3. Fiadh

Fiadh

I need to go to sleep. Anything is better than being swallowed by your own grief. Granda meant well, but his advice reminded me of how no one could compare to Daire. He was my everything, perfect for me in every conceivable way. Why waste time being with someone less than when I know what the perfect man was like?

I move over to the far window, peering out over the trees. A raven sits in a tree branch that grazes the window pane. It has glossy, black feathers and a strong beak. Its eyes are trained on me, like it’s watching me. I can’t help but smile at it. Some older, superstitious folk see ravens as a bad omen or tricksters, but they’ve always been my favorite birds ever since I was a child. I’d see them throughout the woods whenever I came to Granda’s house. Their caws never scared me.

Whenever Daire and I saw one, he’d say ‘Did ya know that ravens mate for life, love?’

I’d always reply, ‘Then you’re my raven, cause you’re stuck with me forever.’

I wish that was the case. Guess that’s something this bird and I have in common, we’re both alone.

After getting dressed in my nightgown, I take two sleeping pills. The cottage is ancient, lacking central heat and air. The uncharacteristically warm fall weather we had today makes the room feel stuffy. I laugh to myself about Granda’s weird comments earlier. Lock all the doors and windows! Old age must set you in your ways. It won’t hurt to open the window a smidge, to let some of the cool air in, right? There’s nothing out there prowling around at night. I’ll just crack it.

I settle under my quilt and stare at the ceiling. As I drift into the fuzzy space between sleep and wakefulness, I think of the hallucination I had in the woods today, vowing to myself that I’ll start taking my medications regularly while I’m here. Never want to see something like that again. Granda has enough to worry about, and I don’t need him fussing over my mental health. My eyelids feel heavy like anvils as sleep pulls me under. The last thing I think about before the world goes black are those piercing red eyes.

* * *

Sharp taps on the window wake me from a pained slumber filled with visions of Daire. His handsome face. The twinkle in his eyes when he smirked. The way his lips parted when he’d touch me in my most private places. I roll over, turning my back to the offensive noise. I want to go back and see Daire again, even if it’s only for a little while.

As I drift to sleep again, I pull the quilt over my shoulder to shield myself from the chilly air. The eerie silence surrounding me sends shivers down my spine, but I chalk it up to being cold. Just as I cross the divide into sleep, a weight settles on the bed behind me, and my heart immediately races, as if it’s trying to escape my body. Then I hear it again, the same deep, rasping inhale from the woods…

I roll back over and see the black figure from the woods sitting on the edge of my bed, inches from where I lay. Its hulking body stands out from the darkness, a pillar of white skin and black shadows. It looks like a faerie gone wrong–ethereally handsome with stark features, yet mischievous and deranged. A pair of glowing red eyes bore into me, a physical symbol of the danger I’m in right now. I take a deep breath, desperately trying to ground myself before I have another panic attack.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This is a dream.

There’s no door separating me from this monster like there was in the woods. It’s close enough to reach out and touch me. As if it can hear my thoughts, it smiles, showing me rows of jagged, shiny teeth that glimmer in the moonlight coming in from the window. It inhales, and I feel a tightness in my chest. My breath catches as my mind spins, clamoring for a way out of this situation. How do I get out alive?

I lunge toward my end table to get my phone so I can call the emergency line, but it grabs my hands and slams them above my head, holding them in one if his boney claws. Their sharp edges dig into my skin. No matter how much I struggle, I can’t break free. Its hold feels like a vise, only getting tighter the more I try to fight it.

A deep, masculine laughter echoes inside my mind while simultaneously slithering across my skin. His voice sounds decadent, with a thick, archaic sounding brogue. He runs his free hand down my cheek and across my jaw, then trails it down my neck until it reaches my collar bone. Despite his shadowy form, his hands feel rough and calloused. Every inch of my body is clamoring for me to get away somehow, but I can’t move. I’m too scared to move. This thing is like something out of my worst nightmare.

Fiadh…do not struggle against me. We are inevitable.His voice clatters inside my mind as his lips curl into a devilish smile.

His free hand softly rubs my skin, trailing over the goosebumps, before traveling back up and collaring my throat. I can feel my nipples pebble beneath my nightgown, but instead of feeling scared or disgusted, I feel aroused. Then the rasping inhale starts again.

“What are you? What do you want from me?” I ask. Weakness overtakes me, and I feel as if I can barely breathe.

You taste delicious. For now, I want to feast on your fear…your despair. Your sadness. Eventually, I’ll want your soul. Just know that your fate is sealed. You can’t outrun The Hunter, Wild One.

His hand tightens around my throat, squeezing me until I start to choke. Black clouds the edges of my vision while stars dance in my eyes. The urge to inhale crawls up my throat, but I’m unable to let it out. He leans down and kisses me, and his lips feel cold and soothing against my own. They punish and claim me, promising more that I’m not sure I want. Dizziness takes over, and then everything fades to black.

