Reluctantly Charmed (24 page)

“Do you mind seeing yourself out? I don’t fancy all that camera clicking again.”

“Right. Thanks for a great night,” he shouted over his shoulder as he headed down the stairs.

I felt really disappointed by the whole evening. Disappointed that I’d let it happen, that Jim was such a letdown, that the
whole evening
was a letdown. And I couldn’t help but wonder how a night in the company of Hugh Delaney would have gone. It wouldn’t have been awkward; he was so comfortable in his own skin. He wouldn’t have played to the paparazzi. Could he cook? I didn’t know. I’d probably never know, considering he thought I’d poisoned his dog. I decided I should probably stop thinking about Hugh, as I doubted very much he was thinking about me.

“Good riddance,” I hissed in the direction of the door. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little flicker over the hall table, the area that Jim had called a shrine, like a piece of paper flapping in
the wind from an open window. I swear I felt a whisper—I don’t think I heard it, it wasn’t a noise or a sound, I
felt
it.

To bad rubbish.

I spun around, scanning the room. “What?” I spun again. “Who’s there?” I could hear my breathing, excited, nervous. “Who’s there?” I shouted again. “Show yourself!”

But I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to see anyone or anything. I backed into a corner, focusing on the area the whisper had come from, then slid to the ground, staring intently, watching, waiting. Was I watching for a fairy? I think I was.

18

M
aura Ni Ghaora was late. I ripped my paper napkin into tiny balls, making a small field of snowballs around my knife and fork. The waitress gave me a disapproving look, so I quickly ordered a glass of wine. I didn’t really want it, but as a former waitress I know how annoying it is when a table orders water. Especially tap water.

I’d turned up early for my lunch with Maura. Now that the paparazzi were increasing in number, my escape route from my flat had become more complicated and took a lot longer. I’d had to change taxis three times on the twenty-minute journey to the restaurant, and I was beginning to feel like a CIA agent, hopping cars and looking over my shoulder. It all took so much planning. In the end, I’d arrived twenty minutes early, so I’d asked for a table at the back, where I sat, uneasily watching the door for cameras.

It was Saturday, three days before I was due to publish the fifth Step. Maura had said she had more information for me. In other words, she’d dangled the carrot and I’d reached. She seemed so mysteriously connected, and her unquestionable belief in fairies made me feel that she might have answers for me.

I looked around the restaurant. There were heavy linen
tablecloths, shiny glasses, baskets of bread rolls, and tall leather chairs. A woman wearing a large black straw hat had been staring at me since I came in. I kept trying and failing not to look back.

“Kate.” Maura extended a gloved hand regally and slid into the chair opposite. She idly flicked some nonexistent dandruff off her dark gray suit and twirled the ruby signet ring on her left hand. Her hairline was slightly askew, and I wondered for the first time if she could be wearing a wig. It was difficult to know. Her hair looked so perfect, but maybe that was what was wrong. It was
too
perfect.

“Are you well?” she inquired. “How is everything?”

A wave of emotion caught me off guard and I felt tears pricking behind my eyelids. I blinked them back, realizing just how on edge I was. I was stressed and worried. Not happy.

I buried my head in my glass and nodded frantically, hoping she’d take that for an
all’s well.
I knew only too well that Maura wasn’t remotely concerned with how I was and was merely passing pleasantries.

A waitress appeared. Brushing the snowballs under the table, I took a long sip of wine and ordered the chicken burger. Maura ordered a small green salad.

“It seems that your relationship with Jim is progressing?” Maura’s bulging cheeks bulged even farther as she forced a smile, clearly feigning interest in my private life.

The memory of Jim’s swift exit the night before caused my face to turn bright red. “No, it’s not what it looks like.”

“That’s not what it says online.”

“Well, you can’t believe what you read online.”

“What about the pictures? Coming out of your flat? Can we believe that?”

I shifted uncomfortably, remembering. “There were pictures
of that?” Of course there were pictures of that. Why was I surprised?

