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Tangled in Time (The McCarthy Sisters) by Barbara Longley (1)

Chapter One

Present day, County Meath, Ireland

Regan couldn’t see the passage tomb in the predawn darkness, yet every single internal here-be-spirits antenna within her stood on end. And the closer she got, the more those antennae boogied. Newgrange, aka Brú Na Bóinne, was like Mecca to beings not of this world, not to mention a central hub for magic.

She’d sensed the powerful vibrations the day before, while visiting the ancient tourist attraction. What she’d sensed had compelled her to come back to take a closer, more private look. If she could tap into the energy here, perhaps she’d figure out how to harness a portion. Maybe then she’d be able to use the magic to shut out the ghosts once and for all. That was her hope anyway, and the driving force behind her trip to Ireland.

Legend had it her family’s giftedness sprang from the fae, a boon bestowed upon an Irish ancestor in their distant past. She wished she could give the gift of sight back to that ancestor, or at least learn how to close herself off from it. “If you want to shut off the flow, you have to find the source,” she muttered to herself. So here she was in County Meath, schlepping through dew-covered pastures, about to trespass on a national historic site.

The rolled yoga mat hanging from the strap over her shoulder swayed to the rhythm of her strides. Her shoes and the bottoms of her leggings were sopping wet. Regan trekked on, her blood humming in concert to Brú Na Bóinne’s pulse.

She paused as the dim outline of the wooden shack she’d been looking for took shape in her flashlight’s beam. The kiosklike structure stood at the base of the large hill. This was where visitors purchased postcard photos of the interior of Newgrange while waiting for the park shuttles to take them back to the visitor center. Focusing on getting through a patch of brambles without tearing her clothes, Regan aimed for the low wooden fence she needed to climb to get onto the grounds. What would happen if someone caught her trespassing? She went a little breathless at the thought. Would the Irish police, the Garda, come take her away?

Just as the first blush of dawn crested the eastern horizon, Regan made it to the top of the hill. The large, flat stone guarding the entrance to the tomb came into view. The spiral glyphs etched into the surface were only dimly visible. She reached out and traced one of the coils, and a tingle ran up her arm, coursed along her nerves throughout her entire body and raised goose bumps in its wake.

The view from the top of the hill was incredible. Miles and miles of green, rolling hills in every direction, with the River Boyne meandering in a winding path through the lush landscape. The verdant surroundings carried the sweet scent of growing things and spring blossoms. Birds had begun to stir, singing their own trilled version of the sun salutation.

Regan took a few steps back and dropped her things. She tucked the flashlight into her day pack before unrolling her mat on a relatively flat stretch of grass. After toeing off her shoes, she settled on the mat in a half-lotus seated position and closed her eyes, adjusting her position until she found her center of gravity. Hands on her thighs, palms up, thumbs and pointer fingers touching, she stilled.

Immediately all kinds of ghostly whispers and pleas intruded, distracting her. Some were unintelligible, ancient languages she didn’t recognize; others came through clear as day with the same old familiar refrain. Help me! Where am I? And of course . . . I want to go home. She mentally brushed them aside like so many cobwebs in the corners of her mind. “I’m ignoring all of you,” she called out. “So you may as well quiet down.”

Regan narrowed her throat for ujjayi pranayama, the breath of victory. The inner sound of her breathing, like ocean waves, helped her focus. Concentrating, she opened her mind to the magic surrounding her.

According to everything she’d read, practitioners could use magic to repel unwanted energies. Some were able to mask their presence with a spell. Hiding from dead people and their bereaved families would work. If she couldn’t divest herself of her abilities, at least she’d have a shield.

Thoughts flitted around for a few minutes, but at least they were hers and no longer ghostly. She simply observed them until her inner self quieted. Reaching for the powerful vibrations, she waited—and waited some more. Regan meditated as hard as she could, inviting the magic in.

The minutes ticked by, at least forty of them, and nothing happened. No flow, not even a trickle or a drip seeped into her. Magic all around, and she couldn’t touch it. So, this was not the way magic worked, or she lacked what it took to call that kind of power to her. Disappointed, she heaved a sigh and rose to standing.

