“Nice. Enjoy my torment, that’s helpful.”
“I’m Irish. Love of torment’s in the blood.” He sobers again, his voice becoming reverent. “Your mother . . . she is the graceful Brighid, goddess of fire and hearth, first daughter of the holy Danu.”
My skin tingles. The sound of her name coming from his lips seems to hum in the air for an extra second or two this time. I do recognize it from the Catholic group home I was in when I was little. “Isn’t Brighid a saint?”
“Actually, some say the worship of the Virgin Mary was the absorption of our great Brighid into Catholicism; others say the Virgin was meant to embody Isis. Either way, neither had anything to do with the rabbi, Yeshua of the East, that the Romans adopted as their own. Your mother is one of the Western deities. The people of Erin—Ireland—sprung from them, namely the Tuath Dé Danann, the children of the holy Danu.”
“Is any of that even English?”
He shoots me an exasperated glance.
“What?” I hold my hands up in defense. “All I heard was blah, blah, Virgin, blah, blah, Romans.”
He squeezes the steering wheel, and it squeaks like it might snap in his grip. He continues as if I didn’t say anything, his jaw a bit clenched. “The Tuath Dé Danann were the children of our holy Danu. She came across from the Otherworld and birthed several powerful beings who became the gods and goddesses of old. Five of them now rule the Otherworld: Lyr of the sea, as I’ve mentioned, Arwen of air, Cernunnos of the earth, Brighid of fire, and the Morrígan of spirit. These were her five firstborn children, the Penta. The holy Danu eventually took them back with her to her world, but they return now and then to—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “I’ve heard of this Morrígan goddess, I think. Wasn’t she the witch who was Arthur’s sister and, like, tricked him into doing the nasty dance with her? I think I saw that in a movie or something.”
He blows out a long breath. “No.”
“Oh.” I chew on my lip, thinking. “But if they’re from Ireland, are they, like, leprechauns?”
“No.”
“But they’re not aliens?”
This time his answer is masked in a growl. “No.”
“You’ve gotta help the Yankee here, Paddy. You’re only giving me so much to work with—”
“Fine,” he clips out. “I have books. Several hundred books. With pictures and everything. I will pass them to you as soon as we arrive at the house.”
“I’m just asking questions,” I mutter, but secretly I’m thrilled, thinking about how many shelves several hundred books would fill.
“You don’t have even the simplest grasp of history or literature. What sort of education did you get?”
“An American one,” I say. I thought I had a grip on history, but apparently not—I’m annoyed at myself for reading so much fiction and not getting my butt to school consistently. My defenses rise as he gives me a look like I’m stupid. “Pardon me if I was too busy being dragged around town by social services to retain any pagan prowess. Maybe if my mom hadn’t been shooting shit in her veins and forgetting to take me to school. Or if the group homes I was shoved in didn’t have mass chaos twenty-four seven so I could actually fucking absorb what I tried to study. If only.” My ire rises with each word until I’ve turned in my seat. I poke him in the shoulder. “Which, by the way, is your alien leaders’ fault. Even according to you. That ‘cast’ of people who traded me with some junkie’s baby. How sick is that? Who thinks that’s ever a good idea?”
“The Cast, or whoever left you with that human woman, likely didn’t know of her affliction.”
I snort in disbelief. “And you want me to trust them?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Never trust anyone from here on out.”
“Excuse me? But you said—”
“I said you should trust Marius because his first loyalty is always to your mother. And you can trust me. Every other soul, keep at a distance. They may not have your best interests at heart.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And you do?”
“I’m pledged to your mother.”
“That’s not real encouraging from where I’m sitting.”
The car slows to turn onto a dirt road, approaching what looks like a large construction site. In the dim morning light, I see the outline of a building’s skeleton but nothing that looks remotely like a place to live. I grip the door handle, in case Faelan’s about to bury me in concrete or something. “What is this place?”
“I told you, we’re—” He stops talking and studies me. “Oh, you’re seeing the glamour. This is the Cottages. It only appears to be a construction site to hide it from the humans. Things can get a bit . . . odd around places where Otherborn reside. And the demis appreciate privacy. So they cloak some locations in a sort of false imaging. Give it a second.”
As he’s saying that, everything I’m looking at—the naked metal beams of the skeletal construction, the stacks of pipes and brick—begins to melt, dripping down around me like weird industrial rain on the window, leaving in its wake a curved cobblestone driveway and a three-story mansion that looks like something out of Gone with the Wind.
That’s a cottage?
Large pillars coated in ivy and morning glory vines frame the front porch. There are countless arched windows and French doors on the face, as well as two levels of wraparound porches speckled with potted greenery. Surrounding the house is a whimsical sort of rolling lawn, like an ocean of grass. That’s a crazy amount of watering, but even in the low light I can see how green it all is. There are trees and mossy rocks, flowers sprouting everywhere. There’s even a babbling brook off to the side, ending in a small pond near the edge of the circular driveway.
Holy shit, it looks like freaking Disneyland.
We park in a carport at the end of the long drive, and I open the door slowly. I get out in a sort of trance, surveying it all in the rising sunlight. I step onto the illuminated stone pathway, expecting a rabbit to hop up to me while birds start chirping happily in the distance, singing about the new day or something equally ridiculous.
“Yes, I know, it’s excessive,” Faelan says in a tired voice. “This way.” He leads me down a side pathway along the small brook, through some thin trees, to an iron gate. He opens it and motions for me to walk in front of him. Dim white-blue lights mark the path we follow, through more trees and over flat mossy stepping-stones. It’s like a miniforest on the side yard. I’m stunned by the fresh smells and the feel of the dewy morning air. Then I step past the last few trees and take in the sight of what has to be a dream.
It’s just a swimming pool—I know that as I’m looking at it—but it looks like a lagoon. The six-foot waterfall from the raised spa on the third tier of the yard is surreal, frogs croaking over the sound of the rushing water.