For Maggie and Cleo, with love
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 by Megan Chance
Author Photo copyright © 2014 C.M.C. Levine
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by SKYSCAPE, New York
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ISBN-13: 9781477847183 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1477847189 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 1477816232 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 9781477816233 (paperback)
Book design by Abby Kuperstock
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013923549
Contents
Start Reading
Cast of Characters
Ancient Ireland
NEW YORK CITY
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
About the Author
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro’ a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear . . .
. . .
“I am half-sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.
“The Lady of Shalott”
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
[AND PRONUNCIATION GUIDE]
Grainne Alys Knox [GRAW-nya]—Grace
Aidan Knox—Grace’s brother
Maeve Knox—Grace’s mother
Brigid Knox—Grace’s grandmother
Patrick Devlin
Lucy Devlin—Patrick’s sister
Sarah Devlin—Patrick’s mother
Diarmid Ua Duibhne [DEER-mid O’DIV-na]—Derry O’Shea
Finn MacCumhail [FINN MacCOOL]—Finn MacCool, the leader of the Fianna
Oscar
Ossian [USH-een]—Oscar’s father
Keenan
Goll
Conan
Cannel Flannery—Seer
Rory Nolan
Simon MacRonan
Jonathan Olwen
Daire Donn [DAW-re DON]
Lot
Tethra
Bres
Miogach [MYEE-gok]
Balor
Tuatha de Dannan [TOO-a-ha dae DONN-an]—the old, revered gods of Ireland, the people of the goddess Danu
Aengus Og [ENGUS OG]—Irish god of love, Diarmid’s foster father
Manannan [MANanuan]—Irish god of the sea, Diarmid’s former tutor
Lir [LEER]—god of the sea, Manannan’s father
Brigid [BREED]—Irish goddess
The Morrigan—Irish goddess of war; her three aspects: Macha [MOK-ah], Nemain [NOW-nm], and Badb [BIBE]
Danu—Irish mother goddess
Domnu—Mother goddess of the Fomori
Cuchulain [COO-coo-lane]—Irish hero
Etain [AY-teen]—Oscar’s wife in ancient times
Neasa [NESSA]—the Fianna’s Druid priestess
Cormac—ancient High King of Ireland
Grainne [GRAW-nya]—Cormac’s daughter, promised in marriage to Finn, eloped with Diarmid
Fia—Finn’s son
Senach Síaborthe [SEN-awk SEE-bora]—legendary demon warrior
King of Lochlann—Miogach’s father
Tadg [TYG]—Diarmid’s Druid teacher
Rose Fitzgerald—Grace’s best friend
Timothy Lederer—neighbor and friend of the Knoxes
Mrs. Needham—“friend” of Mrs. Knox
the O’Daires—investors in the Irish uprising
Jerry—Patrick Devlin’s stableboy
Leonard—Patrick Devlin’s driver
Dr. Eldridge—Grandma Knox’s doctor
Almhuin [Allun]—the keep of the Fianna, aka the Hill of Allen
ball seirce [Ball searce]—the lovespot bestowed on Diarmid
Beltaine [BAL-tinna]—ancient Celtic festival, the first of May
cainte [KINE-tay]—one who speaks/sees, Druid poet
dord fiann [Dord FEEN]—Finn’s hunting horn
Dubros—an ancient woods in Ireland where the legendary Diarmid and Grainne find refuge
geis [GISE]—a prohibition or taboo that compels the person to obey
Magh Tuiredh [Moytirra]—location of the great battle between the Dannan and the Fomori
milis [MILL-ish]—sweet, an endearment
mo chroi [Muh CREE]—my heart
ogham—ancient form of Irish writing
Samhain [SOW-in]—ancient Celtic festival, October 31
sidhe [Shee]—fairies
Slieve Lougher [Sleeve Lawker]—location in ancient Ireland
veleda—ancient Druid priestess
It is given to you,” the archdruid said, handing her Finn’s hunting horn. “It is put into your care and that of your descendants.”
The veleda curled her fingers around the horn and felt the power, an ancient energy. She caressed the crack at the base where it had been trampled in the battle that had mortally wounded its owner, Finn MacCumhail, the great leader of the Fianna warriors. The bronze decoration had been stripped away, replaced and mended with hammered silver etched with ogham, the symbols that infused it with magic.
The power was hers. The privilege of sacrifice. She looked up into the blue eyes of her teacher and mentor.
He asked soberly, “Do you accept the task, my child?”
She glanced at the men lying on the biers surrounding her, the soldiers of the Fianna, with Finn at the center. They were as still as death, clad in the raiment of battle. They were the most elite warriors and bodyguards of the High King of Ireland. These men had served gods and kings; they were the subjects of countless stories, poems, and ballads. Everyone knew of the Fianna. There was not a boy who did not dream of becoming one of them, nor a girl who did not yearn for their kisses.