Despite her failure in this first attempt, she couldn’t help but appreciate the glory of the rising sun. She’d greet the day here, so slogging through dewy fields wouldn’t have been a total waste of time. Besides, holding on to disappointment wouldn’t do her any good. Better to embrace the newly born day with gratitude.

Facing the east, she brought her hands together over her heart and began her salutation. “With hands folded in prayer, I face the sun, feeling love and joy in my heart.” She moved into the first asana. Flowing into the second pose, she continued her prayer. “I reach out and let the sun fill me with warmth. I bow before the sun’s radiance, and place my face to the ground in humility and respect.”

By the time Regan had completed four sets of the sun salutation, the burning orb had risen in a blaze of orange and pink against an azure background. She switched to Ashtanga Yoga, and moved through the more challenging poses. Inhale. Move into the posture. Exhale, and . . . hold.

“What is the daft lassie doin’ then?” a very male voice said from behind her.

A burst of adrenaline wrecked her meditative state. She drew in a long cleansing breath, letting it out slowly through her nose. He had to be a ghost, because she would’ve heard a fellow trespasser’s approach.

“Until you interrupted her, the daft lassie was doing Ashtanga Yoga,” she said, coming out of her pose. So much for ending her practice with another brief meditative effort to grasp hold of the magic here. So much for shutting out the dead.

Since birth, it had been deeply ingrained in her by her family that her gifts were meant to be shared. She’d been born to guide confused spirits to the light, offer the bereaved some closure and chase away beings who had no business messing with humans.

Whether she wanted to or not, interacting with the spirit world was her lot in life. Doing so took a lot out of her and left her empty. It wasn’t always the dead who stole her energy, though their proximity chilled and exhausted her; sometimes it was their needy, grieving relatives who drained her the most. The living didn’t always want to let go, and they were persistent with their demands for her help. The worst part, though, was the effect her abilities had on her social life. Communing with the dead and otherworldly often repulsed potential love interests among the living.

“You hear me?”

“Apparently.”

“Grand. Do the thing where ye balance on one foot, arch your back like a bow and touch your toes to the back of your head again, if you please. Only . . . face me this time. Liked that one, I did,” he said. “’Twas quite . . . provocative.”

Ghosts remembered lust and sex, though they no longer experienced the physical sensations. Annoyed, she turned to scowl at him, only to gape instead. As far as ghosts went, this man was one fine-looking apparition. Lean and fit, he stood maybe five foot ten. He wore his long, auburn hair in numerous braids, held back in a knot bound with strips of leather. The original man bun?

His features were strong and angular—broad forehead, long, straight nose, flaring slightly at the nostrils, high cheekbones and a wide, expressive mouth over a tapered chin. Though he was fair and freckled, his eyes were a deep, rich brown, and they were filled with keen intelligence. He must have been quite strong in life to be this vivid in death. He was the most colorful spirit she’d ever encountered. He looked almost corporeal.

She eyed his coarse linen shirt, worn under a vest made of some kind of sleek fur. Seal? A green woolen cloak rested over his shoulders, held in place with a gold brooch of Celtic knots with a crouched wolf effigy in the center. Suede leggings fit him snugly, and the soft leather shoes he wore resembled moccasins. He reminded her of the ancient Roman descriptions she’d read of Celtic warriors, and the pictures of equally ancient rock and wood carvings she’d studied in books.

Standing a bit straighter under her perusal, he cocked his head slightly. “What might ye be called, Álainn?”

Aww, he’d just called her a beauty, and he’d said it with such an enticing Irish lilt too. “Regan MacCarthy. And you?”

“Fáelán of Clan Baiscne at your service,” he said with a bow. “Fáelán means wolf.”

“I believe it’s the diminutive form of the word, isn’t it? That would make you Little Wolf.”

“Ah, well, even the mightiest bear starts out as a cub, aye?” He winked at her. “An bhfuil Gaeilge agat? An dtuigeann tú?”

“I don’t speak Irish well, but I do have some Gaeilge, and yes, I did understand what you just said.”

“Hmm.” His gaze bored intently into hers. “And ye see me.”

“I do. Just so you know, I’ve helped many like you, and—”

“Many like me?” He crossed his arms in front of him, widened his stance and lowered his brow. “Meanin’ what, exactly?”

“Ghosts.”

