Reluctantly Charmed (19 page)

“She didn’t think so. She thinks this has global appeal. Global. She mentioned that guy who died—what’s his name? The singer who wore makeup, all black? A lot of loud guitar sounds? Drake someone or other.”

“Drake Chandler, Mam.” I felt like a teenager with an uncool mother.

“They think the old crazy witch predicted his death . . .”

The two of them were whooping and dancing around the kitchen, laughing and swinging.

“We’ll never have this chance again!” Dad spun Mam around to some imaginary music in their heads.

“And you know what?” Mam’s voice was soothing. “If the Seven Steps fall flat, they fall flat. At least we’ll get to stay in a hotel.”

Suddenly I felt worried. I wasn’t worried about the Seven Steps falling flat. I was worried about them taking off.

14

T
hree nights later, Mam looked nervous under the glare of the TV lights. There was a slight downturn at the side of her mouth that gave it away. That, and the fact that she introduced herself to
The Nightline
host Patrick Molloy by saying: “I’m a bit nervous, Patrick.” She pulled uneasily on her jacket, a tight-fitting orange bolero whose color matched her eye shadow. There were smiles all around. Dad casually placed his arm across the back of the lemon sofa, ready to take whatever they threw at him. He was a seasoned professional—no bright lights or TV cameras could distract him.

A few miles away I was standing in my sitting room, full makeup on and hair blow-dried to within an inch of its life. My date with Jim was later that evening, and I was too uneasy to sit down in case I accidently pressed my hair to the back of the couch and ruined it. I was jittery with nerves about the date, and watching my parents on TV triggered joy and dread in equal measures.

Patrick Molloy faced the camera as it zoomed in, a serious look on his face. I noticed immediately that he had a cold sore, a scab protruding from his bottom lip that no studio makeup could hide. He looked uninterested and slightly bored. “Admittedly,
the mystic world has never really interested me much, but one of our researchers here recently discovered what she feels is a mystical phenomenon: the Seven Steps. Many of you may already be familiar with the Seven Steps, following the recent tragic death of rock star Drake Chandler, the lead singer of American band Burning Cradle.” Patrick hung his head low. “Part of the mystery surrounding Drake Chandler’s death is that it seems to have been predicted by these Seven Steps, which were written some 130 years ago but have only recently come to light.

“To date, three Steps have been revealed. Here to tell us more about the Seven Steps are Noel McDaid and his wife, Teresa, the descendants of the self-proclaimed witch Kate McDaid, who died back in 1870.”

Patrick Molloy slowly walked toward an armchair and folded his long limbs into it.

“Thanks, Patrick,” Dad piped up, sitting forward on the sofa. “I’d just like to say that we’re no experts in witchcraft or fairies. In fact, we only learned about Kate McDaid—well, the other Kate McDaid—a month ago.”

“Of course, your daughter, Kate, actually inherited these Steps, and is thought to have some mystic powers herself. To have been fairy-struck.” There was that word again. Mam raised her eyebrows and inched toward Dad on the couch. I inched uneasily backward in my sitting room, away from the television set, wishing and willing Dad to cut this conversation short and not bring me up again.

“That’s right, Patrick. She’s a very special girl.”

That’s enough to have me burned at the stake
, I thought.
Well done, Dad.

“To be fair, this is all new for Kate, too.” Mam’s voice was shaking slightly. “But if I could go back to the Steps, I think that
they’re causing a stir, and people are interested in them because of their simplicity, the pureness of their message.”

“What do you think might be the repercussions of not fulfilling these Steps?” Patrick Molloy butted in.

“We don’t know yet. But I recommend that everyone, or rather anyone with a drop of Celtic blood in them, does as is requested. We know from history that fairies can turn when provoked.” Dad turned to Mam and deadpanned: “Isn’t that right, Petaled Lightfoot?”

“It is, Tickled Warrior,” Mam responded, blushing. She looked across at Patrick. “We’ve adopted our fairy names, as requested in the most recent Step.”

Patrick nodded, but a flicker in his eyes betrayed his skepticism.

He thinks they’re mad
, I thought.

“And these fairy names? How exactly did they come to you?”

“The back garden gave them to us.”

