Resurrection, page 10
“Finnigan? It’s not like him to run off. Finnigan!” He leaned on my shoulder.
“I’ve got you, Eamon.” Ciarán wrapped his arm around the older man, and we half-carried him to Saoirse’s truck.
“Ciarán, laddie. You’re back. Well, it’s a kind thing that the Faerie girl did, wasn’t it?” Eamon limped ahead.
Ciaran murmured quiet words as Saoirse gasped.
I stood in the courtyard, watching the truck roll in the other direction. My course of action was clear as mud.
Calla
Resurrection soared, his hooves barely touching the ground. My thoughts scattered with the clapping wind. The horse stretched into a full gallop, showing no sign of tiring. I doubt I could have slowed him. He was a wild creature, more magic than flesh and bone. It was overwhelming, and yet not.
I needed to escape from all that I had become. For the first time since arriving in this Otherworld, I could breathe. I found solace in that. I could stay or leave—eventually, once I had fulfilled my part of the bargain. I had no doubt Finvarra would keep his.
Lightning rippled, sending crackling bolts through a darkening sky, shards of light piercing the green canopy. The air softened into something malleable and alive. Shadows bled, and colors whipped by, blurred and iridescent, fiery shades of earth and sky. The wind found me first, buffeting my body with warm, caressing gusts. I closed my eyes, my mind racing with visions of muscled lines and sculpted edges—Colm. His thoughts reached mine, his voice calling me from a dark place I couldn’t find. Yet, I could feel him. The soft brush of his lips, his tongue stroking mine, his teeth raking my lower lip. His hands drifted, igniting the fire. Hunger overwhelmed me, need coursing through my veins. I clung to him, his fevered kisses cooling. The forest was silent, except for those listening.
I loved him, and yet I was allergic to that word.
Resurrection raced onward, his ivory mane flowing with the wind. I don’t remember losing the reins, but it didn’t matter. It was liberating. The horse understood. My entire life had been a lie. It was no one’s fault. It just was.
6
Calla
“What do you know about our mother?” I tugged at the loose thread linking the plunging bodice to the tiered skirt of the crimson ball gown. The puffed shoulders added a fairy tale charm, while the fitted sleeves brought sophistication. Dressing up had never been this much fun.
Macha turned her gaze toward the lady’s maid, fussing with the scalloped hem of her gown, a fancy affair of satin and lace, the straight neckline framing her face. “Leave us, Betty.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl dipped her head, curiosity clear in her silver eyes. She gathered her sewing kit against her chest, obeying Macha’s demand.
“Where did Betty come from?” I watched the girl leave the suite of rooms. “Is she Tuatha?”
“Yes, of course.” Macha’s lips peeled into a grin. “What? You think we steal mortals to work in the castle?”
“The thought crossed my mind.” I dismissed that idea and moved on to a different conversation, one of greater importance at that moment. I needed information, and Macha was the person who could provide it. I lifted the flowing skirt of the elegant dress, admiring the way the rich hues transitioned into an ombre effect, and followed Macha to a cozy nook lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, my black stilettos clicking on the marble floor.
“Why would Ériu send me away?” I ran my fingers across the leather spines, inhaling the woody scent of vellum pages. The idea of reading all those books made my head spin.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Her hand rested on an ornately carved desk in the center of a braided rug. “Why would Mother do such a thing?” She pinned her bottom lip beneath her upper teeth and stared at me.
“I don’t know.” I studied her eyes. “Ériu was weak, dying.”
Macha’s face paled.
“She said they would use my dark heart against me. She told Orlaith to take me away.” Her reaction sent an icy chill down my spine.
“Who would do that?” Macha gazed over her shoulder.
“I don’t know. How would I know? I have to assume she meant Finvarra.” I studied the purple petunias spilling over the window’s edge, entangled with twisting tendrils of glossy green ivy.
“No…that’s not possible. Your magic is your own. Another can’t control it.” She shook her head, denying my accusation.
“Hmm…well, it seems once Finvarra discovered my existence, he stole me away from my world, just like he did Ériu. That’s all I’m saying.” I pressed my lips into a straight line.