He stomped around in front of the tomb’s entrance and let loose a string of expletives, all in his native Irish. “I’m no scáil; I’m cursed. Woman, do ye have any idea who or what I am?”

Huh. She’d been demoted from beauty to woman. “Little Wolf, better known as Fay-lon of Clan Bask-nuh?” Regan hid her grin and checked the horizon. The visitor center would open at nine. She slipped into her shoes and gathered her things.

“I am one of Fionn MacCumhaill’s elite, one of the Fianna who served the high king, Cormac MacArt himself. Do ye have any idea how difficult it was to become one of the few skilled enough, clever enough to be ordained into the Fianna? Do ye have any idea how prestigious it was to be counted amongst their ranks? Why, I defeated nine warriors at once, I did.”

“After walking barefoot through snow up to your waist and climbing over a mountain, no doubt,” she muttered. His ego certainly hadn’t diminished with death.

“Nay.” He flashed her a look of confusion. “’Twas midsummer. I passed many such tests to become one of Fionn’s warriors, not the least of which was proving my skill with sword, bow and lance.”

“Good for you.” Out of all the deceased she’d encountered, this boasty ghosty took the prize for being the most entertaining. Regan couldn’t wait to call her sisters to tell them about today’s encounter. Was she supposed to help him? Was that what drew her back to Newgrange and not the magic after all? No. Fáelán was but one of many ghosts hanging out on this hill. And she had no interest in working with dead people anymore. Honestly, she never had. All she’d ever wanted was to be ordinary and to have all the ordinary things life had to offer, like a job she loved, a husband, children and a nice house in the burbs.

She started down the hill, heading for the fields she needed to cross to get to her rental car. “I believe you, but the Fianna existed in what . . . the second and third centuries? This is the twenty-first century, so—”

“Ye know our history.” His gaze lit with approval. “I’m cursed, I tell ye, by the Tuatha Dé Danann princess Morrigan. Tricked me, she did. Came to me in the guise of a mortal and seduced me into her bed. Had I known her true identity, I never would have lain with her, and—”

“And you’d be long dead regardless. Nobody lives into their thousands.”

And ”—he scowled—“not knowin’ the brief tryst meant aught to her, I took another lover soon after. Morrigan caught me and my lover between the furs once upon a winter’s eve, and that is when the fae princess cursed me.”

“Killed you more like.” No point in mincing words. If he was to cross over, he had to first accept his state of deadness.

“Nay. I told ye, I’m no ghost.”

Fáelán strode ahead, turned and faced her, forcing her to stop in her tracks or walk right through him. She hated the walk-throughs, hated the creepy chill and the overwhelming fight-or-flight instinct that shot through her every time it happened. Even thinking about it caused a shudder.

“Do ye want to hear the curse, lassie?”

His expression was so earnest, so hopeful, how could she resist? “I’m guessing you wish to share it with me.”

“I do,” he said, his gaze roaming over her face, coming to rest upon her lips.

She turned away. Too strange, this feeling of attraction to a dead man. “Go ahead, but we need to keep walking. I’m trespassing here and don’t want to get caught.”

“If we must, but I won’t be able to do justice to the recitation.”

“Oh?” He was funny, charming and somehow vulnerable. Add to that his breathtaking good looks, and she could see why a fae princess might want to crawl between the furs with him. “I know how difficult it can be to walk and talk at the same time, but I trust you’ll do the best you can,” she teased, earning her another disgruntled look from her ghostly companion. “You remember the curse word for word after all this time?”

“Of course.” His shoulders squared. “I had to commit to memory all the verses of poetry about our people’s history, and I recited every last word to Fionn without error afore I could be ordained into the Fianna. I also proved myself a poet in my own right.”

“Boasty ghosty,” she muttered.

“Cursed,” he snapped back, just as they reached the wooden fence separating the heritage land from the fields beyond. “I’d lend ye a hand, lassie, but I fear I cannot. I exist in the void, whilst ye reside in the earthly realm. We cannot touch.”

More likely, if he tried, her hand would go right through his. “It’s all right. I can manage.” She climbed over the fence, only to find him already on the other side by the time both her feet hit the ground. “So, the curse?” She set off across the field.