“The back garden?” Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. We did as we were told.” Dad smiled. “We have a beautiful garden, so we went out there, surrounded ourselves with nature, breathed it in, and asked the fairies to whisper our names. And they did.”

“Just like that!” Patrick sneered.

“Just like that.” Mam and Dad grinned back. I had to laugh. Their enthusiasm for the Seven Steps was infectious. And I believed them. I bet they did go out to the back garden, and, as well, I bet they took photographs of it that they might try to sell. They were getting very good at spotting opportunities.

Patrick sighed and shook his head. “In terms of repercussions, this storm that’s threatened in the most recent Step, this battle for the home—I’ve heard that it could be interpreted as the current economic crisis. What are your thoughts on that?”

“It could be, yes,” Mam piped up. “But it also could be a literal storm. Last week, in the southwest of Ireland, there was a terrible storm. Floods and gale-force winds caused electricity blackouts and ruined a few homes when the River Shannon burst its banks.”

“Do you think that could be the wrath of the fairies? That they feel not enough people are recognizing their existence?” Patrick couldn’t hide a smirk.

“Yes, I do,” Dad responded, deadpan. “More people need to do what the fairies ask. There are actual physical repercussions for not taking part.” He turned to face the cameras directly and stared down the lens. “It’s only a few minutes out of your day. Talk to nature, ask for your fairy name, be grateful, and you’ll see—good things will happen to you.” He smiled a warm, friendly smile.

And I couldn’t help myself—I was grinning back at the screen. I wondered how my life had gotten to that point. That, on a drizzly summer’s evening, I was hovering in my sitting room with a cold cup of tea in my hand, watching my parents on
The Nightline
talk about fairies.

Patrick then introduced a fairy expert via satellite from Middle Earth. Thomas Cox looked like a stretched leprechaun, with a dark, matted beard, crooked teeth, and giant googly eyes. I guessed they’d found him in a joke shop or a Kinder Surprise egg.

Thomas was very excited about the Seven Steps. “We have to accept this for what it is: a message from the good people one hundred and thirty years ago asking and allowing us to interact once more.” He took in short, sharp breaths, trying to control his excitement. “This is monumental in our research. We’ve always known that the west of Ireland is rich in mystic ways and fairy folk.”

“Can people really believe in fairies and witches?” Patrick quizzed him.

Thomas Cox rubbed his beard, pensively. “It’s a well-known fact that the Irish have a long tradition of spirituality and mysticism. And, unlike any other culture, there are actual firsthand accounts of experiences with the good people—the fairies. It’s not just folklore.” He wagged a finger. “We have firsthand accounts from people living today who say they danced with the fairies or their grandfather was cured by a white witch.”

“So, what’s the history of Irish fairies?” Patrick asked, struggling for facts.

“Well, the ancient Irish peasants often considered them to be fallen angels. That in the great war between God and Lucifer they were indecisive, and fell neither on the good nor the bad side, so it was agreed they could inhabit the earth forever, as gods of the earth. Yes, yes, gods of the earth. They were originally known as the Tuatha Dé Danann, fairy people who ruled Ireland in 1700 BC.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Through the years, many poets and mystics have felt that, behind the visible and what we know, there are chains upon chains of conscious beings who are not of heaven but of the earth. That this visible world is merely their skin.”

The camera flicked back to Mam and Dad, who were nodding furiously in agreement with leprechaun man. Had they known this stuff? Or had they decided it looked good to go along with this deranged man, who looked like a fairy himself?

“So if fairies are immortal, which we have been led to believe, the fairies that are trying to communicate with us now are the original Tuatha Dé Danann?” Patrick asked.

“Yes, and their base, if you’d like to call it that, is Tír na nÓg, the land of eternal youth. This is the true fairy realm, where they never grow old, never die, never want. Where they only pursue pleasure in whatever form they choose.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Well, unfortunately, it’s very difficult for us mere mortals to enter. You need an invitation from a fairy, and to get that you need to have done them a good turn. Some mortals have entered, but it’s not easy. There are, of course, stories of wild adventures that have led to the shores of Tír na nÓg.”

“So Ryanair don’t fly there, then?” Patrick’s joke fell flat with his guests.

