The police had said there was no sign of Gilly when they’d been here, and I figured the robbers had let her out in their hurry to flee the crime scene.
The cat mushed her face into my tear-soaked cheek, purring and chirping happily. She must have survived on the shop mice all this time. “I’m so happy you’re here, Gilly. I thought I was all alone.”
The calico cat licked my nose, as if to affirm that we were in this together, then hopped out of my arms and retreated to an overstuffed armchair for a nap.
I’d been home for all of five seconds and, just like that, it was like I’d never left at all.
Even the store and some of the stock looked just how I’d last seen it. Stacks of furniture with all sorts of jewelry, vintage clothing and old curios filled every nook and cranny.
The rows of stuff were piled so high you couldn’t see over them, the pathways between so confusing that signs with arrows pointing toward the exit and the register hung from the exposed ceiling beams.
Despite it being in the middle of the day, it was dark. Tapestries and other hangings for sale covered much of the windows. A plethora of lamps were plugged in with extension cords that threaded through the piles of inventory to the nearest wall socket. It was a miracle McCrum’s hadn’t burned down yet; everything about it was a fire hazard.
As I wandered deeper into the shop, signs of the tragedy that had taken place here became evident. Books scattered the floor, pages knocked from their bindings. A lot of the shop’s stock had been taken as evidence, but none of it had helped.
They still hadn’t found the bastards who murdered my grandparents.
I stepped over a toppled chair to reach the shop counter. Tears were flowing again, but now they were anything but happy.
There, staining the dark wood of the counter, was my grandpa’s blood.
The counter was beautifully carved and too big for the space it occupied. It had once been the bar in an old pub my great-great-grandparents had courted in. They’d bought the bar when the pub itself went out of business and used it for their store’s register counter. Now the beautiful antique was stained with their grandson’s blood.
The entire store was filled with old family legends, but the most interesting wasn’t the bar. It was what was mounted on the wall behind it.
Walking around the register, I grabbed a chair and stood on it to reach an unassuming oil painting—since I was five feet tall and couldn’t reach dick on my own—hanging on the wall. It was ugly, depicting a clumsily painted pile of kittens. It was also worthless, so no one ever asked about it, which was exactly what my grandparents intended.
The painting hid a secret.
I lifted the canvas off its hook to reveal a bronze shield etched with a celtic knot. At its center was a giant golden-yellow topaz fused into the metal.
Grandpa used to tell me stories about how our ancestors were once powerful monster hunters, who helped protect Ireland from dangerous creatures. Supposedly, our ancestors were at the Battle of Mag Tuired, a devastating fight between giants and man. Our side won, and the giant king’s eye—said to contain ancient power—was pried from his skull and given to our family as a trophy.
It was supposed to bring us luck.Ha.
The amber gemstone was beautifully eerie. When I was a kid, I’d climbed up on a chair just like this with a stick or broom to sneak a peek beneath the painting, and imagined the king of the giants staring back at me from his evil eye.
A shift in the gem’s reflection had a shiver skipping down my spine. I hadn’t moved a muscle, yet there it was again, moving shadows and glittering light on the stone’s surface.
I replaced the painting, hiding the stone from view.
It wasn't like I bought into the legend about the king of the giants and his eye of destruction. But I did know one thing:
It sure as fuck wasn’t lucky.
Chapter Two
Balor
Iknew who she was the moment the shop bell rang and she stepped inside. Maeve McCrum, the last surviving descendant of the monster hunters who cursed me.
She should have stayed in America. Because someday, somehow, I’d find a way to break my curse, and when I did, I’d kill her.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been trapped in this blasted form. After the first few centuries, the years melded together. But I heard everything. Each tick of the grandfather clock in the corner, taunting me with the passing seconds. The hum of the human machines on the road outside. The skitter of the mice inside the walls. Every jingle of the shop bell.
That fecking bell.It’s ring wormed into my thoughts, my nightmares. It wasn’t just the bell. This place, this curse, it was more than a prison. It was ball blisteringtorture.
I’d end the bloodline that did this to me.
