Devil of Dublin: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance Page 3

  I thought a tea party sounded like fun until I got halfway up the hill and realized that there wasn’t going to be a party with all the clinking and clanking I was doing.

  I walked more slowly to see if that would help.

  I was glad that my mom had let me go play, not only because I was dying to see if I could find the fairy again, but also because her brother and sister—Uncle Eamonn and Aunt Shannon—were at my grandfather’s house, too. All they wanted to do was sit around and talk about grown-up stuff. And because my uncle never had kids and my aunt’s kids were already adults, they didn’t even bring any cousins for me to play with.

  Grandpa would play with me sometimes, but not when Uncle Eamonn and Aunt Shannon were there. They’d both moved away to bigger cities once they finished school, so he didn’t get to see them very often either. The year before, he’d taught me how to play poker. My mom had said that game wasn’t “appropriate,” but she was too tired to play with me herself, so she’d let it go.

  She was always too tired to play with me.

  I made it to the top of the hill and almost burst out laughing when I saw all the bluebells on the other side.

  Fairy hats. I shook my head at my naive younger self as I tiptoed between the flowers, holding the tray even tighter to keep it from being jostled. I passed a ring of red-and-white polka-dotted mushrooms and trees carpeted with fuzzy green moss, but when I spotted a fallen trunk with wavy plate-like things growing up the side, I lifted my eyes with a hopeful gasp.

  And there it was.

  About fifty paces down the hill.

  The ruins of a gray stone cottage, and sticking up over the back wall was a headful of glossy black curls.

  I wanted to jump up and down and squeal in delight, but I had to stay calm to keep from scaring him away. Plus, it looked like he was concentrating really hard on whatever he was doing, and my teacher always said that it was rude to distract your friends when they were trying to concentrate.

  As I got closer, I realized that the boy’s head was bent sideways, looking down the length of a stick that he was holding on top of the wall as if it were a gun. Then, his body jerked rapidly—ra-ta-ta-ta-tat—like he was firing a machine gun.

  The boy then ducked and covered his head with both hands, disappearing beneath the wall before popping back up to throw a rock. He stuck his fingers in his ears and turned around, facing me with his eyes squeezed shut as his imaginary hand grenade exploded somewhere behind him.

  I stood in the doorway, making sure to block the exit before I spoke, in case he tried to run.

  “Can I play?” I asked, teacups quivering against their saucers. I’d never played Army before, but I did remember a scene from Toy Story where Woody told the green plastic Army men to go on a mission.

  Setting the tray down on the ground next to the door, I stood at attention and put my hand up to my forehead in a salute. “Sergeant, establish a recon point. Code red. I repeat, code red.”

  The boy took his fingers out of his ears and slowly looked up at me. His eyes widened from slits to saucers as his lips parted. When they closed again, I swore, he was almost smiling.

  I was definitely smiling. So big that I was sure he could see every missing tooth in my nine-year-old mouth.

  His eyes moved from me to the tea set on the floor, and he dove for it, sniffing it like a dog.

  “The good people love biscuits.”

  I lifted the lid on the little blue-and-white sugar bowl, revealing three or four biscuits—however many I could fit inside before I’d left—and offered one to him. “Is this what you—”

  Just like the time before, the boy snatched the vanilla treat out of my hand and shoved it into his mouth, chewing and grunting with his eyes closed, as if it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Then, he picked up the teapot and shook it, but it was empty. His face fell.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  He shoved his dirty hand down into the cookie jar and pulled out the rest of the biscuits.

  “I can get you some water. My grandpa lives just over the hill, in the blue house.”

  The boy lifted his head and stared at me with his cheeks full of sugar and his eyes full of hope.

  “Do you wanna … come over?”

  He glanced up at the hill behind me, chewing more slowly as he mulled it over.

  “Come on.” I grinned, picking up the little porcelain teapot. “I’ll get some water, and you can see Grandpa’s sheep too. They’re really nice, and they have blue spots on their butts!”