“Are you finding the paparazzi difficult?” Her catlike eyes narrowed.

I shrugged, hoping to appear nonchalant, not sure what Maura’s angle might be.

“I could have them removed.”

“Not necessary. I’m fine.” I wasn’t sure how Maura could have things “removed,” and once again I wondered about her connection with gangsters. Could she be dangerous?

I decided to get things back on track. “So, you said you had information? Dug up any old corpses?”

She smiled and played around with the leaves on her plate. “Funny you should mention it, because there isn’t a corpse.”

What was she talking about?

“No corpse, no grave, no record of Kate McDaid’s death.”

“Ah, would you stop. That’s awful. She is dead, isn’t she? That’s how this whole thing started. Her will. She’s dead.”

“Yes, I think we can take it for granted that she is dead. But there is no record of her death and no place of burial.”

“Was that normal?” I asked, thinking that maybe back then there were so many people they just fell into ditches and died and no one missed them. I hadn’t paid much attention in history class.

“Not really, no. Wakes were big affairs back then.”

I looked at her blankly.

“When people died, they’d lay out the body in the front room for three days, and relatives, neighbors, friends, enemies—pretty much anyone and everyone in a fifty-mile radius—would stop in to pay their respects. And they’d grieve, they’d drink and cry, and sing and dance. Nobody bottled up their feelings—they’d
come for miles to cry, and many came for miles to drink, and it lasted day and night for three days.”

I nodded. “It was all a bit of a party.” I was familiar with the legendary shenanigans at Irish wakes.

“So most deaths during that period were registered. But not hers. It is unusual.”

“Well, who would want to go to a witch’s wake? They were all probably delighted to see the back of her.”

“But wakes were about making peace with the dead, too. Forgiveness moved the person on to the next life. They often attended, you know.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“The fairies.” She looked at me over the rim of her water glass, waiting for a response. “They’d often attend wakes to see the person off.”

“Did they not get stood on, being two inches high?” I was making a joke, but she just looked at me, unamused.

“Everything is capricious about them, even their size. They take whatever size or shape pleases them.”

“Lucky them. They can wake up a size eight.”

Her expression changed and her voice hardened. “Kate, you seem to find this to be a joking matter.”

“No, no. It’s just how I deal with things. I joke. Badly, it appears.”

She straightened up in her seat and resumed normal conversation. “There is a family burial plot.”

“Really? I’ll tell Dad. He’d be interested.”

“Well, it’s just the one grave: the mother, father, and brother, who must have kept on the family line. There is room on the tombstone for a fourth person, but, like I said, she’s not there.”

I asked whether she thought it relevant that there was no grave.

“No grave, no body. I don’t know. I’m just trying to build up a picture of who she was.”

“Why?”

“I believe this is important.” She looked me straight in the eye. “This isn’t just your family history, Kate. This is our collective history. We need to understand why the fairies chose your aunt. What is their intention? What is their plan? We have no records of her.”

“We?”

She smiled thinly. “We . . . Yes, we wish for the fairies’ plans to come to fruition.”

“We?” I asked again.

She shook her head, dismissing me.

Maura was irritating me now. Her self-assured look, her cockiness, the way she was playing me, insinuating she knew a lot more than I did. I mean, she probably did, but she could have at least let me in on what she was after. Still, two could play that game.

“I’ve thought about not posting any more of the Steps,” I said. I waited to see her reaction.

Her eyes widened in shock, and she nervously clutched her neck. “You can’t do that! You owe it to us, to all of us.”

“But I’m getting sick of it. It’s blown out of proportion. I’m not who you think I am.”

“You can’t stop now! There could be side effects. You might be who they think you are.” Her gloved hand crawled across the table and grabbed hold of my wrist. She dug her fingers into me. “You must finish this.”

I shivered. I put my knife and fork down and pushed my plate and her hand away.

