Emerald Isle (2 page)

Some women rise to frolicking kids cooking breakfast. Some crawl out of bed to discover a sexy note left by a lover.

At this point, I would have welcomed a call from a radio disc jockey.

My grandmother Birdie was perched at the foot of my bed, and she wouldn’t stop talking. She was incredibly excited, and because my level of enthusiasm before I’ve had my morning coffee is on par with that of a kid being whisked off to fat camp, I was not sharing her energy.

She didn’t hide her agitation when she said, “You still don’t understand, do you?”

“Not really, no. Come back later and tell me all about it.”

I flung the comforter over my head and burrowed deep under the covers with my Great Dane, Thor. It was a sunny
fall day at the end of September. Mabon, to be exact. The autumnal equinox, when the earth divides night and day in equal proportions and pagans honor the spirits of our ancestors. There are gardens to harvest, offerings to be made, rituals to perform.

It sucks sharing a birthday with a holiday.

Birdie sighed, as if the weight of the world rested on her lips. “I will explain it one more time.”

She yanked back the covers, exposing my bare arms and legs, sending a chill across my body.

“Please.” I put my hand up to stop her. “I need coffee first.”

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and stretched. Thor yawned in protest at being roused at such an early hour. He stood, circled the bed so his head faced away from the window, and collapsed onto a pillow.

Birdie offered to make the coffee and thankfully left my bedroom. As I rummaged through my closet, looking for a pair of sweats to throw over my shorts and tank top, I contemplated just what she was trying to tell me.

Which was, essentially, that I had not woken up the age I thought I would be today when I went to bed last night.

Of all the absurd conversations I had had with this woman over my lifetime, this was right up there with the dangers of garden gnomes.

You see, today was my twenty-ninth birthday, but Birdie was trying to work some sort of new math to convince me that I was actually turning thirty. This would not be that big a deal except that in my family—the Geraghty family, whose roots trace back to ancient Druids from Kildare,
Ireland—turning thirty was a whole lot more than a number. Thirty was a milestone. A momentous occasion. A commitment to being all you can be.

Simply put, thirty was the year that I was to grow into my full power as a witch.

And I wasn’t quite ready yet.

Granted, I had been training these last few months. Honing my ability to communicate with the dead, mastering spellcasting and psychic defense, studying the history of my heritage, my Celtic people, even combat techniques. Plus, I learned six different formulas for potions that would knock a man out long enough to steal his wallet.

Not that I was a thief, but you get the idea.

At every milestone along the way, with every achievement earned and test passed, I received a small token from Birdie or her two sisters, Lolly and Fiona, as a reward. Some were wrapped in faded, dusty paper. They must have been in storage for years. I have to admit, despite digging my heels in for so long, reluctant to be what my family wanted me to be, I enjoyed all I had learned over the summer and appreciated all they had gifted me. My little cottage in the tiny hamlet of Amethyst, Illinois, was now filled with books, heirloom seeds, crystals, wands, and athames. Everything a good witch needs.

Or, in my case, Seeker of Justice.

I still didn’t know if I bought that title. I certainly didn’t
feel
like part of the intricately woven fabric of ancient Druid laws. What I did know was that all of this training was to prepare me to meet with the pagan council in Ireland that had imprisoned my mother over fourteen years ago. Her crime was murder. Her case was scheduled for review
this Samhain, or Halloween, and Birdie insisted that they would release her then. She thought my involvement in protecting an ancient text from a homicidal couple last winter tilted the scale in our favor.

I hoped she was right. Because the man my mother had killed had intended to kill me. I was still a bit sketchy on the details. Not even Birdie knew exactly what had happened, because my mother had been taken abruptly and then denied all contact with our family. The man she had killed (my grandmother told me not long ago) had been a member of the very council I was soon to face for her freedom. So the lessons, the tests, the work I had poured into learning my path and my craft were more important than ever. There was no way to know if they would be put to use at the hearing, but I had a sense that the council across the pond might have a few tests in store for me.