Stealing the moment, Mam leaned forward, her hand hovering inches over his knee. She paused and looked straight down the lens. “We don’t know the truth here. We’re exploring our family history, too. We’re blowing the cobwebs out of the attic, and we’ve been shocked. Shocked but proud. Proud of our heritage.”

There were grunts of approval all around.

They said their good-byes. Patrick looked relieved as they disembarked from the sofa. Part of me was glad to see someone with such obvious skepticism. There seemed to be a lot of acceptance of these fairies and not enough questions asked.

I turned off the telly and felt my shoulders relax. I waited for my phone to buzz with a text message from Mam. It flew in, three minutes later.

“Patrick is even more handsome in the flesh. We’re having a ball. Xx”

Good for you
, I thought. But, at that very minute, I had far more serious matters to attend to. My date with Jim was happening in two hours. I had goose bumps, jelly legs, and butterflies in my stomach.

Don’t worry, I got it. I knew why Jim had asked me along—I was good publicity. But there was still a part of me, a
big
part of me, that wondered if there was anything between us. It was worth a shot, but I’d had a lingering sense of dread all day. I could feel a cramp rumbling in the pit of my stomach, and I’d
had a headache hammering at me all afternoon. Call it instinct or call it being an experienced dater—somehow I knew I should have said no. But I just couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to play it out, and so I didn’t listen to my gut, I just went for it.

I wore the yellow silk dress with gray wedge heels that would have me tottering close to eye level with Jim. I knew my hair and makeup were good. I felt physically prepared, but mentally nowhere near where I should be. I ran through hundreds of imaginary conversations with Jim, varying from the hugely romantic “I’ve been a fool all these years. Let me dedicate my life to you” to the hugely silly explosions of giggles and “I’ve never enjoyed myself so much with anyone” to the bizarre “Sometimes I have to wear talcum powder under my leather trousers” (his, not mine). I was going to throw my head back and laugh, be carefree yet enigmatic, the kind of girl who enters a room and people wonder who she is and what her story is. I practiced my enigmatic face, but I just looked distressed, so I decided that maybe the whole witchy thing might give me an air of mystery, an air of “who’s that girl?”

Unfortunately,
everyone
knew who that girl was. The launch, which Jim had described as just being a small affair—twenty or thirty people and maybe one journalist—was anything but. The event wasn’t, as expected, in the back room of a dodgy pub. It was in Chandelier, the front room of a high-end Dublin nightclub.

Standing outside, waiting to give my name to the buck-toothed perma-tanned blonde on the door, I peered past the red satin curtain. There were plush velvet couches, cushions with tassels, and chandeliers dripping from any available ceiling space. The girls were skinny and fake-tanned, tapping false nails on champagne glasses. The guys used a lot of hair product and knew exactly how to catch the light on their cheekbones.

“Kate McDaid,” I said.

The buck-toothed blonde’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my God! This is fabulous, just too fabulous! Wait here!” She reached out and clutched my arm. Eyeballing me, she picked up her phone. “Yah, yah, she’s here. Get him out.”

I tried to shake free. “Em, can I just go inside? I’m supposed to meet someone.”

“Jim, yah. He’s on his way.” I felt her nails dig deeper.

I nodded, wondering how she knew and wishing she’d stop staring at me.

“Sorry.” She let go of my arm. “I work for Sony. I’m, em, a bit of a fan of yours.”

“Of mine?”

“Well, you know, the fairies. They’re just fascinating. You know, if you need representation, I know a fantastic PR person who’d just love to get their teeth into this.”

I looked at her buck teeth and shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks. I don’t need anyone’s help.”

“Wow! That’s so interesting, and so humble of you!”

“No, no.”

She nodded excitedly. “Honestly.” More nodding. “Have your powers kicked in yet?” she asked in all seriousness.

“No, but that’s because I wear a vial of kryptonite around my neck to repel them.”

She nodded again.

Oh God. Where’s Jim?

His hair was curled to perfection, unruly and not
too
styled. His broad shoulders towered over Miss Buck Teeth and me. He was wearing a black T-shirt that was stretched tight across his chest and a leather string necklace tied around his neck.

“Hi!” He dipped down, lightly kissing me on the cheek. His skin was clear and smooth; he must have just shaved. He
straightened up and hooked his fingers into his brown leather belt. “You look nice.”