I wake up and see the early morning light filtering in through the window. After taking a few deep breaths, I try to center myself… It’s morning. A deep, sharp pain radiates through my shoulder, and I realize my hands are above my head, in the exact same way the monster held them the night before. Gently, I lower my arms and roll to my side so I can grab my phone off the nightstand. Seven in the morning. I sit up, leaning back against the headboard as I try to piece together what happened.

I saw that creature from the woods again. He said he wanted to consume my fear and sadness? He wanted my soul, Granda’s ramblings about Sluaghs flash into my mind.

They prey on the sick and the broken-hearted.

No. That thing couldn’t be a Sluagh, because they’re not real. They’re the boogeyman Irish parents tell their children about so they don’t get sad. So they behave themselves and stay in line. There’s no way they’re real, so there’s no way one will feast on my broken heart and take my soul. That was just a very vivid dream. As soon as I have a free moment today, I’ll call my therapist and discuss either getting a new sleeping medication, or transitioning to another method of treatment.

I get up to use the toilet, and stop in front of the far window. It’s closed. Thinking back to last night, I could swear I opened it.

* * *

Around eleven, Granda drives his ancient car at a snail’s pace all the way into town, parking outside of The Jammy Captain, a pub I remember from my childhood. He used to take me here for lunch and darts with his friends, and I’d eat my weight in chips. We make our way in, and his friends holler his name from the other side of the bar. Although they all look older, I remember each one like I just saw them yesterday.

“Seamus!” Mr. McClaren shouts as he thwacks his cane into the floor.

“Get your gammy arse over here!” Mr. Monroe yells, causing the other patrons to shake their heads and laugh. Granda and his friends garnered the moniker of the Wiley Old Coots Club, and have obviously kept it up while I was away.

“You brought your granddaughter?” Mr. Shaughnessy asks, in a more reserved voice. “The next James Joyce!”

“Ya fluthered eejits, shut your bakes and calm down,” Granda shouts as we make our way over to two empty seats.

“Do you remember me, young lady?” a gentleman with a flat cap asks from the opposite end of the table. “It’s been donkey’s years since we’ve seen you.”

“Of course I do, Mr. McCormick. How are you?” Niall McCormick has been a close friend of Granda’s for years. How could I forget him?

“I’m well. Very sorry to hear of your husband’s passing, but so glad you could join us today,” he says solemnly.

“Thank you,” I squeak, looking down at my shoes. It’s still uncomfortable talking about it, even though it’s been six months.

They get the hint, and no one mentions Daire for the rest of the meal. The conversation eventually picks up again, and it’s like the Irish inquisition. Over a few pints of Guinness, they ask me how school went, and if I have any pets. Because a pet cat would be a balm to my soul, according to Mr. Shaughnessy. Mr. McClaren asks about my writing, inquiring if I’ve got anything in the works. His wife and daughter have read all of my books and say they can’t wait for the next one. I don’t have the heart to tell him I haven’t had inspiration since Daire passed. All in all, it’s a good meal, but the last thing I want to do is spend the afternoon getting grilled by a bunch of old heads.

“Granda, have another pint. I’m going to go to the bookstore across the street and pick out a few things to read while I’m here,” I say as I hastily make my exit, crossing the street and traveling down a few shoppes until I can see the display window.

I stare into the window, spying some romance and mystery novels that look interesting. I’ll have to check those out. This store has always been here, but the inside seems packed from wall to wall with more aisles of books. I have so many memories of coming here and deliberating on what book to buy. Sometimes Granda and I would take turns reading the mysteries we bought aloud to each other in his sitting room. He’d always figure out who the murderer was before the halfway mark. That’s something he and Daire had in common. The few times we visited Granda, Daire had only beat him to it once, when we read L.J. Ross’ Holy Island.

I shake the memory from my mind. It’s too hard to think about Daire, even if it’s about good times. Because even the good memories serve as a reminder that he isn’t here with me. We won’t make any more of them together.

As I walk into the store, I’m hit with the distinct smell of books. Paper and ink can be a heady combination. It’s freezing in here, so I pull my sweater out of my bag and make my way down the aisles, looking for something interesting. Most of what I read are e-books, but sometimes I just want a physical book in my hand. Nothing beats the feeling of a crisp page from a new book on your fingertips—it’s a completely different experience. I see a sign for paranormal romance books. It would be nice to escape reality for a while. Most of what I write is contemporary romance thrillers, so this could be a good change of pace.

Immediately, a black and red cover with a thick girl in dark leather catches my eye. I’ve never read anything by M. Bonnet, but this seems like a good read. I love seeing women who look like me on book covers.

