But she smelled like Bridget. Like chamomile shampoo and rain on a warm breeze. I broke eye contact briefly, the quiet stretching on interminably, to notice her outfit.

  There was a stain on her black button-down shirt. A stain I remembered from the bus bucket I had wrenched from her that last night at work.

  She always insisted on carrying them herself, because she could, because it wasn't my job, it was hers. Especially at the end of the night when customers were gone, it was the last one of the night.

  I know because I had a matching stain on my shirt that night. Pasta sauce had overflowed the bowl it was in, the dish on the top.

  She had fought me on it. But I had won, spilling sauce on each of us in the process. Because she was always too stubborn for her own good.

  The shirt the selkie had taken from her at my house. Before we'd ever come to Ireland.

  The first lick of genuine terror hit me then, and I prayed she couldn't scent it. She wasn't just pretending to be Bridget to get me.

  I think she wanted to be Bridget, which was a whole different level of insanity. She wanted what Bridget had and felt she lacked.

  I wondered how much her desire to be the queen of the Otherworld weighed against her longing for Bridget’s life. And whether those two intertwined.

  All that time, I sat and pondered. The twisted grin never faltered, her eyes shining with the same eerie glow; I wasn't sure if she had blinked once.

  It was mere seconds, but a few seconds too many. My suspicions confirmed I debated how to play this.

  “What happened to your shirt?” I said.

  It was a good enough place to start. The trance was broken; she looked down to see the week-old sauce on her shirt, looking back at me perplexed.

  “You spilled that on me, remember? Fifty-three’s mussels?”

  “When?”

  “Tonight, silly,” she said playfully, placing a hand on my arm.

  She might have the facts straight, alarmingly so, but Bridget never called anyone silly. Kids maybe not adults.

  “Oh, right,” was all I said.

  So she wants to go back to that night? Why? To erase everything that had happened since? Or because that was the first time we had kissed. Well, the real Bridget and me.

  Dredging up that memory brought a mess of emotions with it. There was something different once I had her in my home, in my space. Something primal.

  That protectiveness I felt for her was replaced by rage at the impersonator in front of me. Because of this psychopath in front of me, my Bridget was in danger. What kind of danger I still wasn't sure. Judging by my surroundings, the queen had an imagination for terrorizing people.

  My Bridget.

  But why didn't the queen make it look like my living room? Unless it was a weird loophole in the enchantment. Or better yet, a subtle threat I was supposed to acknowledge to ensure I played whatever sick game she was getting at. It worked.

  “Why don't you get more comfortable?” I hedged like I had the night Bridget had slept in my arms.

  Engulfed by my clothes, it was a testament to my willpower that I didn't tear them off her. But I was only getting used to seeing her that way myself. Before then, I was always attracted to her, but that night was like a switch went off.

  I wasn't just attracted to her physically anymore; it was the whole package. Every fiery inch of her. My own little fairy.

  This abomination wasn't her.

  But she still stared at me, unblinking.

  “Aren’t you going to get me some clothes?”

  “Of course,” I said, standing in one fluid motion.

  I didn't know where she was going with this one, but I stalked off to where I could only assume the bedroom was. Glad to leave her creepy ass on the couch.

  Except she got off the couch with me, following behind me soundlessly. I only noticed her when I turned the couch corner to head back to where a staircase wound its way up. Fuck.

  I needed time, time to figure out her end goal here. Time for Ruad to do something.

  The stairs were massive, leaving the living room, a large foyer to the left. Dominated by ornate wooden double doors, a chandelier, and a round table with a vase of dead flowers in it, the foyer faced the stairs and two hallways leading behind on either side. Directly across from the living room I was in was a massive dining room, the long table as intricately carved as the front doors.

  I continued, reminding myself not to gape; I think I wasn't supposed to notice it. Heading up the stairs, the thick red carpet under my feet muffled any noise, furthering the creep vibes even more. It was like a vampire's lair; I was waiting to see a coffin in the room.