“Apologies,” she said quickly. “I’m very passionate about this. You’ve gone pale, Kate. Are you all right?” Her eyes narrowed.

I paused, wondering whether I should tell her. Tell her that, in spite of myself, I thought there might be something living on my hall table and that I’d stayed up half the night staring at it, waiting and watching for a fairy to appear. Tell her that I talked to plants all the time, and that I knew things I hadn’t known before, such as cures for cold sores and restless babies. Tell her that I had a name, a weird name, possibly a fairy name. I shook my head, knowing that even the most cynical people would think these coincidences were stacking up.

“Don’t give up on them, though. Finish it, Kate. You have to finish it.”

I didn’t tell her the truth, that I was nervous about finishing the Steps, nervous that they might drive me mad. Instead, I blurted out the reality of my current situation. “I’m followed by paparazzi everywhere I go. My bike was nicked and has appeared on eBay. People at work think I’m weird. These Steps have put me in a bad situation.”

“You could have fun with them, like your parents are.” She drained her water glass.

I shook my head. I couldn’t see how this could be fun.

“This is important stuff.”

And again I thought I might cry. What was wrong with me? I felt so exhausted, pulled so tight I was fraying at the edges. I looked at my empty plate and nodded frantically, blinking back the tears.

Her phone buzzed. I saw the name Frank O’Connor appear. She looked at it, then at me, considering whether or not to answer. She did, and spoke briefly in Irish. I couldn’t understand much of what she was saying, but an occasional word flew my way: “having lunch,” “her,” “I’ll call later.”

“That wasn’t Frank O’Connor, the head of the Gardaí, was
it?” It was a long shot. I was testing the water with her, seeing what her reaction would be. Frank O’Connor was our decrepit defense minister, who also served as the chief of police. He was at least two hundred years old, with a shock of white hair and skin more wrinkled than a rolled-up silk dress. He walked with a cane and a bent back and was known to be a fluent Irish speaker.

She nodded calmly, then added softly: “He follows the actions of the fairies closely.”

I was amazed. “Are there more people like him?”

“The less you know the better, but you should know that things could become difficult for you if you decide to stop now. I’m on your side, Kate, but other people . . .” She glanced at her phone. “They might prefer to step in and hurry things along using any means possible.” She raised a carefully penciled eyebrow at me.

The silence batted back and forth between us as I tried to digest what she’d just said.

She removed the napkin from her lap, reached across the table, and shook my hand. “Good afternoon, Kate.” Coolly, she slipped out of her chair, paid the bill, and left, leaving me confused and scared. Why was she threatening me? Should I be worried?

Why were these people interested in the fairies? Educated people? Politicians? I couldn’t understand it. How could things become more difficult for me? Weren’t they difficult enough?

I started to exit the restaurant and was weaving my way out when the woman in the black straw hat rose to her feet with great effort, balancing by her knuckles on the table. She pointed a short stubby finger at me, her face flushing bacon-pink and her nostrils flaring to the size of a small fireplace. “Sh-sh-she’s a witch!”

My head ducked down and my shoulders drooped six inches.
Get me out of here.

“A witch!” She looked around to the other diners for support. They mumbled in response, all necks snapping rigidly toward me.

“Her! K-K-Kate McDaid.” Her finger stretched out even farther.

A man behind her in a beige-colored suit sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. His eyes were wild. “It’s her!”

My mouth was dry and my heart pounded. All I could see was the door.
Get out, get out, before they get you
. I fixed my eyes on the handle and ran toward it. Then I hurled myself through and quickly slammed it behind me. Trembling, I raced in the direction of the main road, waving my arms for a taxi. One screeched to a halt and I dived onto the backseat.

I was being hunted.

19

Step Five

We see a time of taken freedom

and sharpened, darkened skies,

The tears of men we know are coming,

and all will wipe their eyes,

We see a time of twisted fate, a time of broken glory,

It is your future, it is coming—we know this as your story.

We see a time of burning havens,

an air of fire that moans and sings,