Fáelán cleared his throat, shook out his arms and huffed out a breath. He began, in a rich baritone, projecting his voice from his ghostly diaphragm . . . in Irish.

She hated to admit it, but her curiosity had been piqued. “Wait. My Irish isn’t good enough to get much out of what you just said. Can you translate the curse into modern-day English for me?”

“Of course. I’ve had centuries aplenty to learn all forms of English, French and German. I suspect ye might be from the Americas, but your accent is none too familiar. Where are ye from, Álainn?”

“Tennessee. The curse? Please continue.”

He cleared his throat again and seemed to ponder for a few moments. Finally, he began.

“Foolish, fickle human,

’tis a royal covenant ye have broken.

Harken well to my edict,

for ’tis your penance now spoken.

By wind, water, earth and fire I vow,

’til blood of sidhe in a mortal will tell,

’twixt here and shadow shall ye dwell.

Not without mercy, a daughter of Danu be,

I grant ye one path by which ye might be free.

During the interludes when the realms collide,

in the earthly world may ye bide.

Seek she who sees ye, and woo her well.

For once your heart is fully given,

when your life for hers ye’d gladly give,

in the earthly realm may ye once again live.”

“Impressive.” He truly was a poet if he could spew out something like that at a moment’s notice. “What does the curse refer to when it mentions realms colliding?”

“During solstices and equinoxes, the veil between the worlds lifts, and the realms merge. I know of only three: the shadow realm where the dead go to be judged afore rebirth, the void realm where the fae make their home and the earthly realm where we humans are meant to dwell.”

She’d read the Celts believed there were different realms, and building his fantasy upon what was culturally relevant to him made sense. Besides, ghosts had to go somewhere when they stepped into the light, and she’d often wondered where that might be. Who was she to say there weren’t other dimensions? “When did this happen, Fáelán?”

“Mid-third century.”

Getting a ghost to think about time’s passage was the first step in a multistep process for helping them accept they were dead. She should write a manual for ghost whisperers, a twelve-step program for helping spirits depart. Once she found a way to rid herself of her gift, she could pass the manual along to some other unfortunate soul who’d been born with the sight. Perhaps she would write that book. Now that she’d sold her chain of yoga studios, she had the time. Step two: confront the ghost with empirical evidence of their demise—or at least the implausibility of their continued existence. Regan glanced at her ghostly companion. “How do you explain not aging or dying after all this time?”

“I cannot, for I do not understand the reasons myself. ’Tis said the Tuatha Dé Danann, the children of the goddess Danu, partake of the Elixir of Life, which is the source of their immortality. Morrigan may have slipped a drop or two of the elixir into the food I am provided with in my captivity.”

“Hmm.” Poor guy. Clearly, he was a ghost with a rich imagination, unwilling to accept his own mortality. And why would he? He’d died so young. No wonder he’d stuck around. Acceptance would be difficult for such a strong personality. She’d encountered the same denial many times with accident victims, especially young men. What was it about young males that led them to believe they were immortal?

“Ye see me,” he said, sweeping his arm in a wide arc and turning in a circle. “Seek she who sees ye, and woo her well.” He lowered his chin and winked at her again. “Perhaps you’re the lassie I’m fated to love with all my heart, aye?”

Speaking of hearts, hers broke a tiny bit for him. He was so deep in denial, he’d created an entire fantasy for a way to return to the land of the living. Despite her wish to be done with ghost busting, she was tempted to help this spirit come to grips with his reality.

“’Tis a wonder. Might you be mo a míorúilt lómhar, my precious miracle? I do hope so, for a lovelier miracle I could not have imagined.”

His over-the-top flirty tone didn’t match the desperate hope she glimpsed deep in his eyes. “For a ghost, you certainly are a shameless flirt.” She couldn’t keep from grinning. The notion that she could be anyone’s precious miracle tickled her. “It’s highly doubtful I’m the one destined to win your heart after all these years, but I’ll help you in any way I can.”

Meaning she’d come back to Newgrange a few more times and lead him as gently as possible to the realization that he was no longer of this world. Once he accepted his death, she’d guide him toward the light, and he’d cross over.

A sense of rightness settled over her. For this boasty ghosty, she’d put aside her search for a way to cut herself off from the spirit world. Temporarily. Once he’d departed, she’d take up the search right where she’d left off.

