TWENTY-ONE
Diarmid
The girl was impossible. A sharp tongue and too-quick temper. She rarely smiled. He’d only seen her laugh twice—and the second time was today, in fact, when she’d laughed with Oscar and Goll and Keenan, and he’d gone mad with jealousy. When was the last time he’d felt such a thing? Never. Not once. Or . . . perhaps once, in those years after he’d died, when his foster father had brought his soul into his body now and again so they could talk awhile, and he’d learned that Finn had taken Grainne as his wife and that she’d gone to him willingly—“Take me away from him, Diarmid. I can’t marry him. I love you. Save me from him.” And then the moment Diarmid was dead, she’d turned around and married the man that he’d ruined his life to save her from.
But even then his jealousy hadn’t been as strong as that he’d felt today. And he’d never felt such cold and penetrating fear as when he’d seen Grace run. He didn’t think she knew how close she’d come to tragedy—which he’d saved her from, by the way, and all he’d got in return was her anger.
She was maddening. He couldn’t get her out of his head, and the whole side of his face hurt because she had a fearsome right hand—she was stronger than she looked, which he might have admired any other time. But not now when she had his blood racing and his whole body just . . . humming. That kiss . . . his elation when he realized she was kissing him back, that she wanted him, too, and with it that burning, consuming fire . . . He’d never felt anything like that. Never. Not even with Grainne.
Cursed, tormenting girl. Filthy gang boy, she’d called him. Diarmid Ua Duibhne. The pride of the Fianna. No girl had ever refused him, whether she’d seen the lovespot or not. And she had slapped him, and it had hurt and stung his pride and done nothing, not one single thing, to keep him from wanting her.
He was more than half in love with Grace Knox, and that might be the most foolish thing he’d ever done in a life that had been full of foolish things. And almost every one of them due to a girl.
Stay away from her, he thought. Do what she wants. Leave her alone. It would be better for both of them. Her life didn’t include who he was now. A stableboy. Filthy gang boy.
He was at the tenement before he knew it. Dim light from windows sent the yard below into shadows, but still he knew the evidence of the fight had been cleared away. The police left the gangs alone for the most part unless they were pressed into action by public outcry. It was best not to antagonize them. The bodies of the Black Hands—not just the one he’d killed, because the others had done their share—and she hadn’t complained about the two Finn had killed in those first minutes, had she?—had been hauled away. They would be found squirreled in hidden alcoves throughout the city or floating in the river. None close enough to implicate the Warriors, though the Irish would know they’d done it.
The moment he stepped inside the flat, he saw what was happening—the cards spread, Cannel’s formation, and in the middle Grace’s handkerchief, stained with ale from mopping up Oscar, the purple and yellow silk threads of the pansies glimmering in the sputtering lamplight.
He’d forgotten the reason he’d brought her here.
“She’s the veleda,” Finn said to him.
Diarmid just stood there staring blankly.
Grace is the veleda.
Cannel frowned over the cards. “Though there’s something else here too. I don’t quite understand it, but . . .” He lifted one card, moved it about.
Diarmid cleared his throat. “Are you sure?”
The Seer nodded. “And you’re all around her, as always. But here are two cards I don’t understand.”
“What do you mean?”
Cannel held up one—illustrated with a full moon and dogs howling. “This card, where it’s come up, means vision, but it’s removed from her. Separate. And this one—” Another card lifted, this one painted with a winged, horned creature and a naked couple. “Terrible power.”
“Terrible power,” Diarmid heard himself saying. “As in, she has terrible power?”
“Of course she does,” Ossian said. “She’s the veleda.”
“Yes. It’s just the placement is odd. Again, it’s removed.” Cannel met Diarmid’s gaze. “But she is who you’re looking for. And you surround her, just like in the first divination.”
You surround her. Pressing her against that wall. Feeling her breath and the beating of her heart against his chest. Burning to cinder with her kiss. Diarmid closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“Well, now we know who she is, and we can proceed,” Finn said with satisfaction.
“We don’t even know who called us or why,” Diarmid objected.
“Whatever the task, she’ll have to choose eventually. Which reminds me—we’ll need the incantation for the sacrifice. The veleda should know it. Do you think she does?”
Diarmid laughed miserably. “She doesn’t know anything, Finn. Not what she is. Nothing. Whatever the veleda was supposed to know . . . it’s all been lost.”
Finn’s confidence didn’t waver. “Question her again. Perhaps she knows something she doesn’t realize. Even if we don’t know who called us and why, we must persuade her to choose us. So start persuading her.”
“She told me tonight that if I came around again, she’d call for the police. Perhaps Oscar should try.”
Even Diarmid heard the despair in his voice, and he saw by the way Finn looked at him that his captain hadn’t missed it either.
“You have a weapon Oscar doesn’t have,” Finn said. He looked at Diarmid’s forehead. “Use it.”
To them it was easy. Shake aside his hair, show Grace the lovespot just as he’d done with Lucy. He’d never hesitated before, and they wouldn’t understand why he was so reluctant now. And the truth was that he wasn’t certain he understood it himself. Except that he heard her voice in his head: “Can you change the world?” Except that for the first time he had harbored a hope—foolish yes, especially after tonight, but there nonetheless—that she could be the one who might love him for himself. And the thought of seeing the spell in her eyes, watching her bend to him, wanting to do whatever he asked, the fire in her muted—
It startled him to realize how much more he wanted. And that he wanted it from her.
Finn’s eyes narrowed. “Or would you rather I try to persuade her?”
Diarmid’s whole body tightened.
“I didn’t think so,” Finn said in a tone that stung. “Women choose where they love. If she loves you, then that’s one thing in our favor. We need the advantage, Diarmid. And ’tis best that you win her anyway. Then she won’t hesitate to bare her throat to your knife when the time comes.”
’Tis you who must kill her.
“Well?” Finn asked. “Will you do this?”
Diarmid saw them watching him. All of them. Waiting for his agreement, which he must give, because the veleda must choose them. And he must kill her in order to release her power to them, and it must be done on Samhain or they would fail and die. Gone forever. No return.
It was more than just his life at stake. He was Fianna. His brothers were counting on him. Finn was counting on him. And he knew already what it felt like not to be part of them, to be separate. He didn’t ever want to feel that way again. Not because of a girl. Not because of anything.
Diarmid nodded. His voice when it came was hollow, but it was there. “Aye. I will.”