Maeve pretended to have a conversation with me that I hardly paid attention to. Until “Saint Patrick’s Day” dropped from her perfect lips.
Feck. Was it Saint Patrick’s Day already?
The holiday put a rancid taste in my mouth, always had. It celebrated Saint Patrick, the patron saint who brought Christianity to Ireland, driving out those who worshipped the old gods. And how did the humans observe the death of paganism in Ireland? With parades and shamrocks and wearing green. The beer was the only tolerable part about the whole thing. And why feckingleprechauns?Not as though the cunning wee bastards ever did humanity a single good turn.
Maeve replaced the painting back over my eye before padding upstairs to finish dressing. “Going to the pub for a drink. Don’t wait up,” she said several minutes later, coming back down the stairs. “Bye Gilly! Bye Balor!”
The front door closed, the chime of the bell announcing her exit, and I was left with my thoughts.
What were the odds of me ever being free again? What would I even do? Destroy everything the McCrum’s had held dear—except for Gilly. The cat had kept me company in my loneliest hours. But what next? My kind were gone. I was the last of the fomorians. I was prepared to die there on that bloody moor alongside my warriors, as any king worthy of his crown would. Instead, I was taken prisoner. Reduced tothis.
Pining for a girl that I vowed to kill. And a fecking mortal at that. Humans used to be nothing but worms to squash beneath my feet. I used to be a titan of a male, whose mere footsteps would make all of Ireland quake. Now I didn’t even have bullocks to scratch.
The sun set and the hours wore on. When the bell sounded, I thought Maeve had come home.
But no. Something was wrong.
The door had been forced in and heavy footsteps, belonging to men and not a five-foot-tall woman, clambered into my shop.
Gilly hissed at the intruders and bolted into hiding. Good. Being imprisoned in this shameful form was bad enough, but if those bastards hurt my cat—
“Tear the place apart. This time we’re not leaving without the evil eye.”
Rage had me tensing, and the entire building quaked.
“Wha–Earthquake?”
“No. It’s the fomorian king’s wrath. He doesn’t want us finding the eye. Hurry.”
These weren’t mere robbers, but cultists looking for my eye. With it, they’d have the power to travel to Tír na nÓg—The Otherworld.
These were the same people who’d broken in and killed Maeve’s grandparents when they’d refused to give up the stone’s location. They’d robbed me of their deaths. There was nothing I could do to stop them then, and if Maeve came home before they found what they were after, I’d be powerless to stop them from hurting her too.
As much as I wanted her dead, a possessive fire flared through me.
Maeve McCrum belonged to me.
Chapter Three
Maeve
Irish pubs were in a whole different league than the bars I’d been to in America. They were warm and intimate, almost always with live music and intermingling between patrons.
Tonight, the pub down the block from McCrum’s Curios, was especially lively.
As an introvert, I wouldn’t normally be so keen to talk to strangers. But these were locals, people who would hopefully turn into customers once I opened the shop. If I could even bring myself to open the shop.
I’d been back in Ireland almost two weeks now, and I couldn’t seem to make myself officially open McCrum’s again.
Something felt off.
I had a feeling the store wasn’t ready to open yet and, for whatever reason, I decided to honor that. Plus, that allowed me more time to read and draw and heal.
With the extra time, I’d also re-familiarized myself with the shop and the building. I’d even taken to calling it Balor. I didn’t believe that the topaz hidden beneath the kitten painting wasactuallyBalor’s evil eye, but it felt nice giving the store a name.
It was like the shop was a friend and family member. I needed that now more than ever.
Plus, giving the store a name and talking to it helped me feel more at ease. Because there was a vague ominous feeling I got from being in the shop alone…