“Hello, Sweet Thing.” She smiled as the feline slipped through the open lancet window, disturbing the foliage creeping over the sill. The cat’s purr followed it around the room. It stretched out on the floor, warming its belly by the fire.
“What’s its name?” I lifted my chin, wary of the hissing beast.
“Sweet Thing.” She giggled.
“Sweet Thing?” I stared at the cat, unsure of what to think of its presence. I had learned that not everything was as it appeared. “Do you know a little man named Seamus?”
“No.” Her eyes shimmered as she considered my revelation. “Mother and father were together for a long time. He didn’t steal her.” She scooped up the snow-white cat into her arms, his long body nearly reaching her knees.
“I’m sorry, Macha, but there are things about Ériu you don’t know. Things that Finvarra didn’t tell you.” I hugged myself and sighed.
“I guess you’re right. You must be right, or you wouldn’t be here. We didn’t know of your existence. I don’t think Father knew.” She glanced up and placed the cat on the floor, rubbing its head for the last time.
“The bees told him, or so he says.” My gaze remained on Sweet Thing. “I get it. You don’t know me, but we are sisters.” I enunciated the last sentence, charming her with my sincerity. Her raised brow told me one thing—she saw right through me.
“Hmph. What do you know of our people, Rioghain?” She turned, her gaze scanning the vast library of ancient tomes.
“Not a lot. Some. What are you looking for?” I followed her gaze up and up again.
“A book with pictures?” She glanced over her shoulder.
“I can read, Macha.” I planted my hand on my hip. “I had a career before arriving in this Faerie kingdom. I was a newscaster on a major television network.”
“What is that?” She crossed to the other wall.
“A career is a job—something you do daily to make money.” I rested my chin in the crook of my hand.
“I know what a job is, Rioghain. We all have jobs of some sort. What is a newscaster?” She repeated the word.
“Huh…this is another world. Hmm, a newscaster speaks out to all the people listening and tells them what is happening in the world.”
“Like a bard or a traveler or a dove.” She nodded her head up and down, comparing ancient means of communication. “And a television?”
“A television is a screen that shows pictures. Sounds and voices come from it.” I studied her.
“I would like to see a television.” She seemed to float through the room, elegant in a simple white dress that rippled to the floor. “Let me see what I can find. We have many ancient works here.” She looked at my raised brows. “Battles. Magic. The origins of our people.” She grasped the side rails of a wooden ladder, gliding the wheeled legs across the marble floor. She lifted her skirt, climbing one rung after another in cloud-white satin slippers.
“Do you need help?” I held the ladder with both hands.
“Of all these manuscripts, this is my favorite.” She released her grip and dropped to the floor.
“How did you do that?” I wondered what had just happened. Was it a trick of the hand? An illusion? Floating? Another ability I must learn.
“Do you know of Donn? The Lord of the Dead?” She held a yellowed manuscript in both hands.
“Donn? Yes, I’ve heard of him.” I dragged my thumb across the soft vellum, and the air stirred, warmth caressing my face.
Beneath the waves, a barren rock broke the surface of the sea. The scarred man stared at me—his empty eyes hidden beneath a hooded shroud.
“Donn is Ériu’s father, our grandfather.” She pursed her lips, blowing a layer of dust in all directions, then offered it to me almost reverently. Leaving the alcove, she gestured for me to follow.
I hung onto the compendium for dear life, my stomach coiling. The vision swallowed me, coming to life in technicolor. I teetered back and forth, the ocean roaring in my ears.
Thunderous rolling waves reverberated through the tombstone. Even the seagulls avoided this place.
The island resembled a volcano, a jagged, desolate rock stretching toward a vacant sky. The vast central chamber glimmered with dark lumens, and four stalagmite pillars studded with black diamonds touched the upper vault. A corridor wound deep, twisting and turning into its dark heart, where an assembly of the dead waited.
Finvarra, ever young, sat across a low stone table facing the scarred man, Donn, the Lord of the Dead. The scar cut his smile in two, giving him a menacing appearance.
