmed by Griffin. What was not to like about an heir to a real castle and one of the few members of nobility remaining in Ireland?
The problem with Griffin’s notebook remained. In it, he’d detailed lurid sceneswhere he had to sacrifice the daughter of his mortal enemy in order to gain the release of his beloved Brigid.
It had all happened in the twelfth century, and according to the notes, he was supposed to use the Heart of Brigid to return back in time. To do that, he’d needed a living, breathing female sacrifice victim.
Just recalling the words brought chills crawling over Clare’s exposedskin. Since he seemed to have forgotten his mission, she wasn’t about to give him the instructions of this heinous human sacrifice, especially if she was supposed to play the part of the daughter of Richard “Strongbow” de Clare.
Clare clutched her purse under her arm and hoped her sweating wouldn’t be noticeable, especially since the notebook was inside. Hopefully it didn’t call to him.
Clare was justified to keep the heinous plans from this newly innocent Griffin Gallagher. She should let whatever evil outlined in that book die.
It was time to get him a new life with a new story, and that included the proper care and treatment for his condition.
Did this mean she cared about him?
The thought jolted her and made her shudder. He was attractive and funto kiss, but he was unstable and liable to forget about her. How could she risk her heart on a man who might not recognize her? Besides, she was only going to show him her Brigid character loved him, so he could receive the Heart of Brigid and live happily ever after—without Clare’s involvement.
She and Griffin arrived at the entrance to the Poddle Neurological Institute. He opened thebright-yellow door for her and gaped up and around at the building.