It was important to be prepared for anything.

I stuffed my feet into fuzzy slippers and shuffled into the kitchen. My grandmother handed me a coffee cup dosed with cream and sprinkled with nutmeg. Just how I liked it. She watched me as I took one sip, then another, before she spoke. I climbed on top of a stool and put my elbows on the breakfast bar, giving her my full, caffeinated attention.

“All right.” Birdie paced, her aubergine skirt waving behind her. “It’s like this. The minute you take your first breath, the clock starts ticking.” She began counting on her fingers. “You are born, essentially, at the age of zero, then you complete one full year and”—she spun toward me—“in society’s eyes you are considered one year old.” She held up one finger.

“I think that’s how a calendar works, yes.”

“But you are actually
entering
your second year of life on this plane.” She paused, tried to read if that had sunk in. “Do you see? You have lived one full year.”

Somehow, it made sense. “I’m with you.”

“So.” She rolled her hand in the air, coaxing me to come up with the correct answer.

I put my head on the smooth counter and mumbled, “So I am entering my thirtieth year on this plane.”

“Precisely!” She smacked her hands together. “And upon its completion, you shall be fully vested as a proper witch.”

Leave it to Birdie to find a loophole in basic math. “But I haven’t even been studying that long. Surely, there’s a lot more to learn. We’ve barely tapped the Blessed Book.”

The Blessed Book, a written history of my ancestors and our theology, was filled with spells, potions, herbal remedies, rituals, and stories from generations past, as well as predictions for future generations. That’s where Birdie got the idea that I was the Seeker of Justice in the first place. My great-grandmother Maegan had predicted that a Seeker would be born in the New World. Personally, I thought it just a coincidence that my father’s last name happened to be Justice, but there you have it.

Birdie said, “You still have plenty of time before your mother’s review. With your great-aunts’ and my assistance, I think we may just get you fully vested before then.” She beamed at me.

“That’s just over a month away. I can’t learn the whole book in one month!” Seriously, the thing was thicker than Webster’s and Oxford’s dictionaries combined.

Birdie rolled her eyes and said, “Hogwash. You learned it all years ago. This is just a refresher course.” She patted my hand. She was in a suspiciously good mood.

I lifted my head. “What’s going on with you? Why are you so…bubbly?”

“Am I?” She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and winked.

“What’s wrong with your eye?”

She leaned on the counter, directly across from me. “You know, I’m not all business. I can be fun too.”

“Uh-huh.” I sipped my coffee. Birdie turned and reached for the pot to top off my mug, adding more cream and nutmeg.

“I have a surprise for your birthday is all,” she said quietly.

That woke me up. “No. No surprises, please. I hate surprises, Birdie, you know that. I’ve had enough surprises to last a lifetime.” Insane relatives, incarcerated parents, dead bodies, ghosts that not only talked to me but touched me, zombie dogs—these were just a few of the surprises that life had lobbed my way recently. I just wanted to relax and enjoy my first Friday off in years.

I asked, “Is it a trip to a day spa?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not interested.”

“Don’t be so cynical. You’ll adore it.” Birdie reached for her wheat-colored cape and headed for the door. “See you at dusk. Don’t forget to tell Lolly what you’d like for your special dinner. And bring all your tools for the ceremony.”

The ceremony. I’d almost forgotten. Mabon was a prime time of the year for a witch to rededicate herself, as was
any birthday. Because I hadn’t been practicing—or even interested in practicing since my father died, when I was a freshman in high school—Birdie thought I should be initiated again.

I slid the stool back and stood. “Birdie, shouldn’t we wait until after Mom is home?”

My grandmother paused for a minute, her back to me. All I could see was a spark of copper hair poking out from beneath her hood. Finally, she turned and said, “This is your time. Your mother’s revival will come when it’s her time.” She opened the door, tossed a smile at me, and left.

Had I known at that moment the surprise in store for me later that night, I would have crawled back under the covers with Thor.