But now a new world had come.
“I accept the task,” she said.
“They will return when the horn has known the veleda’s blood, when the incantation is sung and the horn is blown three times,” the archdruid continued. “When Ireland is in need, they will return as young men in their prime to fight for her. That is the spell that is laid. That is the word that is spoken.”
“But they have grown arrogant and greed
y these last years,” she joined in, singing the spell she’d labored to master, not just the words but how to say them. “They have misused their power, and they have not always served the honorable. And so we place upon them this geis, this prohibition: the veleda must decide if their new fight is a worthy one. If it is not deemed so, they will fail, and die.”
The magic of the words threaded through the branches of the overhanging rowan tree. She clutched the horn tight between her fingers. The power reverberated through her like thunder heard beneath the water.
“The veleda will see the path,” the archdruid sang. “She will weigh the task and choose the worthiest side. And on Samhain, when the doors between worlds open, her death will release her power to the chosen, and they will win. If this condition is not met, the Fianna will disappear, never to return to any world. This will be done. This is complete.”
The spell would pass through her blood and down through the generations, from one Druid priestess to another. One day her descendant would blood the horn. One day the daughter of her daughter’s daughter would know the joy and power of self-sacrifice.
The moon turned the color of blood. The rowan tree trembled, and the earth shook beneath her feet and opened, swallowing the Fianna. The men were there and then gone, and the great maw closed again, leaving no seam, nothing to show what had been, nor what lay beneath.
NEW YORK CITY
Diarmid
First was the darkness—or no, not the darkness itself but rather his awareness that it was dark, and that it had been so for a very long time. Next came memory, only bits and pieces: golden hair and eyes the color of a spring morn. Her voice cautioning him not to go without his great sword. Then the boar, charging, tusks red with blood. Pain, there had been pain. And thirst. And . . . death. And then, from far away, his foster father’s voice, conversations held in a gray twilight.
Now Diarmid heard murmurings, young men’s voices. He opened his eyes, blinking at the daylight peeking through an unshuttered window. He saw the ceiling first, spotted with mildew, in one place black with soot, and then the rest of the room: seeping walls, a potbellied iron contraption in one corner. Pallets of straw, his friends dressed as he was: in linen shirts, capes, and boots. The Fianna. He knew a moment of swelling pride.
And then he realized that the undying sleep was broken. They had been called back as foretold. Ireland had need of them again.
He saw the white-blond head of his best friend, Oscar. Then Ossian, Oscar’s father, looking strangely young, no more than twenty-four, as if there were only a few years between him and his son instead of more than twenty. Some of them had died old men, some of them in war, some—like Diarmid—by other means; but they were all young now. Most of them, like him, eighteen or nineteen; some a bit older. Goll, no longer haggard. Keenan, still thin but not yet gaunt and gray. Conan—bald as always, but then he’d been bald in his youth, and still wearing that stinking sheepskin about his shoulders.
And then there was . . . Finn. His golden-red hair glistened in the pale light, his gaze was as sharp and blue as ever. Finn, whom Diarmid had betrayed. Finn, who’d had the means to save him but had let him die.
Diarmid rose to one elbow, trying to gain his bearings. Yet nothing was familiar but these friends he’d known the whole of his life.
“A restorative sleep, it seems,” Finn said with a smile, rising, flexing arms and shoulders. “It looks to be all of us together again, lads. The horn’s sounded at last.”
“Where is she?” Ossian asked. “Shouldn’t she be here? The priestess?”
Diarmid looked around. No woman anywhere, no veleda. He remembered hearing the spell through his dreams, the archdruid’s booming voice and the veleda’s soft one, though still powerful. Even then he’d felt a foreboding, and now he looked for her with dread.
There was another part of the prophecy that had a special role for him. He didn’t think the others knew of it—he wished he was ignorant himself.
“She’s not here,” he said, hoping no one heard his relief.
“Who blew the horn?” Finn asked. “Where is she who blooded it? She should be—”
There was the sound of rapid footsteps, a clatter, and the door sprang open. A boy burst inside. Threadbare coverings on his legs, short boots revealing bare ankles, a shirt with buttons, a small cap. The boy skidded to a stop, his breath coming fast. “You’d best get up! Get up! Get up! You got to get outta here! The Whyos are coming, and they’re gonna take your hide for bein’ in their panny!” The boy spun on his heel, racing out again.
They were silent, staring at one another.
Finn frowned. “By the gods, what was that?”