  At the top of the stairs, I went left, picking the first door I saw. It wasn't at all situated like any of my homes, so I wondered why she made it seem like I should know the way.

  I'd guessed right, I think. A bed dwarfed the room, complete with gauzy drapes around the four-post bed. It wasn't a coffin, but it followed suit with the color scheme, blood-red and black everywhere.

  Two armoires were on either wall, one in front of me and one on the right. The one on the right was taller, so I ventured there. Opening the drawers I kept my t-shirt and sweatpants in, I was appalled to find my actual clothes in the drawers.

  The clothes that remained in my New Jersey home that had been washed and folded and put back by one of my assistants. I pulled out the pair I had given to Bridget that night, handing them over, glad my hands weren't shaking as much as I thought they would be.

  It was unnerving. My discomfort multiplied when the queen took off her clothes right there in front of me—watching as she unveiled Bridget’s body, wrapped in lacey things I had purchased for her in Ireland.

  Something must have shown on my face because her disappointment was palpable. Schooling my features, I knew it was too late; I’d offended her.

  “What? I thought you liked her body?”

  Shit.

  Chapter 7

  The pendant swiveled at the end of the chain in a dizzying dance. Much faster than before, as if it too were struggling to find her.

  Maybe it was.

  It went faster and faster, angrily swirling over the underground map. Finally, it froze over the cave system to the west, the entrance to Dubnos.

  Damn.

  “What do you know of Tech Duinn?”

  “The House of Donn, where souls go over by Bull Rock.”

  I merely stared at Joan; she was an encyclopedia of Irish mythology. She shrugged in response.

  “Saves me time. Yes, precisely. Specifically, where departed souls go, the underworld. Or hell, if that's what you prefer,

  “The queen has a long history with Donn, trading the souls of her mortal victims for power; many of those souls still reside there, tortured and deranged. If Bridget is there, our lousy luck has gotten worse.

  “Like the Greek myth, when the man went to bring his wife back from Hades and was told not to look back, but he did? And then his wife had to spend half of the year with Hades? The same concepts apply here.

  “Most of what humans have dealt with are fairies and sprites, lesser beings with minor magic. Bridget’s brought out the heavy hitters. The ruling Fae has dictated the laws of nature since this world was created. But they always have these absurd rules, twisted bargains, loopholes.

  “If the queen has bargained with Donn, using Bridget’s soul, it will take a miracle to get her out. This tells us that Carman and her sons were likely a part of that agreement, their souls for Bridget’s. But why?”

  I started pacing as I thought. Carman was valuable to Donn; before she was sent to her death, she had brought him countless souls. But her soul was worth as much in the underworld as it was in the mortal realm. She was a valuable instrument of torture.

  But Donn had to know Dagda would never allow her to remain. And the queen knew so too. So it was like lending her but for what gain?

  Dagda wouldn't let Bridget remain in hell. Except to be reincarnated.

  But this is all unnecessary if the queen never gets Declan. So what am I missing?

  Unless the queen has something on Dagda, or Dagda had set this up from the start. To prevent Brigid and Lugh from claiming his throne rightfully.

  Maybe he wants the queen to get Declan, who has the blood of the Fomorians flowing through his veins. So he can attach Bridget to a Fomorian of his choosing.

  To protect his claim to the throne.

  Because if his daughter were linked with Lugh, no one in the realm would argue their rule. But that's if he made them immortal.

  Giving them to the queen gives him what he wants without getting his hands dirty. The queen gets Declan, but that won't matter if he marries Bridget to the Fomorian prince.

  He gets a son-in-law that no Fae or fairy would accept as their ruler but pacifies the Fomorians. A daughter cowed into submission.

  The queen gets a new toy for however long she wants, gaining more power or simply something to entertain her.

  And I was so lost in my misery I never put the pieces together. Or better yet, killed in the process.

