The Stolen: An American Faerie Tale (19 page)

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-­THREE

“F
aerie blood?” The world was spinning around Caitlin, and she clung to the only thing that seemed real: Brendan.

“Aye,” Brendan said. “I sme—­ sensed it on you earlier, but I just passed it off as lingering fae magic from the oíche.”

Closing her eyes, Caitlin focused and the spinning slowed. “So, what does that mean? I'm not—­” She stumbled, as if her mouth didn't want to say the words. “I'm not human?”

“Not mortal is a truer way of saying it. But even that's not entirely true.”

Caitlin opened her eyes as she felt Brendan pull back. She searched his blue eyes for comfort or something to make her life normal again. It wasn't there.

“You're still you.” His words were soft. “You're still the same person you was before. This doesn't change nothing.”

“Doesn't change—­” She stared at him. “Are you kidding me? How can this not change everything?”

“I mean, it doesn't change who you are. You're still—­”

“Could that be why they took Fiona? I mean, if I'm a—­” Again, her mouth struggled with the words. “Changeling. If I'm a changeling, she is too, right?”

“It might at that,” Brendan said. “She might be, and if she is, like as not that was the reason they picked her.”

While there was some sick sense of comfort in finally knowing why, she still felt the rancid touch of guilt. “Does that mean I'm not Caitlin Brady?”

“What?”

“Was I left behind when the real one was taken?” Caitlin's heart stuttered.

“No.”

The reply brought truckloads of relief, but then she considered the alternative and felt cold again. She wracked her brain, thinking who in her family could've been fae. The problem, of course, was that she didn't know much of her family.

“Come on.” Brendan led her back to the truck. “Let's get you sat down.”

Question upon question unfolded in her mind. Did Nana know? Was that why she'd told her all those stories?

Brendan helped Caitlin into the passenger seat and closed the door. She was only dimly aware of him getting in the other side. The engine started, and soon they were moving again.

Caitlin let the gentle breeze blow over her face as her breathing returned to normal.

“You still with me, love?”

Brendan's voice seemed to be more real now, as if her whole life up until now had been some kind of dream and she was just now waking up. “I'm just trying to get a handle on all the thoughts in my head.”

“I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. I didn't mean to scare you. It's really not as important as all that.”

She knew he was lying, but she decided to take refuge in the lie rather than calling him on it. “How many are there?”

“Changelings, you mean?” Brendan considered the question for a moment. “Well, it's not that they'd make a large collection, but it actually isn't that uncommon. I'd say odds are anyone with Irish, Scots, Manx, or even Welsh blood has some fae mixed in there as well. Even the Nordics dealt with the fae.”

“Really?” Caitlin asked. It sounded like he was telling the truth, but something didn't mesh. “You're leaving something out.”

His expression told her that her instinct was right.

“
Damnú air
!” He punched the steering wheel. “Never any use at cards either,” he muttered.

“Just tell me. I can handle it.” She braced for the worst.

“Oh, aye, I can see that. Sound job you're doing so far.” He glanced at her, but her glare made him turn away. “I'm just saying you'll take it arseways.”

“Brendan, please, tell me.”

He sighed. “It's true plenty out there have fae somewhere in their family tree. But the blood loses its potency after a generation or two.”

He looked at her, probably judging her reaction. She could see where this was going.

“After that, they wouldn't have no sign.”

“Like being able to find four-­leaf clovers like they were grains of sand?” She didn't need to see him nod.

“Those are few and far between.”

She swallowed. That meant it was one of six ­people; her mother, her father, or one of her grandparents.

“Jesus, love, it ain't cancer.” Brendan laughed. “You'd like as not never have known if I hadn't just done that.”

“I just need to get my head around this. Okay?”

“Aye.” He shrugged. “But it's really not as bad as all that.”

“Even so,” she said. “It's kind of a lot to take all in one day.”

“Aye, fair play that, I suppose.” He paused for moment. “But there is something you should know. A changeling has to make a choice. Either they choose the fae side, or they choose the mortal.”

“What's that mean?”

“They have to decide which they want to be. If they choose the fae, then they show signs. They stop aging around adulthood, or younger. They might get points to their ears, things like that.”

“And if they choose mortal?”

“They grow up like anyone else. You get little hints of it, like finding four-­leaf clovers and seeing through glamours.”

“And seeing faeries,” she said.

“Aye, that as well.”

“But I didn't choose.”

“You weren't aware of the choice,” he said. “You thought you were mortal and grew up as one. You made your decision without ever being aware of it.” He gave her a quick glance.

“What?”

He let out a breath. “Well, crossing into the Tír might affect you strangely.”

She sighed. “Of course it could.”

“I can't say how, because I don't know. It'll work to our favor though. I was worried how we'd handle crossing with you as a mortal. It's not a place friendly to such, but that's not a problem now.”

She answered mechanically as her mind began to work. “That's something, I suppose.”

So Brendan, you're not mortal? What are you then
?
she thought.

They drove in silence, and Caitlin was left to wonder about how all this would affect Fiona if—­no, when—­Caitlin got her back. She would find a way to use it to Fiona's advantage. A thought came to her, and instead of considering it, she pushed it aside . . . well, she tried.

What if her faerie blood was Dusk Court?

T
he minutes crawled by, and the road unfolded before them at the same lagging pace. They drove, winding back and forth between trees nearing the peak of their change. The approaching sunset turned the sky to painted flames, almost as if it was trying to outdo the trees. Caitlin's whole world had changed, yet the rest of the world was exactly the same.

Anger flared in her heart. How dare she spend a moment wallowing in this when her child was out there? And how much farther did they have to go?

Brendan apparently read her mind. “About an hour or so to go still, I'm afraid. And we have to make a quick detour as well.”