Diarmid ignored Finn’s question. He went to the single window and looked out. This was no world he knew. He stared in shock at tall buildings blocking the sky, with metal ladders twining around them and narrow streets below; chariots with four wheels; horses—the only thing familiar—and the stink of mud and piss and piles of garbage. People dressed in outlandish costumes. More people than he had seen in one place since the battle against Daire Donn and the son of Lochlann. But these people were not fighting.
And these were not the green hills and glens of Ireland.
“We’re not home,” he said, his voice gravelly from long sleep. He cleared his throat, said again, more loudly, “’Tisn’t Ireland.” He turned back to his friends. “Where are we? When are we?”
Then they heard the shouting.
ONE
Grace
Wake up, Gracie. Come on, wake up now.”
My brother’s voice broke through my dream. His words were slurred; I knew before I was fully awake that he was drunk—again. I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut and buried my face in my pillow. “Go away, Aidan.”
He only shook my shoulder harder. “Get up, Grace. I nee’ yer ’elp.”
I opened my eyes, wincing at the sudden pain. Too bright. The world was too bright, and Aidan was a sickening flare within it. I put my hand to my forehead. “Ouch—my head.”
“Come on. There’s a man a’ the door.”
I knew if I took a headache powder right this moment the pain would go away. But we couldn’t afford even powders, and believe me, it made me miserable. I’d been having these headaches much more often lately, along with nightmares full of thunder and weird, glowing lights. Mama said both would fade in time once the excitement was over.
Excitement. As if bill collectors and the constant threat of being put on the street were something fun. As if there was any hope of it ending soon.
Aidan wavered before me, his dark hair falling into his face, his beautiful blue eyes—which I’d been jealous of since I’d been old enough to know mine were brown—wide and anxious and afraid. He was only twenty, but already he had the sickly pallor of a constant drunk, which he was.
“Who’s at the door, Aidan? Someone else you owe money?”
“The do’tor,” Aidan said. “Saw ’im through the window. I’m in no condition—”
“No, you never are.”
“He won’t lissen to me anyway,” he said. Which was also true. The whole world knew not to trust Aidan anymore. “You know whata say to ’em, Gracie. You always do.”
I groaned. This one would not be easy. Dr. Eldridge had been sending us messages for months now. Bills that had gone onto the stack with all the others though we could no longer pay anything. It was all we could do to eat.
For a moment my resentment of my brother overwhelmed me. I would be seventeen in a month, and I should have been doing things like going to teas and shopping with my friends. But it wasn’t just Aidan’s fault. My father’s business—Knox’s Clothing Emporium, a ready-made clothing shop—had gone under. We would have done all right after his death if all our savings hadn’t disappeared when Jay Cooke & Company’s huge banking firm failed, sending the whole world—not just us—into despair. It had been only late last year. There had been p
lenty of suicides then. Shanties sprung up at the edges of the city overnight; suddenly the streets were full of the hungry and homeless. We weren’t the only ones suffering in this terrible depression, but somehow knowing that didn’t help when you were struggling to keep everything from falling apart. Soup kitchens were everywhere, run by churches feeding the poor, which we were now. But we weren’t just any poor. We had been well-to-do once, and most of our friends still were, and what would they say to see the Knoxes standing in line at a soup kitchen? Mama wouldn’t allow it, and I had my pride, too, though sometimes when I walked past a line stretching into the street and smelled soup and bread, my stomach growled so horribly I knew everyone must hear.
And since then, Aidan’s drinking had increased. There was something wrong with him, I knew. But I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t know how to cure him or how to make him care again about anything but drinking and gambling. Grandma was too ill to help—she’d been the reason for the doctor in the first place. Mama was no good with any of it. It had been two years since Papa had died, and she still couldn’t cope at all. Someone had to take care of things, and that someone was me.
I sighed. “Let him knock. He’ll go away soon enough.”
“’e’s not goin’ anywhere. Mama’s abed. Don’ let ’er be upset. Please, Gracie.”
I took a deep breath and waved him away. “All right. Go. I can’t greet the doctor in a dressing gown, now can I?”
Aidan smiled with relief. He pulled himself into an unsteady stand.
“I’ll stall Mama if she wakes,” he said.
He left, and I rose carefully, my head pounding. The morning was warm, but the floorboards were cold beneath my feet, the thick Aubusson carpets long since sold, along with every painting, vase, wall hanging, and almost all the furniture. Now my bedroom held only my bed, a rickety table and chair I’d scavenged from the attic, and a trunk with a washbasin and a chipped ewer on it and a tiny cracked mirror above it.
I stepped to the mirror and undid my braid, then caught my dark curls with a frayed ribbon and tied them back. The pounding from downstairs set a rhythm with my growing headache. I threw off my nightgown and put on my chemise and corset and gown, stockings and boots—I’d had to learn to dress myself since we’d let the maid go—and went downstairs.