  I took a step backward out of the doorway. Then, another and another, never breaking eye contact with the wide-eyed boy in the cottage. I was beginning to think that he wasn’t going to come when he finally stood, clutching the now-empty sugar bowl in both hands.

  “We can get more of those too.” I grinned. “My grandpa has a whole bunch of ’em!”

  The boy emerged from the cottage, and I noticed that his jeans were at least two inches too short and had holes in the knees. I decided that those must have been his playclothes.

  Whenever I got a stain on my pants or wore holes in the knees, my mother would always say, “Well, I guess those are playclothes now.”

  My school clothes had to look nice because my mom was a teacher at my school, and how I looked was a reflection on her—or something like that.

  I also noticed that the boy was careful not to step on the bluebells, which I thought was silly because they were obviously too big for him to wear as a hat, but then I realized that maybe he just didn’t want to hurt them.

  Most of the boys I went to school with loved hurting living things. They pulled the wings off of butterflies and stomped on ant hills and chopped worms in half with sticks and ripped the leaves off of trees. But those were human boys.

  Maybe fairy boys were different.

  When we got to the edge of the woods, I pointed at the blue house in the middle of the pasture. “That’s it.” I smiled.

  Some of the sheep lifted their heads when they heard my voice and began walking toward the fence.

  “You wanna pet one?” I asked, unlatching the gate. “They don’t bite.”

  I opened the gate, and Sir Timothy McFluffles—that’s what I called the one with the wonky ear—stuck his nose in my hand, sniffing for treats.

  “See?” I turned my head and found the boy standing at the edge of the forest, mostly hidden behind a fat oak tree.

  I wondered if the fairy magic kept him from leaving the woods. I hadn’t thought of that before. Now, I felt bad. He probably really wanted to pet a sheep, but he couldn’t.

  “Here.” I set the teapot down and yanked a long piece of grass out of the ground.

  Sir Timothy McFluffles was unimpressed with my offering, but he followed me through the gate anyway and over to the tree where the boy was hiding.

  “Pet him, quick!” I said, holding the blade of grass with both hands as Sir Timothy bit the end of it right off.

  That almost smile returned as the boy leaned over to touch his wool, but the moment he took a step forward, a twig snapped under his foot and Sir Timothy took off running.

  “Dang it!”

  I chased after him, but the boy was way faster. He caught up to Sir Timothy in seconds, bending over and scooping him up in his arms like he weighed nothing. My mouth fell open as he walked back toward me, carrying Sir Timothy like he was just a giant, disgruntled stuffed animal.

  I knew that Grandpa had said that fairies were fast, but … wow. This one was fast and strong.

  I followed him through the gate, locking it behind us to make sure that none of the other sheep got out, and watched as the boy set Sir Timothy McFluffles back on his feet. When he stood back up, I realized that he was a lot taller than I remembered. And … prettier.

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling a blush creep into my cheeks. “I woulda been in so much trouble.”

  His eyes darted around the pasture, as if he were nervous. Like he’d just realized that he wasn’t in the woods
anymore.

  Oh man, now he’s the one who’s gonna be in trouble.

  “Do you need to go back?” I asked. “It’s okay if you do. I can get some water and bring it—”

  “Oi!” a voice bellowed from the direction of the house. “Shove off, lad, ’fore I loose the hound on ya!”

  I turned to find my grandfather marching through the grass, waving his hands in the air as if he were trying to shoo away a bird.

  “Grandpa!” I spread my arms and stood in front of the boy, mortified by my grandfather’s behavior. “This is my friend. He was just helping me—”

  “Get in the house, lass. Go on.”

  “But—” I felt a rustle of wind at my back and turned toward the boy, but all I saw was the back of his head as he hopped the fence and disappeared into the woods.

  My grandfather’s arms wrapped around me then, pulling me so tightly against his chest that I could hear his heart beating inside.

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” he said, squeezing me even tighter. “Ya scared me half to my grave, lass.”