Regan MacCarthy saw him! Thank the gods, both old and new, for it had been centuries since he’d been seen by any but his blood kin. As elated as he was, Fáelán’s strength had begun to wane, and soon he’d be forced to leave his wee miracle. He uttered a few choice curse words under his breath.

Being away from his island prison depleted him, which was one of the reasons he continued to train as hard as he did. If ever he was to gain his freedom, he needed to maintain his strength and his skills. For truth, he could not court a lassie if he couldn’t spend time in her proximity, and being away took all his energy and his strength.

He gazed at the beauty walking beside him. Her shoulder-length hair was the color of nutmeg, and he longed to run his fingers through the lustrous tresses, to feel its softness against his skin. Her eyes were wide set, an enticing bluish-gray fringed with thick dark lashes, and her full lips . . . ah, her full lips were meant for his kisses, ’twas certain. For the first time in more centuries than he cared to count, hope ignited within him, warming him through and through.

He had maybe an hour, two at most, afore he’d be forced to return to his gaol. Best make the most of whatever time he had with the lovely Regan MacCarthy. They marched on through the fields in silence, and he could almost see her mind working through everything he’d told her.

She didn’t believe him, that much was clear, but she would in time. He’d see to it, and the summer solstice would soon be upon them. He’d have five full days of freedom in which to fall in love. Woo her well he would. Why, he’d charm her right into his arms. After all, he was one of the Fianna. How could she not succumb?

Ah, but she didn’t have to love him back for the curse to be broken, did she. Though ’twould be most pleasing if she gave her heart as well. Regardless, once free of his curse, he’d work most diligently to win her heart. After all these long centuries alone, he was more than willing to take a chance and pledge his troth. God willing, she would prove herself worthy of a Fiann such as himself. The thought of touching Regan, of holding her sweet, womanly curves against him, sinking into her welcoming heat—

“So, let me get this straight,” she said, stepping from the field through a narrow gap in the hedgerow and onto the lane where a single car had been parked. “To be free of the curse, you must first find a woman who can see you while you’re . . . ’twixt here and there, and then you must give her your heart. You have to fall desperately in love to the point where you’d lay down your life for hers, but the object of your affection doesn’t have to return the favor?”

He’d grown hard as wood thinking about making love with Regan, and she believed he was a ghost. He did naught to hide the effect she had on him. Ghosts didn’t stiffen with want of a woman, did they? Proof he was no scáil.

“’Tis true. The object of my affection does not need to return the favor, as ye say, but ’tis my deepest longing that she will. Like most young men, I had hoped to marry one day, sire a passel of children and grow old with my beloved.” He cast her a sideways look. Had she noticed the proof of his desire for her?

“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?” She used a button on a key fob to unlock the doors and walked toward her car, keeping her eyes on the vehicle and away from his crotch.

Either she’d noticed and was pretending not to, or she really hadn’t. At any rate, without encouragement, his proof of life deflated. He blamed it on his weakening state.

“In most faerie tales, isn’t it true love between both parties that breaks a curse or a spell?” she continued.

“I’ve not made a study of such things, lassie, and I doubt the Tuatha have either. Morrigan fancied herself in love with me, whilst I felt naught but a fleeting attraction in return. I’m guessing she intended me to suffer the same unrequited misery she imagined she suffered.”

Regan opened the back door of the car and tossed her belongings onto the seat. “You use words like fancied and imagined when you speak of Morrigan’s feelings. Why is that? Isn’t it possible she really had fallen for you?”

She’d drive away soon, and he’d not be able to find her again if she did. He couldn’t lose her, yet how might he convince her to spend more time with him? “Morrigan is fae, immortal and magical in the very worst sense of the word. For her own gratification, she came to me pretending to be an ordinary mortal woman. We spent a se’nnight together, no more, and our brief union had naught to do with love. We did very little talking, if ye catch my meanin’.”

He shook his head. “Nay, Álainn. Morrigan did not fall for me. She’s a demigoddess with a reputation. Morrigan has a knack for stirrin’ trouble. She’s known well for starting wars, she is, and for creatin’ drama where there’s no need for such. I’m but a mouse, and she the cat, and naught else.”

