When sixteen year-old Brenna Morgan arrived in Ireland with her travel-writer mother she had expected the usual—a couple of months in a country that wasn’t her home. What she hadn’t anticipated was making a promise to a dying faerie who saves her life. Armed with only her wits and a strange iron key given to her by the faerie, Brenna is pulled into a world where myth and legend cross all too often into reality, in search for a child hidden away in their world.

Knowing nothing of the faerie realm, she is aided in her search by her new found friend Patrick and a reluctant faerie named Roibhilin with a grudge against humans. But the more she uncovers the more she realizes that not all is as it seems, that danger comes in the most unassuming of guises, and that the child she is sworn to protect could destroy not only the faerie world but her own as well.

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Teen

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Excerpt

Chapter One

“I don’t see a sign, mom. Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

Brenna narrowed her green eyes and pressed her nose against the window, trying to see past the rivers of water streaming along the glass. All she could really make out was a ditch backed by a low, rock wall that had been with them since they’d left the bustling Irish city of Cork.

“Of course I am! Have I ever gotten us lost before?”

“Well, there was that one time in Peru...” she began.

“Really, that was one time four years ago.” Brenna’s mother punched her shoulder lightly, smiling. “C’mon, we’re almost there, Bren. And where is that sense of humor I gave you at the time of birth?”

“Somewhere between India and the Cork airport.”

“I’m sure it’ll catch up to you by tomorrow.”

The windshield wipers her mother had turned on were almost useless, and the pounding wind and water against the car had her wondering how long it would be until the roof caved in. Brenna wrinkled her nose. If this was what the weather was going to be like all the time, her sneakers were done for.

“Oh look, there it is—Kerry Lane!”

Her mother made a sharp right, and Brenna gripped the side of the car with both hands against the force. In back, several bags tumbled along the seat as her mother laughed. It was times like these that Brenna was sure the woman was a little nuts. Her dad’s nickname for her mom was ‘Rocket Rachel’, and she thought it suited the woman perfectly. The road became bumpy then, and Brenna had to hold onto the doorframe just to keep from hitting her head on the low ceiling of the rental car. The rain continued to pour down around them, and the tires skidded every once and a while on the slick mud.

“Don’t the Irish believe in paving their driveways?!” Brenna exclaimed through gritted teeth.

“Now where’s the fun in that, Bren? There’s the cottage up ahead, and it looks like someone’s there. I heard the people in this country are really hospitable. Isn’t Ireland wonderful?”

Brenna wasn’t sure if “wonderful” was the correct term. Muddy, cold, and miserable seemed a better description. The cottage, however, really did look like something from out of a magazine with its whitewashed walls and thatched roof. Smoke curled out from a chimney to join the mist that snaked its way through the air, and colorful flowers peeked out from boxes nestled against windows sheltered by the roof’s sloping eve. A blue door was the only other splash of color in the mist and gloom. Her mother gave a sigh of contentment before she turned off the ignition and leaned back in her seat.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, listening to the rain beat against the car as they took in the view of their new home. The cottage door swung open then, and a thin woman waved at them from the doorway. Together they straightened from their slumped positions.

“Well,” said her mother as she reached around and picked up two duffel bags from the floor, “I guess that’s the signal to get moving, kiddo!”

“Mom, I’m sixteen, you can’t really call me that anymore.”

“Oh? I hate to break it to you honey, but since you’re not as old as I am, you’re going to remain ‘kiddo’ until you catch up to me.”

“Somehow, I don’t think the math is working out very well...”

“Less talking, more moving. And,” her mother’s smile widened as she continued, “since you want to be so grown up, you can carry two duffel bags like the rest of us adults!”

With a small shriek of laughter, Brenna’s mother made a mad and very slippery dash to the door where the woman took a bag before going back into the house. Brenna sighed, taking the last two bags as she followed after her. Like her mother, her head barely missed hitting the top of the door frame when she entered, an occurrence she’d had to suffer with for the last few years thanks to a growth spurt and her father’s Viking genetics. By the time she got inside both she and the bags were soaking wet.

“Brenna, isn’t this place adorable?!”

Dropping the waterlogged duffel bags to the floor, she looked around as her mother disappeared down a short hall directly across from the front door. The cottage was cute but snug. To the left, the living room and kitchen were jumbled together in a mash of faded, mismatched couches, wingback chairs, and a narrow counter that worked as both a stove-top and table to separate the cramped space. Across from the stove rested an ancient, heavy sink under an equally old window while the rest of the narrow kitchen was taken up by a 1950s fridge that barely avoided blocking the entrance.