  Then, he released me and tapped his forehead, chest, and both shoulders with two fingers, drawing an invisible cross.

  “Why?” I asked. “Is he a fairy, Grandpa? Are fairies dangerous?”

  I wanted to tell him that I’d touched him before and felt a zap of magic, but I didn’t think Grandpa would be too happy about that.

  Steering me by the shoulders, Grandpa turned and marched me back toward the house. “That boy is no fairy,” he grumbled. “He’s somethin’ else entirely. Rumor has it, his mother was an unsavory character. A devil worshipper. She brought Kellen to Father Henry a few years ago when he was just a wee lad. Said he was the product of a relationship she’d had with the Devil himself. She couldn’t take care of him anymore, so Father Henry took him in. Thought he could save his soul. But the lad doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile. Got kicked out of school for bitin’ and growlin’ all the time. He’s pure evil, that one. Ya best to stay away.”

  “He’s not evil, Grandpa. He’s a fairy, I swear! He has these pretty, silver eyes and lives in a fairy ring and eats sweets. Just like you said! And he’s nice. He doesn’t even step on flowers, and he brought Sir Timothy back when I accidentally let him out of the gate.”

  I slapped a hand over my mouth. Grandpa wasn’t supposed to know about that last part.

  “Don’t be fooled, lass.” He glanced down at me, lifting a bushy reddish-blond eyebrow in warning. “Ya know what they say about the Devil. Once upon a time, he was God’s most beautiful angel.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the tree, where the boy—Kellen—had been hiding just minutes earlier. I hoped to find him standing there, watching me.

  But he was gone.

  And so was Grandma’s teapot.

  CHAPTER 3

  KELLEN

  ONE YEAR LATER

  I placed two good, straight sticks on the ground in the shape of an X and pulled one of the nails I’d stolen from Father Henry’s workbench out of my pocket. I wasn’t stupid enough to risk taking his hammer too, so I drove the nail through with a rock.

  Wham!

  Three days. Darby had been back for three days, and she hadn’t come looking for me once.

  Wham! Wham! Wham!

  I knew because I’d been watching her granda’s house every day since school holidays had started. I’d even put his damn sheep back a time or two, hoping he’d see me being helpful and change his mind about letting Darby play with me, but …

  I smashed the nail again—my gangly twelve-year-old arm mustering the force of someone twice my size and every bit as pissed off—and split the top stick right down the middle, rendering it useless.

  “Fuck!”

  I threw the mangled twig over the wall of the cottage and heard something I hadn’t in three hundred and sixty-eight days. The prettiest sound in the whole goddamn world.

  “Kellen?”

  My guts twisted into violent knots as I jumped up, facing the hill. I saw her instantly, a riot of color in a sea of green. Coppery-orange hair. A rainbow-striped hoodie. And a pair of wellies as yellow as Mr. Lafferty’s farmhouse.

  I held my breath as she bounced down the hill, careful not to step on a bluebell or trip on a tree root. She was carrying a brown paper sack, and when her eyes finally lifted, they landed right on me.

  With a smile.

  That gap-toothed grin destroyed me. Ran me through with medieval brutality. It wasn’t clean. Or quick. It was slow and jagged and splintered as it pierced my heart, twisting on the way in, dragging on the way out. It left a million brittle shards behind, ensuring that I would never ever forget who that organ belonged to.

  Darby Collins.

  The only person who ever smiled when they saw me.

  “Hi.” The word just … came out of me. It was just a breath with a sound really. A whisper. But when Darby heard it, her mouth went from grinning to gaping.

  “You can talk!” Her big, round eyes got even bigger and rounder as she came bounding the rest of the way down the hill. “I thought I heard you say something when you threw that stick, but then I was like, Nah, Kellen can’t talk, but then … oh my gosh, Kellen! You can talk!”

  And just like that, the iron door in my throat slammed shut again. I could practically hear the chains and bolts and locks sliding into place, trapping all the words I wanted to say inside of me, holding my thoughts prisoner along with my ability to at least pretend to be a normal fucking person.