He let loose a weary sigh and rubbed his temples. The pull from the void grew stronger by the minute. “’Tis truth, I fear she’s forgotten all about me over the centuries, though time to the fae is not the same as it is for us. I haven’t seen her since the first weeks of my captivity, when she tried to persuade me to become her consort.”

“You refused?”

“I did, and I’d refuse her again today if given the choice.”

“And then she killed you.” Regan nodded to herself, as if she’d worked it all out for herself.

“Nay. She cursed me.” Clearly, his fated one had a stubborn streak. “Where might ye be off to, lassie?”

“I have a town house in Howth. I’m going there to have breakfast and change my clothes, and then I’m off to explore Dublin. I think I’ll visit the National Museum of Ireland today, the archaeology branch.”

“Hmph.” He shifted his stance, bracing himself against the growing tug from his island prison. “I lived much of the history on exhibit there. In fact, the museum has an armband of gold belonging to me. I’d very much like to have it back, truth be told.”

“I’m sure.” Regan’s expression turned to one of pity.

“I could tell ye all ye wish to know about such things. Might I join ye for a bit longer? I’ve not spoken to a soul other than my kin for so long, and—”

“Your kin see you? They talk to you?”

Regan’s lovely eyes lit with interest, and he grasped at that wee bit of straw with both greedy hands—anything to entice her into willingly spending time with him. “Aye. Some of them can see me whilst I’m in the void, but not all.”

His chest tightened at the memory of his poor mam’s tears the day he’d returned that first equinox, and the way his da had scolded him for a fool after Fáelán explained how he’d been tricked and cursed. His da always scolded when he wished to cover strong feelings. Fáelán had learned to see through the bluster when he was still a wee laddie, and he never doubted his parents’ love and pride for their only surviving son.

His four sisters had also grieved that day, their husbands, his nieces and nephews, cousins, uncles and aunts as well. Hell’s fire, his entire clan had lamented his loss, for he likely would have become their chieftain once he’d left the Fianna. By then, his da would have been ready to retire the position. Fáelán would have done his best by his clan too. He’d let everyone down, disappointed his da and broken his mam’s heart, and all for lust.

“I came home to my clan during the spring equinox, when I was free to bide in the earthly realm. I explained what had happened. My kin swore to help me in any way possible, and they aid me still to this day.”

For centuries, his relatives had led a string of women known to be gifted afore him while he dwelt in the void, hoping one might prove to be his fated love. Only a few were able to see him, and those few who had . . . fled. They too believed him to be a ghost from the ancient past. Regan hadn’t run away, and she was willing to talk with him. His spirits soared at such an auspicious beginning. Why, he’d already fallen half in love with her for that alone. “Would ye like to meet my kin?”

“I would.”

“Grand. Take me with ye to your dwelling in Howth, so that I might see where ye dwell. That way, I’ll be able to find ye again. I’ll arrange a meeting with my kin ere long.”

“I don’t think so.” Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized him. “How about I come back and visit you at the passage tomb now and then? We can stay in touch that way, talk some more about your situation, and then maybe we can make plans to visit your family.” She opened the driver’s side of her car and slid in.

Fáelán willed himself into the seat beside hers, and she gave a tiny gasp at finding him there before she’d even settled behind the wheel.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She frowned.

“I think I’m coming with ye to Howth, so that I might be able to find ye again.”

She shook her head but didn’t order him away, and he took that as another good sign. Regan pulled her car away from the hedgerow and started down the lane.

“If you aren’t a ghost, then how do you do that? How do you just . . . pop up wherever it is you want to be?”

Pondering such matters over the centuries always made his temples throb, and thinking about all that fruitless mental effort had him shaking his head. “I cannot explain how I manage to move about. ’Tis another fae aspect of this accursed void realm, I think, and I don’t know the whys and wherefores myself. I can tell ye it took months to figure out how to leave my gaol and elude my fae gaoler. I’ve oft wondered if Morrigan didn’t intend that I learn how to wander about, or she would have put a stop to it, aye? How else was I to seek she who could see me whilst in the void?” He slanted her a wry look.