“Brenna, this is Kathleen Fergus. She lives next door. Kathleen, this is my daughter.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Brenna stuck out her hand, realizing too late that it was wet and cold. The elderly woman paid no mind, however, and shook her hand. Kathleen’s smile was kind and her pale blue eyes were sharp and piercing, reminding Brenna of a gypsy she’d met once who could tell fortunes with unnerving accuracy. A brown, tweed jacket covered her short, slender frame, and a skirt of pink roses seemed at odds with a pair of thick leather boots.

“It’s nice to meet you as well, Brenna. My grandson is around here somewhere, probably after some turf. We’ve got the fire going, as you can see.” Kathleen gestured to the large stone fireplace in the living room. “’Tis bad luck to come home to a cold hearth, you know.”

Rachel clapped a hand on Brenna’s shoulders then quickly pulled it off when she realized how wet her daughter’s clothes were.

“We’re very grateful for the welcome, Mrs. Fergus. Will you stay for dinner?” She gave a small kick and Brenna echoed the offer, feeling like she was five again. Kathleen laughed.

“Well and sure a warm meal is always something to say yes to. I’m sure Patrick will be glad for the food as well. And please, call me Kate—all my friends do.”

“This is so much better than the hut we rented in Columbia, huh Bren?” Her mother laughed. “Your bedroom is the last one down the hall on the left. Why don’t you get comfortable and I’ll make us all some dinner?

“Sure.”

After readjusting the dripping bags on her shoulders, Brenna teetered down the short hallway to the room that would be hers for the next four months. It was small, and the ceiling was slanted with wooden beams that held up the thatched roof. She wondered if the straw was really thick enough to keep out the rain that beat mercilessly upon it. Setting her bags down on the floor with a wet thud, she sat down on the bed, wincing when it creaked under her weight. It was a small, wrought iron contraption that sunk in the middle, but the quilts on top were thick and the mattress seemed pretty sturdy.

Standing with a stretch, she quickly changed into jeans and a dry shirt before taking a towel to her wet hair. A small dresser table with a round mirror was opposite her bed, and Brenna eyed her reflection as she combed her long, blonde hair. Her face was pale as usual—save for a smattering of light freckles on her nose and cheeks—and her green eyes were fringed by thick, black lashes that her mother often said just weren’t natural or fair. She wrinkled her nose at her spare figure, wishing that she weren’t quite so thin or tall. At five feet eleven, she often stood out in a crowd and imagined that it was how a scarecrow in a field must feel.

Slipping on a pair of socks and a knitted wool sweater, Brenna headed back to the living room. The smell of cooking pasta made her feel at home and eased the anxiety that the car ride had brought on. Her mother always made spaghetti the first night they stayed anywhere; it was one of the few things that stayed constant in her life. A few feet in front of the counter where her mother stood cooking was a large, overstuffed couch that faced the fireplace and a trunk used in place of a coffee table. The couch was soft and warm when Brenna sank into it, and she peeked over the edge at her mother who was draining the noodles while Mrs. Fergus stirred the sauce.

“Need any help, mom?”

“If you could make sure you’re starving, that’d be helpful.”

“Ha, ha.” Rolling her eyes, Brenna snuggled back into the cushions and looked around. There was no TV or radio, but she was used to that. Tugging on a lock of hair, she looked up. The ceiling above was crisscrossed by heavy beams like the ones in her bedroom, hosting dusty spider webs. She wondered just how many spiders were up there then decided that she didn’t want to know.

“Brenna, I have to go to Tralee tomorrow to meet with the publisher there. Do you want to come with me?”

Her mother handed her a bowl of pasta with this announcement and made sure Kathleen had the seat of her choice between the two wingback chairs on opposite sides of the trunk before joining her daughter on the couch. Brenna took a bite of the noodles, mulling the question over. They’d been traveling for three days straight, and she was pretty sure that if she had to go down one more bumpy road she’d throw up.

“I think I’ll stay here. I can go exploring or something, if it’s not raining.”

“It’s Ireland, Bren. It always rains.” Her mother laughed again and twirled the spaghetti on her fork. The homey atmosphere suddenly changed as the door slammed open, ushering in wind, rain, and a dark figure whose face was hidden in shadow. Kathleen smiled.