  So Dagda had allowed Carman to be freed to draw me out, knowing I couldn't sit back and let Bridget handle her alone. Knowing I could stand in between Bridget and Declan.

  Knowing that the only time I ever had Bridget in my lifetime was when she married that dreaded giant. And I’d taken the bait.

  Chapter 8

  I stuttered.

  “Whose?” I said, genuinely confused. It was the only answer that gave me an out, anyway.

  “Bridget’s, but if you would prefer someone else, I can do that,” she said.

  “Um...”

  She shimmered like heat off the blacktop on the hottest day of the year before reappearing as she was during Bridget’s trial. Like the woman from Salem, Mary, I think it was.

  It was an improvement not to have to look at Bridget's face, but I couldn't say I found this woman to be attractive. She seemed to notice that and bore a resemblance to Bridget again but changed her features slightly to make it not Bridget.

  A chill ran through me.

  “Why don't you show me you?”

  She frowned at that. Like I’d insulted her.

  “Why be me when I can be whomever and whatever I want?” she said with a purr.

  And again, she changed, wavy lines of magic blurring her features until she was taller and leaner. And much closer to me.

  She ran a hand seductively down from my collarbone to the middle of my chest as she took another long stride forward until her breath warmed the air between us. Looking through her lashes at me, she reached out with her other hand to grasp my waist, but I twisted out of her reach.

  Her eyes turned feline, genuinely feline, with slits for pupils instead of the round ones she had a moment ago. Baring her now sharp teeth, she closed the distance between us with a pull of my shirt until her lips were inches from mine.

  “Why aren't you obeying?” she spat.

  I felt the licks of her magic claw against the markings on my chest. Sharp talons digging for my psyche, meeting a brick wall.

  “What did you do?” she screeched, using genuine claws to tear through my shirt.

  Her fingertips curved inward in predatory spikes, leaving my shirt in ribbons. And though they'd met with flesh, the skin underneath hadn't so much as reddened.

  The waves became tendrils of smoke, black and oily, slithering toward me. Her hair transformed to match it as if it were the dark magic now reaching for me, her teeth sharpening and lengthening like the panther she now resembled.

  “Clever,” she snarled, running her hands lower until I swatted them away in irritation.

  She smirked as those snakes of mist curled around me, testing me, tasting me, probing for weakness. They slithered up my bare chest, coiling around my back and up my neck to my ears as if searching for a way in.

  Chills raced across my spine as goosebumps danced on my skin. Like thousands of ants marched on the hairs on my body, their touch feather-light and creepy.

  I refused to react beyond the physical response my body gave: no smirks or scowls, nothing. My face was made of granite as those tickly wisps covered me thoroughly.

  Our eyes were locked in a match of wills. Each of us waiting for the other to cave first. She did.

  As her magic licked across my skin, she snarled in frustration at last. Those tiny ants became fire ants, and with each lick across my skin, I felt the flames burn hotter but not enough to do damage—much to her chagrin.

  “Ethniu,” she said like a curse.

  I didn't dare react.

  “Your mother, or didn't your dear pal tell you?”

  The confusion shone in my eyes involuntarily.

  “Yes, that dear friend of yours that stepped out of the way for you? Who let you have the woman he loves?”

  She sauntered across the room like the jungle cat she was, quiet and deadly—black smog in her wake. A tantalizing smile graced her lips as she strolled to the bed, pushing back the curtain to seat herself. I had to turn to face her, placing my back to the drawers full of my clothes.

  “You didn't think he was indeed on your side? How silly. Surely a man like you doesn't have to reduce himself to someone else’s sloppy seconds?”

  If steam could curl out of my ears like the old cartoons, I'm sure it would be by now. But still, I remained stoic, crossing my arms over my nearly bare chest and leaning against the dresser. I knew what she was doing, and I wasn't going to bite.