Caitlin mumbled a complaint under her breath.

Brendan turned off the country highway and down a local road.

“Where are we?” Caitlin asked. It was clear they were well off the beaten path.

“The detour.” Brendan turned into the dirt parking lot of a small general store. “Look, love. I didn't mean to downplay it all to you back there.”

Caitlin didn't look at him. She didn't want to think on it anymore. Why couldn't he just let her be?

“Is it the realization, or the fact that someone in your family was untrue to you, that's nibbling at you?”

She gave him a withering glare but didn't answer.

“If it's the second, there's something you should be considering. The one you get your blood from might've been trying to spare you. Or maybe they just never got the chance to tell you.”

Her eyes went wide in realization.

“What is it?”

Closing her eyes, she focused on the few memories she had of her father and tried to picture him in her head.

One by one, the pieces fell together.

How could she not have seen it before? That was why her mother had always looked so heartbroken when Caitlin had asked about him or about his illness, and why her mother had never wanted her to hear Nana's stories.

“I think it was my father.”

“What happened to him, then?”

“When I was really little, he got sick.” The scent of the hospital came back to her. She still hated that smell and questioned the psychology of tormenting herself with it every day.

“He died. That's why I became a nurse.” She shook her head. “Wait, can faeries even get sick?”

“Not in the sense you think of, no. But if he was called by one of the courts and didn't answer? Well, the longer he resisted the call, the weaker he'd get. That'd be easy to mistake for sickness.”

“He didn't want to leave Mom.” Caitlin could see her mother sitting at her father's bedside, his hand in hers. A ­couple of tears rolled down Caitlin's cheek, and she wiped them away.

Brendan sat in silence.

“Nana's stories must've been too painful for Mom to hear. They reminded her of Dad. Which means they all knew.” Caitlin closed her eyes and had clear memories of her father for the first time in a very long time. Sitting in his lap and looking into his radiant blue eyes, eyes just like Dante's.

“I can remember him.” Caitlin smiled as tears continued to roll down her cheeks. “He'd sing to me.” A sob escaped as the sound of his voice came back to her. “I remember he was almost enchanting in the way—­” Her smile vanished.

“
Mo mhallacht ort
.” Brendan looked away from her.

“He'd enchant you with his music. Never a whole gallery full of ­people, but—­”

“I know where your mind's leading you, and it's the wrong path, love.”

“What are you?” she asked. “Not mortal. That would cause problems crossing into Tír na nÓg. That's what you said, right?”

Brendan opened his mouth, then closed it and clenched his jaw.

“What's a
díbeartach
?”

Brendan flinched. When he spoke, it was softly, through gritted teeth. “Listen carefully. There's a power behind words, and that's not the kind of word to bandy about.”

“I—­”

He looked at her, anger flashing in his smoldering eyes. “I wouldn't say it again.”

Caitlin felt a rush of fear, and she pressed herself against the passenger door, her hand reaching for the handle.

Brendan blinked and looked away. He got out of the truck and slammed the door.

Caitlin's stomach twisted as a fresh dose of guilt and panic took hold. She got out and walked around the truck.

Brendan was a few feet away, smoking a cigarette and pacing back and forth.

She watched him for a long time, trying to figure out what to say. Nothing came to her.

Brendan looked at her, then away. He took another drag, then blew out the smoke.

“Brendan.”

He didn't look at her.

“You shouldn't smoke.” As soon as the words got out, she winced. “And I can't believe I just said that.”

“You're right.” He looked at the cigarette. “It wasn't always like that, you know? They used to say they was good for you.” He dropped the butt on the ground and crushed it out. “I suppose it's past time I gave it up.” He dropped the pack of cigarettes into a trashcan.

“Wait.” Caitlin grabbed his shoulder.

He turned, and when his eyes met hers, she took a step back. He wasn't mad. He was hurt. Whether it was the word that had cut him, the fact that she'd been the one to say it, or both, she didn't know. But it didn't matter; the results were the same. She ran a shaking hand through her hair.

He spoke quietly, never looking at her. “If you're thinking I'm going to back out, you needn't worry. I promised I'd get her, and I will.”

Caitlin opened her mouth.

“It means ‘outcast' or ‘exile,' ” he said so quietly that Caitlin barely heard him.

“What?”

Brendan swallowed with effort and his face twisted. “
Díbeartach,
it's a curse that means ‘outcast.' ”

Caitlin lowered her eyes.

“It weren't your doing. You didn't know, but you have to be careful with words. This is a massive ball of shite, but you're handling it better than anyone could expect.”

A subtle tinge of grateful relief whispered over her.

Brendan looked at the sky, then at the store's door. “We need to pick some things up before the place closes. If you're needing the jacks, you should do it now.” He shook his head. “I mean the toilet, bathroom, loo, whatever.”

“I know what you meant.” Not knowing what else to do, Caitlin hugged him and let out a deep sigh when she felt one arm wrap around her and give her a small squeeze.

He opened the door for her. “Go on with you, then. They're at the back of the shop.”

Caitlin went down the small aisles of the store. It looked as though it hadn't changed since the 1950's. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Brendan nod to an old man behind the counter.

Caitlin stood in front of the restroom sink, washing her hands and looking at herself in the mirror. “Get it together.” She splashed some water on her face and went back into the store that time forgot.

Brendan was standing at the register. On the counter sat a loaf of homemade bread, wrapped in white paper. There was also a quart of milk, a jar of local honey, a small bottle of whiskey, four bottles of water, a bag of trail mix, and some fruit.

“That'll be twenty-­nine, forty-­seven,” the old man said after the ancient register spun and lifted the numbered tiles into view.

Brendan opened his pouch.

“At least let me pay for this,” Caitlin said.

“It's fine—­”