“Ah, Patrick, I wondered where you’d gone off to! Come in boy, and meet our new neighbors.”

Patrick stepped through the door, pushing a rain cap off with one hand and carrying a bundle of something large and earthy-smelling in the other. As he shut the door, Brenna eyed him covertly over her bowl of pasta, trying not to appear interested. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his frame—athletic, Brenna assumed—took on some bulk thanks to the thick, wool sweater he was wearing. His hair was damp from the rain and brushed his neck in dark-brown waves. She wasn’t sure given the dim lighting, but she thought that his eyes looked green.

For a moment, his eyes caught hers before slowly looking her over from head to toe in a way that made her feel as if he could see every thought she had in her head, much like his grandmother. Brenna felt heat creep up her neck and spread to her cheeks, anger rising at his slow once-over. Neither her mother nor Kathleen appeared to notice the tension, though, and her mother happily offered Patrick a bowl as he set down his load next to the fireplace. He nodded his head in thanks and took his seat in the last wingback chair but remained wordless.

Kathleen smiled at her grandson, pride showing clearly in her eyes. “Patrick’s a bit of a shy one by times. He’s about your age I’m thinking, Brenna.”

Brenna studied him briefly, not quite sure what to say. He seemed to be older than her, but she didn’t want to come across as rude to their new neighbors by pointing out the wrong age. Her mother patted her shoulder, her smile wide.

“Brenna’s sixteen.”

“She is the same age, then! Is Brenna to be going to school?”

“We hadn’t really discussed it yet.”

Rachel’s pleasant demeanor faltered for a moment as she glanced at her daughter, and Brenna hunched her shoulders slightly, gripping her fork a little tighter. School was something her mother almost never put her in. Why bother? she’d asked when Brenna had suggested going to a junior high in Hong Kong. You won’t stay long enough to go through the whole process.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Kathleen spoke up again, her voice cheerful. “Well, if you do go, Brenna, my Patrick here will be more than happy to show you ’round the school. ’Tisn’t very big, but it’s bigger than some. Here now, Patrick, put the sod on.”

He leaned down, took a fat strip of what appeared to be dirt, and threw it onto the fire. Smoke and the unmistakable smell of earth rose, drowning out the scent of pasta.

“Ah,” said Kathleen as she held her hands up to the flames, “There’s nothing a good peat fire won’t cure. It’s pleased I am to have you here in this house. It’s been a wee bit sad to see it sitting empty. Have you seen any of the Good Folk since your visit, Brenna?”

“Good Folk?” Brenna’s curiosity piqued, and it must have shown on her face, for Kathleen smiled and leaned back in what was obviously a story-telling position.

“Fairies. We don’t often call them that; t’would be an insult to call them as such. But I’m sure they won’t mind this once. They’ve been known to wander the roads this way quite often.”

“That reminds me!” Setting down her bowl, Rachel rummaged through her large bag slumped against the couch before handing Brenna a heavy, slightly damp book.

“I got this for you while we were waiting at the bus stop in Limerick.”

“A fairy-tale book?” Brenna accepted the gift eagerly and Rachel smiled. Like her father, Brenna’s love for cultures and stories of the magical variety knew no bounds.

“It’s not just a fairy-tale book. It’s about the different fairies of Ireland. It’s folklore. True stories, if you will.” Her mother’s green eyes glowed warmly in the firelight, and she leaned forward as she often did when she was about to speak passionately about something.

“Did you know that a long time ago houses were built so that the doors all led into each other? They did it so that the fairies could troop through them. If they didn’t, the fairies were likely to knock the house down for blocking their path.”

“Cool.” Brenna flipped through the pages before setting it down, realizing that it was probably rude to read in the middle of a conversation. She smiled shyly at Kathleen.

“I love mythology,” she explained, somewhat embarrassed. “But it’s probably pretty dumb to believe in things like fairies, huh?”

“You ought to.” Kathleen’s voice was quiet, but the force behind it was strong. “There are many a strange things as happens in this country, Brenna. Folklore and history have a way of winding ’round each other in Ireland, and its best to believe it all than to be punished for not heeding the words in the first place.”

Patrick stared into the fire, but Brenna could tell from the way his body tensed that he was listening intently. She wondered why he didn’t speak up or have an opinion; he certainly looked like he wanted to. Brenna started slightly when her mother put an arm around her shoulder.

“Maybe you’ll see some fairie—I mean, some Good Folk around here. That’d make for a killer story, huh?”