The Lord glared at his confident opponent, fury seething in his dark eyes. Between them sat a familiar marble slab—a chess board, the chess pieces fashioned from the bones of Donn’s enemies, the Tuatha Dé Danann.
“My friend, it appears you’ve met your match. Our accord is complete.” Finvarra’s voice echoed off the gallery walls. He made his last move, a broad smile spreading across his handsome face.
Ériu, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, stood behind Finvarra. She placed a congratulatory hand on his shoulder.
Oh my God.
I rested my hand on the ladder.
“Rioghain, are you all right? Would you like a jammy scone?” Macha’s voice chased away the vision. She offered a silver tray covered with sweet delights: fluffy scones drizzled with vanilla icing and oozing with strawberry jam.
“How is that possible? Ériu was mortal, a human.” She had confirmed my vision in the stable-yard. The wraith who spoke to me—Ériu, called The Lord of the Dead—Father.
“Yes, she was once.” Macha lifted the gilded frame of Ériu and Finvarra. She stared into the photo, her eyes misty.
“Okay, I don’t get it.” I turned my head.
“Read the book from front to back.” She pinned her lips together, unable to hide her smile.
“I don’t have a lot of time, Macha.” I knew how hurtful my words sounded. Macha, kind, sweet Macha, deserved a better sister than I.
“Have a scone.” She held me in her pop-bottle gaze. Macha, the one who binds the threads, held this family together. Was she reading my thoughts?
“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t belong here. I need to go home.” Home…the word rolled over my tongue. I had a home. And a man who wanted me—Colm. My toes curled, anticipating the moment we saw each other again. I closed my mouth over the sweet delight and hummed appreciation.
“Do you not want to stay? There is much for you to learn. I would like to get to know you, as would Nemain.” Her voice softened, her words inviting agreement.
Wow!
“I want to know you both.” I placed my fingers over her wrist, and she smiled.
“The Milesians came from Iberia, defeating the Tuatha for possession of this land. Some of our people left, but not all. Father negotiated a truce with the sons of Mil, and those who wished to stay remained. Banished to a world beneath the ground.” Macha bent her head, focusing on the petunias climbing over the windowsill, pulling wilted deadheads from the flowering plant.
She gave me a history lesson, which I might have known had I tried to learn.
“How is this beneath the ground? The sun is shining in a brilliant blue sky. There are lakes and trees. I rode the most beautiful horse through those dark woods, the wind whipping my face. Over gully and vale and back to this castle. Fin has a dog, a furry, drooling beast. And that cat. Well, I don’t know what to make of Sweet Thing. This is not beneath the ground.” I sat on the cushioned window seat and crossed my ankles. There was no academic answer to this. It just was.
“Thousands of years have passed, Rioghain. Our people built great cities within this realm. We became the Daoine Sidhe—a spirit race feared by mortal beings.” She turned to the credenza, glanced at the portrait, and poured tea into two pewter teacups.
“Thousands of years? Finvarra is thousands of years old?” I cocked an eyebrow.
“Aye. Father is one of the oldest in the realm.” She gestured toward the painted credenza beneath the life-sized portrait of Finvarra and Ériu.
“I need more, Macha. What does this have to do with our mother?” I lifted the cup, noticing the blue sapphires embedded in the footed base.
“When Mil’s sons sailed to Ireland, a great wave met them. Donn was the first to die. He assumed the role of the Lord of the Dead. His daughter was Ériu.” Macha sat in the high-backed chair, her knees pressed together, her shoulders straight, clenching and unclenching her fingers.
“The Lord of the Dead is our grandfather?” I sipped the warm tea, letting the floral fragrance wash over my tongue.
“Father traveled to the underworld, where he bartered for Ériu’s return. She left Donn’s realm and lived as Finvarra’s consort. They were lovers, Rioghain. They lived together in this castle where they made us.” She handed me the gilded frame.
I gazed at the portrait of Ériu and Finvarra, his hand resting on her shoulder. Her explanation didn’t sit well. Bartered? I knew differently.
