Abhainn's Kiss Page 2

  The girl went still. “A what?”

  “A swimming hole. A place to, you know, cool off in the water when it’s hot out.”

  The girl’s face folded into a frown. “No.”

  “Okay, then, let’s go down to the beach and…What’s wrong? Are you hiccupping?”

  “I never go, hic, near the water,” she whispered, her voice shaking, low.

  The boy stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “All right. You wait here. I’ll go down to the beach and take a quick—”

  “Hic, hic…No!” The girl closed the distance between them in an eye blink, so fast that the boy yelped in surprise when he found her clinging to his arm, tugging for all her tiny body was worth. Though he could have flicked her away as easily as a fly, something deep in her sun-on-green-water eyes caught and held him fast. A tear, glittering with strange sparkles in the sunlight, appeared at the corner of her eye, brimming and threatening to spill over.

  As if in answer to her fearful plea, a cool breeze sprang up, drying the sweat his forehead and sending a shiver across his skin. A dip in the chilly ocean didn’t appeal so much now. Presently he gave an exasperated sigh, reached up and playfully dashed her tear away, absently noting how it shone like quicksilver on his knuckle before it sank and disappeared into his skin. “You win,” he grouched, flexing his finger once, then forgetting about it. “We’ll do something else. But we’d better do it quick before your mama calls us for dinner.”

  In the flicker of an instant, the girl seemed to forget all about her distress. And her hiccups vanished. “Let’s play dragonslayer,” she said happily. “This time, I want to slay the dragon and for a change, I’m going to rescue you.”

  The boy rolled his eyes as he levered himself up from the ground. “Whatever pleases you, Your Highness.”

  Hidden behind the tallest of the ring of Faery stones, Nuala spied on the two children and listened intently to their play-acting. She stiffened at the boy’s off-handed declaration to do whatever the Fae child wished. Stupid boy! His kind know not the binding power of innocent words!

  The quicker she got rid of this human boy, the better. From the moment they had found the lad washed up on the rocky beach of Inisghriann, along with the pieces of his broken curragh, little Abhainn had taken to him. Too quickly, and too completely. Why, thought Nuala sourly, when she had always been warned of the dangers of humans, a race of creatures notoriously blind to aught but their own narrow view of the world?

  And what tales would he carry home with him? With what careless words could he expose Abhainn to the very evils Nuala had worked all these years to protect her from?

  For a moment longer, she watched Abhainn play with her newfound friend, this boy called Michael in the hard tones of his own language. Her heart ached for Abhainn at what she was about to do—what she must do.

  She took a breath and stepped from behind the stone, hesitating almost a second too long.

  Abhainn, delighted with getting her way, leaned forward and pooched out her bow-shaped lips. “Seal your promise with a kiss!”

  The boy’s jaw dropped, but then a devil danced in his eyes and he leaned toward the girl.

  Nuala gasped. No! That boy is young, but he’s just old enough to oblige her, even if it is only in fun! One kiss could bring disaster down on us all!

  “Mícheál,” she called out, making her tone sharp enough to stop both children in their tracks. Mícheál’s ears reddened as he straightened away from the girl.

  Thank the Goddess… I stopped them just in time! I was such a fool… I should have sent the boy off with the Selchies straight away.

  “Word has come. Your family searches for you and they are near, just beyond the mists. It is time for you to go.”

  Both children’s shoulders slumped, and Nuala could almost hear their imaginary swords clatter to the ground. Mícheál, gangly with the human’s awkwardness of youth, pushed the mop of black hair out of his eyes. He slowly squared his shoulders as if trying, like most of his kind, to grow up too fast

  “But Màthair…” Abhainn’s voice trembled, and her eyes filled with the tears Nuala knew would form a small creek if the child let them fly. This was a sight this human boy must not be allowed to see. So far, he had seemed to think nothing of the girl’s delicately pointed ears that peeked out from the cloud of bright hair. Such was the ease with which all human children accepted the Fae world. But Abhainn’s prodigious tears would be a tale that must never leave these shores, lest the wrong creature overhear it.