A strong wind suddenly howled around the house, causing the wooden beams to creak as it blew open a window above the kitchen sink that hadn’t been properly latched. The sound of flutes seemed to fill the whole room, and Brenna blinked in surprise, trying to catch which direction the sound was coming from.

“It’s the wind,” said Kathleen. “When it whistles through the trees behind the house like that, it sounds a bit like flutes, doesn’t it?”

Brenna went to close the window, frowning when she realized that all the world had gone quiet and still outside, save for the sound of flutes that continued on like an elusive echo.

“Are you sure? The wind’s not blowing now, but—”

“’Tis just the wind, child,” Kathleen said a bit sharply, her blue eyes narrowing. “Have you gone into the woods yet?”

Patrick’s body jerked slightly, and Brenna paused on her way back to the couch. The musical sound had died away almost as quickly as it had come.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He nodded his head but didn’t quite look her in the eye. She felt the stirrings of unease rise and slowly sat down next to her mother who had just finished her dinner. Picking up her bowl of pasta, Brenna looked to Kathleen.

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

“I would warn against it. They aren’t always safe around here. There are...animals that aren’t always friendly.”

“Like snakes?” Brenna gave a small laugh and Kathleen smiled back, but it seemed a bit strained.

“Feral dogs sometimes roam about, hunt the sheep and sometimes people, too. Be sure not to go into the woods.”

In the fireplace, a log snapped loudly as it cracked in two, and Brenna gave a small jump at the noise. The tension in the room and Kathleen’s intense gaze was almost as unnerving as the wind that had blown through only a minute ago.

Rachel smiled, patting her daughter’s leg. “I’m sure Brenna will be having too much fun exploring the town and running down the lanes to go through the woods, anyway.”

“Oh, are you going to the village, then?” Kathleen directed this question to Brenna who set her bowl of spaghetti on the trunk, no longer feeling hungry.

“I was thinking of taking a walk to the village tomorrow.”

“All that way?” came the incredulous reply along with raised brows. Brenna’s smile was large and genuine for what felt like the first time in days.

“It’s only three miles, Mrs. Fergus.”

“Three miles in mud, moss, and cars driving by at such paces it would turn your head.” Kathleen tutted. “The very idea. Here now, you come to my house ’round noon and I’ll drive you there meself.”

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it. Come tomorrow at noon, ’tisn’t a problem at all.” Kathleen stood then, and Patrick followed suit. “Well, it’s getting late, and you look ready for sleep, the pair of you. Come on then, Patrick.”

With a few last waves and good-byes, Brenna shut the door and sighed. Her mother smiled and ruffled her daughter’s hair

“What a trooper you are, Bren. Here.” Handing her a mug of tea, Rachel guided Brenna to the couch.

“I know this place is smaller—and colder—than the places we’ve gone to before, but it’s a new experience, right?”

“Yeah…” Brenna stared down into her cup. “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think…could I please go to school here? We’re staying around here for four months, right? So couldn’t I go? Please?”

“Oh, Brenna...” Her mother sighed. “Don’t you like being homeschooled? I’m sure you’re in your second year of college, book-wise.”

“Yeah, but what about life-wise? Mom, I’m sixteen and I’ve never been to anything remotely normal.” Brenna squeezed the warm cup between her hands, tears brimming her eyes.

“Let me think about it, all right?”

“Fine.”

As the night wore on, the rain calmed down to a steady pitter-patter, and Brenna trudged her way into her bedroom. Her body longed for rest, but her mind wouldn’t slow down. Picking up the book her mother had given her, she thumbed through the pages until the story of a fairie that played a bagpipe caught her attention. Snuggling into the soft but creaky bed, she found herself drawn into the world the words painted and devoured one story after another, heedless of the time going by. Magic and myth—and somewhere in them truth—filled the pages. Eventually, Brenna found herself struggling to keep her eyes open, and she set the book down before turning off the lamp atop a small night stand at the side of her bed.

As sleep descended upon her, she wondered how much longer her family was going to travel. She loved the exotic places they had lived in and the people she’d met, but sometimes she wished that she could actually get to know the people and towns better than a few quick hellos and good-byes. Brenna smiled as the rain tapped against her window and the wind whistled through the cracks in the frames, and she could swear that she heard the sound of bagpipes being played outside. Perhaps Ireland would look better to her in the morning, when the rain was gone.

 

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