“Not that long then, in the grand scope of his never-ending life.” I mused. “How many worlds are there? Never mind, I don’t want to know.” I closed my eyes and then opened them. “What dark magic can bring a dead soul back to life?”
“Father is a powerful being, as is Grandfather.” She smiled.
“So, Finvarra gets what he wants?” I wondered how many lives Finvarra had tampered with. “He brought Ériu back to life, to live within this realm? That’s what you’re saying?” I rubbed the gilded frame with my thumbs. Nothing. I sensed nothing.
“She was not dead, but yes. That’s what I’m saying.” She nodded her head, sadness dwelling in her eyes.
“Wow. I don’t know what to say. Wait. Does that mean she’s ‘living’ in the Underworld now?” I left the frame on the mantle and turned toward her.
“This is a lot for you to comprehend. But in time, you will come to learn all there is to know. Perhaps the Druids would be helpful. We could have a day out, a picnic in the forest.” She twined her fingers, holding her hands against her chest. “There are others you should meet.”
“I’d love to hang around and get to know you and Nemain, but I need to get back. Tell me more about this world.” I gazed at my watch and inhaled a sharp breath.
The hands of time stood still. Since when? Yesterday? Was it yesterday? No, it was this day—this afternoon. I tapped the glass face with my fingertip. Two fifteen p.m. The exact moment the winds lifted Colm away. I gripped the windowsill, gazing over this Faerie kingdom.
Chickadees chirped, singing in unison within the branches of a nearby apple tree. A bold sun shone in a cloudless sky.
“Father is leaving the castle tomorrow for Knockma. He expects us to go with him. Did you choose your horse?” She looked sad.
“I did. Resurrection. I hate to leave him behind when I go.” I turned toward her, refusing to acknowledge the obvious. How did I escape this underground world?
“You can’t leave, Rioghain. There is much you need to learn.” She placed her hand on my forearm. “Sit with me. Please.”
“Show me how to call upon the mist. I can learn to journey later.” I twined my hands together.
“Nemain is better to show you. I have no use for the féth fiada.” She shrugged and looked away.
“Why not?” I said, my throat tightening as I watched the cat and its beaming eyes.
“I like it here.” She gathered my teacup and walked away.
“What’s that look for, Macha? What’s wrong?” I said as I rose from the window seat and approached her.
“I don’t enjoy Knockma. It’s too big, too busy. Nuala lives there.” She looked at me, her expression weary.
“Who is Nuala?” I inquired, taking a step back from the approaching feline.
“Father’s wife, the Queen of the Realm,” she said with a note of finality.
“The Queen…oh…I get it. Ériu was what? A salacious tryst? So, we’re the love children of a sordid affair. Is that it?” I grinned, laughter bubbling inside me—the bastard children of a Faerie King.
Someone should write a book.
“Perhaps. Nemain steals the show, and Nuala hates her for it. I prefer lurking in the shadows.” She smirked, revealing the true Macha behind those thick glasses—clever and smart.
“I’ll bet. I wonder what she’ll think of me?” I flinched. Why did I ask the question? What did it matter? Macha’s furrowed brow left me guessing.
“Fin said we have great powers. Is that true?” I picked Macha’s brain, searching for clues, hoping she would spill the tea.
“Nemain snares men’s hearts. Toys with them. Destroys at whim.” She sniffed, and yet her voice held admiration.
“She is a heartbreaker. Anyone can see that.” I grinned.
“That’s not what I mean.” Her eyes widened.
“What do you mean?” I raised my chin, watching her every move.
“You’ll have to decide for yourself. The last one was a kind gentleman, an artist. The poor soul pined away and died. She has no remorse. No conscience. Our sister leaves destruction in her wake.” She tsked her tongue, her gaze fiery.
“And you hate her for it?” Silence followed my question. I tried another tactic. “And what about you, Macha? What is your extraordinary power?
“I have none.” She pursed her lips.
“I don’t believe that.” I smiled, encouraging her to share more.
“I’m not beautiful like Nemain or you. I’m not good with people.” She stood still, her facial muscles tense.