  Nuala hardened her heart in the face of Abhainn’s distress as she took each child by the hand, inserting herself firmly between them. Mentally, she rehearsed the spell that would erase the memory of this place, of Abhainn, from Mícheál’s mind.

  On Mícheál’s hand, she detected the traces of Abhainn’s tear on his skin. She frowned mentally and redoubled her efforts to find words that would make the spell twice as strong, twice as binding.

  She held out little hope that the spell would affect Abhainn, as well. It took an especially powerful spell to affect a Fae such as Abhainn, and Nuala knew her spellwork was woefully inadequate to such a task. She would simply have to try to explain to the child why Mícheál must leave here without a shred of memory of having set foot in this realm.

  “Come, children,” she said, trying to gentle her tone. “It is time to say goodbye.”

  Chapter Two

  Isle of Inisghriann, 20 years later

  Had I kissed him but once, he would have stayed.

  Abhainn stepped to the door of the cottage she shared with Nuala, braced her hands on either side of the door frame and leaned out into the cool morning air. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, pondering the words that drifted softly through her mind.

  The errant thought brought with it a subtle, taut sense of expectation that made the flavor of this day somehow different from other days.

  Behind her, she heard Nuala stirring about, rolling freshly spun wool into bundles and retrieving the kelp basket from its hook on the ceiling. Normally Abhainn helped her mother take the wool down to the beach, where she would hang far back from the water’s edge while Nuala met with the Selchies who would take the skeins beyond the mists. But today… perhaps today Nuala would release her from this chore. Abhainn turned her head and glanced hopefully at her mother.

  Nuala laughed gently and waved her hand. “I see that look in your eye. You’ll be of no use to me today.”

  Abhainn smiled and wasted not one more second of this precious morning of sun. She ran lightly toward the Faery circle, taking care to avoid treading on the delicate spring flowers and the tiny Faeries who tended them. Their airy wings brushed her ankles as she made her way up the hill.

  As she stepped between the two head stones, greeting them as the old friends that they were, the sense of expectation tickled her consciousness again, along with a vague sense of wistfulness. She let out a long sigh. Odd that on such a beautiful morning, melancholy should intrude into her thoughts.

  Spring water bubbled out from the base of the tallest stone, forming a small pool the size of one of Nuala’s round bread loaves. Abhainn scooped a swallow of water into her mouth, letting the cool wetness trickle down her throat. This spring quenched her thirst like no other.

  And it was the only body of water anywhere that didn’t strike terror into Abhainn’s heart.

  Her friends didn’t let her linger alone for long. Equillian Faeries, keepers of the wild pony herds, kept her busy for the better part of the morning, laughing, giggling and braiding manes and tails with summer flowers. Abhainn finished the last braid, tied it off with a strand of green grass, and then sent the pony on its way to join its waiting companions down the rocky hillside.

  Content to be alone at last, she folded her bare legs into a shallow stone depression in the center of the circle. Nuala had told her once that many a Druid seer had sat in this spot to receive visions, but that was long ago. She closed her eyes and turned her f
ace up to the sun she loved so well. It shone so rarely here for any length of time. A morning of unbroken sunshine was a rare gift.

  The strange sense of expectation pulled at her core yet again. Unbidden, the face of a dark-haired boy reared up in her mind’s eye, a boy with eyes the deep grey of sea-drenched stone cliffs. The picture in her mind stared back at her, as if he saw her as well. She gasped softly, wondering if this hollow Druid stone still held some vestige of power.

  Had I kissed him but once…

  Mícheál.