  “No, a man like you could have any woman he wanted: red hair and all. You have it all, looks, brawn, and brains. And let's not forget that hint of something no one could ever quite put their finger on. That magic that courses through your veins. Your extensive veins, in those extra-large arms, fill out your monstrous frame. Have you never wondered why you settled for her?” She spat the last.

  I'm not going to take the bait, I reminded myself. It wasn't worth it. She was all talk; Ruad was working on getting me out right this second.

  But he did love her.

  “Have you never noticed the strings they pulled? Never questioned why you were here? You, instead of him? How can you be sure you acted on your own free will and not by a spell he'd placed on you? Her too? Just toying with you, using you as their willing sacrifice?”

  Gritting my teeth, I could feel the scowl deepening of its own accord. I could feel magic, I reminded myself. I'd know if I were under a spell. And Ruad has never been anything less than honorable.

  Except maybe for kissing her. And her him. That time in the bathroom...

  “It's a weird game they have been playing for millennia. Right now, I'm sure they're laughing at you from the bedroom. How blindly you ate what they shoveled your way, begging for more. Thanking her and the stars above for giving her to you. While she slowly sucked the life right from you, without you even noticing.

  “And then they dump you at my doorstep to be wiped from existence and trapped for eternity in this wasteland like me. Getting power from your suffering.”

  She would never. Could never. Could Ruad?

  “Big, strong, handsome, intelligent, and gullible. You knew she was too good to be true, and yet you ignored that feeling. Instead, you saw a victim, a damsel in distress. She played you like a fiddle, every forlorn look, every night clinging to you like a sad puppy, even the circles under her eyes. Like a moth to a flame, she lured you in, calling on your need to be the hero, to sacrifice yourself for her.”

  She stood from the bed, gliding to where I stood in three long strides. Bracing herself against me with those hands on my chest, no longer bearing claws but dainty polished fingers that curled into my bare chest, lighting up the wardings drawn there.

  “We could fight them, you and me. You don't have to be their whipping post. I could help you if it weren't for these things.”

  Idly tracing the wardings as she spoke, they shone like embers in the night. I was inclined to believe the wardings, burning hotter with every stroke of her hand as if to turn her to ash.

  “What about my mother?” I growled, voice coming out hoarser than I thought.

  “She’s a witch. Why do you think she knows so much about us? How she can do magic of this caliber?”

  She was lying. This was all to get me to give in, to take her side.

  “She’s no better than the other two, you know,” she whispered.

  Pushing off of the dresser, I shook away those greedy hands, stalking off to where I didn't know but away from her. The door slammed in my face before I could get to the hallway, whipping my head around in a rage.

  My hand was on the dresser, shoving with all my might when I felt it. It felt like sugar dissolving in coffee, a melting sensation, sand through an hourglass.

  It stopped the war I was about to wage, the temper that burned rational thought in a white-hot blaze. It fizzled out like a firework, there one second and gone the next.

  I felt a moment of disbelief; it had been years since I felt out of control like this. The anger that used to be a second skin wielded whether necessary or not. She had done this to me, this thing in front of me.

  Turning to her, the smile that split her face in half was nothing short of vile. She pointed at her chest with that vicious sparkle in her eyes until I looked down at my own; the wardings were gone.

  I could barely hear the dresser as it crashed to the ground, splintering wood, and sending shards flying dangerously through the room.

  Chapter 9

  “Take the wardings off, all of them,” I ordered Joan.

  She flinched at my tone, and I winced.

  “But won't she be able to control him then?” she whispered, cringing slightly.

  I made an effort to relax my shoulders and take a few calming breaths before answering. I didn't want to scare the poor woman. I hadn't noticed the thunder cloud of anger wrapped around me. Once I saw her reaction, I felt it suffocating me, threatening to pull me down.

  Like he'd anticipated it doing.

  “Sorry, better?” I asked Joan before proceeding.

  She relaxed her shoulders in response, rolling them backward out of the hunched position she had been in. Blowing out a breath of air, she nodded her affirmative. I cast a spell of silence around us before I began.

 

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