He’d downed four shots of expensive whiskey at one of the airport pubs before he got on the plane, and thank God the flight was only a little over an hour. That much alcohol was dangerous, he knew, but it was either that or pass the flight in the tiny lavatory, huddled on the floor, alternately throwing up and fading into unconsciousness.
At least he’d warned the flight attendants of his past terrible experiences on planes. When he’d gone to Hawaii five years ago, completely unaware of how badly he’d react to flying, they’d broken into the lavatory and dragged him out of there less than an hour after takeoff. The pilot had turned the plane around, and he’d spent a rather uncomfortable afternoon with security at Gatwick, trying to explain what he couldn’t understand himself. How he’d been perfectly fine until the plane had reached cruising altitude, and then totally lost his shit.
This flight hadn’t been quite as terrible as he’d feared. He’d almost broken down and booked a car ferry instead, but after nearly drowning less than two weeks ago, being on the water was even less appealing than taking to the air.
Ireland was visible out the window—had been most of the flight—and the sight of land made him feel marginally better. He still had at least a three hour drive ahead of him—once he sobered up—but he’d be in Doolin by late afternoon, and maybe then he’d find some answers.
Scoffing at his own stupidity, he let his head fall back against the seat. What was he doing? Flying—something he hated—to a country he’d never seen all because some daft old woman in a Greenwich pub had told him he’d find answers there. And protection.
What the fuck did he need protection from?
From the bastards who broke in to your flat and probably would have killed you had you not noticed the busted lock.
Three men and one woman had been waiting for him to come home, but all of them managed to evade capture. The police had been as baffled as he was. Though he made a good living selling his sculptures and performing semi-regular displays of his sand art, he lived simply, choosing to invest most of his earnings rather than spend them.
The criminals had taken nothing but his birth certificate. After filing all of the appropriate forms to protect his identity and credit, he’d tried to forget about the violation. About strangers in his private space. But something about the scent that permeated the entire flat made him physically ill every time he entered, and eventually, he’d packed a bag and moved to a hotel.
That’s where he’d met the strange woman. Snow white hair, wrinkled skin, purple eyes, and a voice that haunted his dreams.
“Doolin is where ya’ must go. Ye’re not safe here. Not anywhere. Not without protection. Find the silver wolf, and when the time is right, she’ll know what to do.”
And then the woman had pressed a small pouch into his hand. He’d been so fixated on it, on the feel of the velvety bag, on the way it sat heavy in his palm, that he hadn’t seen her slip away into the crowd.
As the pilot welcomed them to Dublin, Eli reached into his pocket, making sure the bag was still there. Inside lay a silver pendant with an intricate design—the tree of life made up of Celtic trinity knots. When he touched it, he could almost believe it was a living, breathingthing, and not merely a piece of jewelry.
He’d never believed in magic. In theother. Yet here he was, on Irish soil, about to hunt down a silver wolf? He just hoped Doolin had a zoo and the old woman hadn’t intended for him to track down a wild animal—one that could easily kill him.
* * *
Not long before sundown,he slowed his rented sports car as he entered Doolin. He’d thought it a town, but it was little more than a cluster of buildings around one main street.
Eli counted three pubs, one still under construction, a boarding house that couldn’t possibly have more than six rooms, a grocery store, and a petrol station.
Thiswas where he was supposed to find a silver wolf? Hardly. He’d be lucky to find a decent pint and some chips.
Why had he listened to the old woman?
Because nothing in your life at the moment makes sense, so why not?
His inner voice needed to shut the hell up, but since when had it ever behaved? He’d ended up in the headmaster’s office regularly back in boarding school because of it—and his habit of repeating whatever it said out loud.
But it had saved his life when he’d been about to drown. And stopped him from barging right into his flat after seeing the busted lock. So he’d trust it now. For at least a little longer.
Unsure where to start, he parked along a side street and headed for the largest pub. The weathered wooden sign proclaimed itO’Connor’s Pub, and next to the hand-carved letters was a rough likeness of a wolf.
“Fuck me, this is too much,” he muttered. But he’d come this far. Might as well see if fate—or whatever was guiding him these days—wanted to offer him another breadcrumb to follow.
Inside, a small band played in one corner, but only half of the tables were occupied, and the bartender chatted with a burly man on one of the stools. Eli’s stomach growled as the scent of chips and something richer—a stew, perhaps—wafted towards him. If all he got out of this place was a hearty meal and a pint, he’d count himself lucky.
“What’ll it be, mate?” the bartender asked when Eli slid into one of the empty seats.
“Got a local ale on tap?”
“Donegal Blonde and the Dooliner Irish Red. I’d favor the Red.”
The man nodded approvingly when Eli took him up on his suggestion, poured the pint, and gestured to a chalkboard on the wall for the menu.
After ordering a bowl of Guinness stew with a side of chips, Eli turned his attention to the band. They had an easy rapport with one another, the fiddle player telling jokes between songs, and a girl who couldn’t be more than fifteen working the concertina like a master.