  This was the second time that day she had thought of him. Strange, after so many turns of the seasons. The boy, whose borrowed boat had been swept here on an errant current, had stayed only a fortnight until his family had found him and taken him away. Many seasons had spiraled by before Abhainn had stopped keeping vigil for him on a rock outcropping well away from the water line. Before she had finally accepted Nuala’s insistence that he was better off in his own world, where time ran differently. Better off with no memory of this place, so that he could not spread tales to the wrong ears. It was for his own safety, as well as hers, Nuala had explained. So long ago…

  Ancient Ones, who sat upon this very stone and dreamed, what do my thoughts of him mean? Are they a sign? Is he well? The runes told me nothing, as if he never existed. Does that mean he does not remember me at all?

  The stones around her groaned a warning.

  Abhainn opened her eyes and studied the stones, knowing that as long as the sun was up, they would stay frozen in their places in the circle. Usually, if she listened hard, she could hear them whispering among themselves. But this time she didn’t have to strain to hear—they called out with a screech like two stone slabs sliding past each other.

  “What is it?” she whispered, alarm stirring in her belly.

  A funny, melting sensation swirled down her spine. Her vision blurred, making the stones ripple as if reflected in a disturbed pool. The sun that she had loved so well all her life, suddenly left her cold, as if it passed through her without stopping to warm her skin. The sun cannot see me any more. The odd notion crossed her mind, leaving her feeling lost and alone.

  The stones groaned again.

  Her heart thudded wildly in her chest. A hiccup caught in her throat as she tried to rise from her seated position, but her limbs refused to obey.

  The distant rumble of ocean waves suddenly sounded as if they were rushing in all around her; the spring’s pleasant trickle rose in her ears until it resembled a waterfall that threatened to crash over her head. Water droplets dripping off the stones thudded like hammers. Even the ever-present mist had a voice, an icy hiss that raised bumps on her skin.

  She clamped her hands over her ears and cried out.

  Dark, squatty shapes lurked at the edge of the circle. The reek of stale breath and unwashed feet assaulted her nose, instantly identifying the creatures.

  “Màthair!” she screamed. But her mother, she recalled suddenly, was down by the sea shore collecting kelp, well out of hearing range. Instinct commanded her to run, but weakness overtook her body. She had the odd notion that her bones were melting. These creatures were not her friends, like the tender flower Faeries, the night-dancing stone Fae, and the wild Equillians. These were trolls. Trolls! What are they doing here? Máthair told me none could cross the sea to these shores…

  “Hello?” A new voice, masculine and somehow promising safety, flowed easily through the cacophony assaulting her ears. Her peripheral vision picked up a tall figure, dark-haired, which abruptly dropped a rucksack and hurtled toward her.

  “Hey!”

  The unmistakable creak of a taut bowstring. Her body felt as if it were falling…falling. Hands came out of nowhere to push her to the ground. The stone depression seemed to mold itself to her body—or was it her body molding itself to the stone?

  Cold…cold…

  She looked up at the sun, its image slithering about like a reflection off the surface of water in a madly sloshing bucket. Her vision darkened.

  The bowstring twanged with release and she knew no more.

  Finally. Someone who can tell me where the hell I am.

  Michael Craig, jet-lagged and a little seasick from his rough ride in the curragh, rested a hand on one of the standing stones. Its solid grey bulk, along with the head of white-gold hair on the girl seated at the circle’s center, assured him this place was real.

  The fishermen at the Kilmore Quay had thought him mad, and had no qualms about telling him so, when he’d inquired about hiring a charter to take him to an island of which no one seemed to have ever heard. He’d even shown them the name of the island on the hand-scrawled map, which had arrived with the last shipment of fine Irish woolen thread, the lifeblood of his family’s textile business.

  This thread, which had begun arriving several months before in unmarked crates, was so fluid, so soft, that handfuls of it dripped through his hands like water, yet never tangled. Fabric woven from it was delicate enough to pass a several square yards of it through a wedding ring, yet strong enough to lift a small car. Samples that his idiot cousin had leaked to clients had stimulated a flood of orders, offering any price for the scarce material. Within months, the mill had gone from the brink of closing to the center of a thriving niche market.