“Have you read this book?” a deep, raspy male voice says. I look up and see a man so handsome that he takes my breath away.

His beautiful, vibrant red hair matches a closely trimmed beard. Dark green eyes peer down at me behind thick-rimmed black glasses…and he has a long way to peer down. His Roman nose gives him a rugged look, like he’s been in a few scraps. He has to be over 6’5” making me feel tiny in comparison. His height and thick, muscular build are a complete juxtaposition to the nerd vibe he gives off.

“No, I’ve never heard of it before. The cover caught my eye.”

I can’t help but stare into his eyes. They’re a forest green, with little flecks of yellow and hazel toward the center. They remind me of Daire’s. A little voice inside me warns me to stay away from him, turn around and never look back, but he draws me in. I want to get to know him better.

“It’s the first book in a series about this young woman who doesn’t know she’s magical, and she meets these guys who end up turning her life upside down. Two of them are demons, one is a Greek god, and the other is a hellbound creature,” the man says. His voice is deep and gravelly, and it makes me feel flustered. “A great read if you feel like getting lost in another world for a while.”

“That’s the p-plan,” I stutter.

I was never good at talking to people, trying to blend into the background so no one noticed me. But now that I am a widow, every interaction just seems weird and tainted by my loss and grief. But this man is a stranger. There’s no way he’d know I am an awkward twenty-three year old widow. He couldn’t possibly feel sorry for me. The thought of talking to an attractive stranger who didn’t know me is actually freeing, even exhilarating. I catch him smiling down at me, and I blush. Is this nameless stranger flirting with me?

“I’m being rude. My name is Hunter Black,” the man says as he extends his hand. I jostle my purse and book around, shaking his hand and trying to make eye contact so I’m less awkward. “I’m sorry if I’m bothering you.”

He shrugs as he throws me a warm, genuine smile. Something about him seems so familiar, I just can’t help but want to talk to him. Maybe I’m just being insecure and feeling guilty. He seems so nice.

“No, not at all. I’m Fiadh Donahue. Sorry, I’m just shy. But I love talking about books. I’m actually a writer,” I blurt. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I must sound like such a fool.

“What’s your pen name? What do you write?” he inquires. Not the way other people ask half-heartedly, to try to make conversation. He actually sounds interested.

“My books are mostly romantic thrillers and a few raunchy rom-coms. M. O’Hara.”

“Wait, did you write Under the Alder Tree?!”

“You read my work?” I don’t mean to sound surprised, but most men write off romance as a genre. But if he’s read paranormal why choose, he’s probably not put off by male/female books.

“Yes. I read more mysteries and paranormal, but I’ve been getting into romantic suspense, romance mysteries, and paranormal romance. They’re quickly becoming my favorite genres,” he replies, his face heated with a blush. “And some of the spicy scenes in Under the Alder Tree… they were something. That plot twist toward the end was insane. I can’t believe I didn’t connect the dots and see it coming.”

We end up sitting on some arm chairs in the corner of the shop and talking about our shared love of books. We like a lot of the same authors, and he’s even read my favorite contemporary why choose series, The Apocalypse Society by Aly Beck. He has a huge crush on Kaycee, the female main character, and I can’t blame him, because I sorta have a crush on her too. Although if I’m being honest, it’s all about the West twins for me—Zeppelin and Seger for life.

Turns out he lives close to me, and grew up on the outskirts of town, a little deeper into the woods. He walked the same woodland paths that I did, but we just never crossed paths. The more I look at him and stare into those perfect green orbs, the more I start to like him. He’s handsome, funny, and smart, but not in a cringy know-it-all kind of way. It starts to rain outside, and before I know it, I hear Granda’s voice boom through the shop.

“Fiadh, it’s been almost two hours. What are you up to, child?” he slyly asks as he eyes Hunter and I from across the space. “Who is this young man?”

Before I can jump in, Hunter stands up and shakes his hand. “I’m Hunter, sir. I met Fiadh when we bumped into each other in the paranormal aisle.”

Granda eyes him up. “I’m her grandfather, Seamus. It’s time she gets home for dinner, but feel free to talk to her some other time.”

“Could I get your number, Fiadh?” Hunter asks. He seems so nervous compared to a few minutes ago.

“Yeah, sure.” I program my number into his phone and call myself, so I have his number too. “It was so nice meeting you, Hunter. I’ll make sure to let you know what I think about In Death We Part. And when I’m finished, I’ll start the Alastair Stone Chronicles.”

I follow Granda out of the store, thinking of how lucky I was to meet an attractive man who reads the same books as me. It’s like something out of a romance novel. Even if we just stay friends, it would be nice to know someone in the area. I’ll be here for a while.

Right as I reach the door, I look over and see him smiling at me.