I finished my second cup of coffee, showered, and dressed all before Thor climbed out of bed. I was just pulling on a pair of brown leather boots over my new jeans when he sauntered into the living room and did a full-body shake, launching a glob of doggie slime onto the ceiling.

“Good morning, boy. Are you hungry?”

He tap-danced around the living room and barked, raising a paw in the air.

“Okay, business first, breakfast second.”

I let my dog out the back door and reached into the cupboard for his stainless-steel bowl. I mixed him up a hearty portion of boiled chicken, pumpkin, and rice, laced with olive oil and a few vitamins. Thor had recently recovered from a nasty injury, and at our repeated visits to the vet, his doctor managed to convince me that cheeseburgers and pizza were not the best source of nutrition. There were no excuses for my ignorance on canine care, and I had to admit I was grateful for the fresher-smelling air in my house. Although every once in a while, we still indulged in a junk-food fix.

Thor let himself in the screen door a few minutes later by pulling on the handle with his teeth. The door slapped back and forth, and my giant familiar went to investigate what the morning’s meal consisted of while I reached for a strawberry yogurt.

My phone rang as I was cleaning up the breakfast dishes.

“Happy birthday!” Cinnamon, my cousin, said. “I hope you don’t have any plans today, because I booked us some girl time.”

“Does it involve pampering?”

“It does.”

“You rock.”

Cinnamon laughed, and we made arrangements to meet at the Amethyst Oasis Spa at eleven o’clock.

I called Lolly after that and requested her famous balsamic chicken and fried zucchini for dinner with peach ice cream and apple cake for dessert. Her gift to me every year was a fabulous meal I didn’t have to help prepare. As busy as she, Birdie, and their middle sister, Fiona, were running the bed-and-breakfast they owned (converted from the house their father had built), the three of them rarely took any time off. The last week of September was the one exception they allowed themselves. I wasn’t sure if it was a happy accident that my birthday fell around that time, if they planned it that way to celebrate in private, or if they just welcomed the break between the busy summer and the even busier fall season. Regardless of the reason, I had no complaints. I helped out at the inn whenever they needed a hand, which was quite often, so no guests for them meant a break for me as well.

A short while later, I was in the car with Thor in the backseat, headed to the office of the newspaper where I worked.

We walked into the new editor’s office at the
Amethyst Globe
just as he was wrestling with the printer. There was a wad of paper at his feet—crimped, crumbled, and generally strewn about in choppy pieces.

Before I could ask if he needed a hand, he started kicking the machine and a stream of colorful insults gushed from his mouth. “You worthless, archaic, made-in-China crap factory!”

I cleared my throat. “Need a hand?”

Derek turned around. “I hate this thing.” He glared at the printer like it had just slept with his girlfriend.

“Allow me.”

I walked over to the printer and turned it off, then on again, then off. I opened the paper tray, pulled out the jammed wad, and turned the machine back on, and it went about its business. Thor decided to nest in the pile of discarded refuse on the floor.

“Thank you,” Derek said. “Tell me again why is it that I’m the editor and not you?”

I sat down in the chair across from his desk. “Because we both decided that you’re much better at delegating than I am.”

“Bull. You just don’t want to be stuck behind a desk all day.” Derek took a seat behind his desk.

“True. But you get shot at way less than I do.”

“True.” He fist-bumped me and I smiled.

Our old boss and my father’s long-ago partner, Shea Parker, was convicted a short while back on several charges,
including obstruction of justice, withholding information to defer an investigation, and tampering with a corpse. He was serving six months in a county jail. Parker was sole owner of the paper, having inherited the 51 percent my father owned when he died. Before going into lockup, he signed that 51 percent over to me. My grandfather, who had a small fortune, offered to foot the rest of the money so that I could own the paper outright, but that was the kind of responsibility I just couldn’t take on right now. Derek’s father, an East Coast investment banker, lent Derek the money to invest in the remaining 49 percent. So now we were partners.