  “Freak.”

  “Demon.”

  “Satan’s bastard.”

  “I heard he can’t talk because his tongue is forked like a snake.”

  “I heard he has a tail with a pitchfork on the end.”

  “I heard he killed his own mam.”

  “You know his da is the Devil, right?”

  “He’s pure evil, that one. Just look at those eyes.”

  I couldn’t breathe. The fire and frustration in my belly grew into an inferno that scorched my skin and made me sweat. I spun around and untucked my hair from behind my ears, pulling it forward to hide the redness in my infuriated cheeks.

  Darby’s heavy footfalls grew louder as she clomped over to the cottage.

  “I’ve been tryin’ to come play ever since I got here, but it’s been raining for days! Mama won’t let me play outside in the rain ’cause I’ll get my clothes all dirty, but I thought that was the whole point of havin’ playclothes. I told her that, but then she got on me for back-talkin’ and said I needed to spend time with my aunt and uncle and Grandpa. But they’re so borrrring. And Grandpa doesn’t have any kid stuff at his house. I’ve been making designs on the floor with his poker chips and playing cards for three whole—oh my gosh!”

  Darby stood in the doorway, her shadow spilling across my work, and gasped.

  “Kellen! You got furniture!”

  She walked into the center of the cottage, turning slowly as she clutched that paper bag to her chest, and the look of wonder on her face felt like a cool breeze against my blazing skin.

  While she studied every branch chair, stump table, and straw bed in the cottage, I studied her. She was a little taller. Her hair a little longer. But it was as if the moment she’d stepped into those woods, the past year of my life—every shitty second of it—had just disappeared.

  “Wait.” Her head swiveled toward me. “Did you make all this stuff?”

  I nodded.

  I’d been working out there every day since she’d left. Making things was the only way I knew to take my mind off the waiting. And maybe, I thought, if I fixed the cottage up properly, I could live out there one day. Just … run away and never come back.

  “Oh my gosh! Grandma’s tea set! I totally forgot about that!” Darby picked a tiny teacup off the tray I’d set on a stump table in the designated kitchen area. “And look … there’s even tea inside!”

  She pursed her lips and pretended to sip the rainwater spilling over the top. Then, she set it back d
own on its flooded saucer with a giggle.

  Turning around, Darby’s smile faded the longer she stared at me.

  Everyone was always staring at me.

  I lowered my head, letting my hair fall forward and cover more of my face. Father Henry had been wanting to cut it for years, but every time he brought it up, I would just point to a picture of Jesus on the wall—there was one in every room of the house—and he’d shut up about it.

  I didn’t actually want to look like Jesus—God and his son were both as dead to me as I was to them. I just needed a buffer between me and the staring eyeballs of every arsehole in Glenshire.

  The kids at school were the worst. They dared each other to trip me, punch me, spit on me, cut pieces of my hair off. They called me Hellboy, said I was the son of Satan.

  And I was. Father Henry had told me so. He’d told the whole fucking village.

  But he hadn’t told Darby.

  “Wow.” She beamed. “Your hair is getting so long.”

  All I could see were those bleedin’ yellow boots as she walked up and stood right in front of me.

  “I brought you something.”

  She shoved the paper bag into my stomach. A grunt punched out of me as I reached up to grab it. It was heavier than I’d expected.

  I peeked down at her through my hair and had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. She was bouncing up and down, grinning like a fool.

  “Open it! Open it!”

  I set the bag on the ground next to me with a thunk. Reaching in, I pulled out a glass gherkin jar. Only instead of pickled cucumbers, it was full of—

  “Water!” Darby squealed. “Grandpa only has glasses and stuff to drink out of, so I had to put it in an old pickle jar, but I washed it real good first!”

  I unscrewed the lid and sniffed the contents. It still smelled like brine, but I didn’t give a shite. I hadn’t had a drop to drink since breakfast. I didn’t want to go home in case Darby showed up.