“See, I focus all my will upon where I wish to be, and there I am, at the very edge of the boundary betwixt the realms, leastways. Leaving my island takes a great deal of strength.” He met her gaze, unrelenting in his attempt to impress her. “I’m quite strong of mind and body, well able to protect and provide for a wife and children.”

“Said the man who couldn’t lend me a hand to get over a fence.” One side of her mouth quirked up.

He grunted, faced the road and concentrated all his will upon remaining right where he was, at least until he saw where Regan lived. He had to have the location of her dwelling firmly planted in his mind, and he needed to convince her to spend more time with him. Once he’d accomplished those tasks, he’d take his leave with some dignity, afore being dragged back unwilling to his island in the swirling mists. He contented himself with taking note of his surroundings as she drove.

Soon enough, she pulled her car in to a parking spot in front of a nondescript white two-story cottage sharing a wall with an identical dwelling next door, and another beside that one. At least her door boasted a bright and cheery red.

“Here we are,” she told him.

Fáelán peered out of the window. “Ye own this cottage?”

“No. I’m leasing the town house for the year I’ll be in Ireland.”

“A whole year, ye say? Grand.” A spark lit within him. He’d have two equinoxes and two solstices with her, should it take him that long to lose his heart. Twenty days in full in which to touch her. Surely physical intimacy would aid him in falling in love, aye?

Regan nodded. “I want to get to know the land of my ancestors, maybe trace my family tree, see what I can dig up about the MacCarthy branch. I intend to visit every corner of the island, do all the touristy stuff and some of the less touristy things as well.”

“Let me be your guide, Álainn. If ’tis history ye be wantin’, who better than I to teach ye?”

“Sure, why not,” she, murmured, glancing at him for an instant.

He couldn’t identify the expression flickering across her features just then. Sadness? Resignation? No matter. She’d agreed, and ’twas enough for now. “’Tis settled then. When shall we begin your tour?”

“Well, today is Wednesday, and I want to spend this day and tomorrow exploring Dublin. How about Friday, and we can get out of the city?”

“Right. I’ll be here Friday morn, at half eight.”

“You have clocks in the void realm?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“Nay.” Unable to fight the pull any longer, he broke out in a cold sweat and dread knotted his gut. “Trust me, lassie, and be ready. I must leave ye now.”

An instant later, he found himself flat on his back in the sand on his island’s only beach. He didn’t attempt to sit up, but turned his head to gaze out over the clear lake to the thick swirling mist beyond. His jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists. By the gods, how he loathed this place. The desperation to be free had nearly driven him mad in the beginning. At one point, he’d even considered taking his own life just to spite Morrigan. Would she have allowed him that end? Not bloody likely.

The unfairness of it all, the self-recrimination he suffered for his own foolishness—’twas the worst. To this day, he still couldn’t fathom why one fae princess would trouble herself over a mere mortal like him.

Surely Morrigan had forgotten him by now. And if she’d forgotten him, her anger had to be a thing of the distant past. After all, she would’ve had leagues of lovers since their brief tryst. How many times since the two of them had dallied had she fancied herself in love? For that matter, how many more poor mortals had she cursed?

Even after all these centuries, his longing for freedom was as sharp today as it ever had been. More so, for he’d found the woman he’d prayed for every single day of his miserable existence. He yearned to live his life to the fullest. All he had to do was fall in love and give his heart fully. “Easy, aye?” Doubt edged its way into his thoughts.

He’d had plenty of opportunities to lose his heart afore Morrigan’s curse, yet he never had. He’d come close a few times, but some indefinable reluctance always barred the way, and he’d held back. He’d always believed ’twas because he had ambition, hopes of rising within the ranks of the Fianna. Now he wasn’t so certain. No matter. This time would be different, because this time he willed it so. How difficult could it be? He’d see the deed done, and that was all there was to it. Like any other challenge set afore him, he’d rise and conquer.

How long had it been since he’d conquered anything, anything at all? His pulse raced at the thought of a new challenge. He’d always loved pitting himself against any and all obstacles in his path, which was another reason his confinement chafed so.

“Ah, well. Tomorrow is another day.” Yawning, Fáelán wrapped his cloak around himself and drifted into sleep. For the first time in more than a thousand years, he closed his eyes with a broad smile upon his face, already dreaming of the day he’d hold lovely Regan MacCarthy in his arms.

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