  Now, the problem was simply one of supplying the demand. Without even a tracking sticker on the crates, Michael’s search for the wool’s source had been fruitless—until a single scrap of parchment paper had turned up in a crate, marked with the crudely scrawled words: Isle of Inisghriann.

  In the end, he’d bought a curragh right out from under one fisherman’s rubber boots, clambered in and set off on his own.

  His father would have called him a fool.

  Michael called it going to any length to save the family business and the workers who depended on the mill for their living.

  The girl within the circle sat with her back to him, motionless as the stones that sheltered her. Something about that hair, hanging loose but riddled with tiny braids… Maybe he had seen her before on one of his previous buying trips to Ireland.

  Perhaps if he saw her face, her name would come to him.

  Deep inside, the boy that had long ago fallen asleep under the demands of adulthood now stirred, pushing and shoving at a thick, heavy barrier that seemed to blanket his memory on all sides. His head throbbed with the effort.

  “Hello?”

  She remained still, as if she had not heard him. Somehow reluctant to enter the circle, he skirted along the outer rim, focusing on the curve of her cheek as it came into view. The upturned nose. His gaze dropped, startled, to the curve of breast that showed clearly under the plain green fabric of the dress she wore. This was no child. He moved his gaze up to her eyes, an impossible color of green that…

  …blinked slowly, wide with terror. For the first time, he noticed the panicked sound of her breathing.

  Michael blinked hard, but her image wavered, as if surrounded by heat waves off a hot pavement. Suddenly she clamped her hands over her ears and cried out.

  “Hey!” He dropped his rucksack and took a few steps toward her.

  The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. From between the stones appeared what looked like a garden gnome gone bad. Brown and squatty, with stick-like arms and twiggy fingers that clutched a primitive bow and arrow. Its black marble eyes met his, and it leered a smile that didn’t improve its looks. Michael froze in his tracks and stared it.

  “What the hell are you?”

  It didn’t answer, but nocked the wicked-looking black arrow, aimed it a Michael’s chest…then swung it toward the woman. Michael launched himself toward her, eyes riveted to the tip of the arrow, which dripped some nasty looking green goop.

  The woman gave a strange, watery gasp as he closed his hands over her shoulders and shoved her down.

  Thwang!

  Michael rolled, grunting as his body impacted the rocky ground. The arrow whined past him to crack harmlessly against
another standing stone, with a sound that oddly resembled a yelp of pain.

  The ugly garden ornament took off down the hill on spidery legs, surprisingly fast for something that barely reached Michael’s waist. It breathed hard, a noise somewhere between a stuffed-up Pug and a coughing hog.

  “Stay down!” Without looking back, Michael took off after the creature, fury pounding in his ears so loud that a splash of water behind him rarely registered.

  It was a short chase. A hundred yards down the hill, the creature slipped through a break in a drystone wall. By the time Michael caught up, the thing had vanished down a hole, its snorting breath echoing from somewhere far below.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  Pain stung the pack of his hand, and he glanced down, flexing it. Blood oozed from a long straight scratch. That arrow must have nicked him.

  That’s just great. No telling what was on the tip. Already, a sickly shiver rippled across his skin. Ignoring it, he launched himself back up the hill, concerned the arrow might have nicked the woman, too. Tiny as she was, a miniscule amount of the stuff could harm her.

  The late morning sun beat down on the back of his neck, humidity plastering his shirt to his body. Gaining the top of the rise, he jogged through the stones and halted just inside the circle.

  She was gone.

  Michael searched, dodging in and out among the stones. He ended up standing near the center, still alone, his heart racing.

  A faint voice called from down the slope. “Abhainn!”

  Ah-vawn…

  The word tugged ferociously at the thick barrier covering his memory, but still let no light of recognition through. Far down the slope, an older, greyer woman stood in the whitewashed doorway of a neat, thatched cottage, shading her eyes from the sun.

  Another shiver ran under his skin, and his mouth went dry. The ground tilted, just enough to send him backward a step, and his ears began to buzz. He looked down at his hand. Swollen, already twice its normal size.