The Stolen: An American Faerie Tale Read Free Page B

keys, she stabbed at the ignition. “Come on, damn it!”
    Finally, the key went in. She turned it, and thank God, the motor came to life. The sound of the engine evaporated the terror and dread. She let out a breath and leaned her head against the steering wheel as her body slowly stopped shaking. When it had, she started laughing.
    She lifted her head and looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror. “You’re losing it, girl.”
    In the mirror, she saw the shadows again. The cold and empty feelings returned.
    She backed the car out, shifted into drive, and sped out of the garage, almost certain that she heard laughter buried under the squealing of her tires.
    T here’s comfort in lit spaces filled with other ­people, even if they’re strangers, which is why Caitlin still went to the art show that evening. That, and going home would be admitting her brief lapse of sanity in the garage hadn’t been a delusion.
    Also, a beer sounded absolutely divine just then.
    The shaking in her hands was fading as she walked into the warehouse turned art gallery. The space retained much of its industrial history; the walls were exposed brick and the ceiling was all ventilation ducts. Scattered about the space were several temporary walls, on which hung various paintings and photographs. Caitlin’s friends stood around a small, high table, waving her over.
    As Caitlin approached, Casey motioned to a pint glass of brown ale. “I ordered you a—­”
    Caitlin lifted the glass and downed half of it in a series of large gulps. The cold beer poured down her throat and smoothed over the last of her frayed nerves. She set the glass down, sucked in a lungful of air, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, her friends were staring at her.
    â€œUh, rough day?” Janet asked.
    â€œJust some neuroses and hallucinations.”
    â€œWhat?” Casey asked.
    â€œYou sound like Eddy,” Janet said with a smile.
    Caitlin waved her hand. “I’m fine.”
    The friends left the table and wandered around, examining the various pieces of art on display and making small talk. Caitlin was only half listening to them. The show was Celtic themed, so every piece stirred memories of Ireland and James.
    As she forced her eyes away from a black-­and-­white photo of the Dingle coastline at sunset, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. A tall, slender ­couple in their early twenties stood several feet away, examining a painting. They were both blond, tan, and so put together it looked as if they had a staff that did nothing else. Aside from that, they looked normal, but just moments before, she could’ve sworn they’d been looking at her and that their eyes had been, well, glowing.
    She took another drink of her beer and brushed the incident off. Until it happened again, this time with a teenage girl, who was clearly the creator of a large painting, and then a third time with a large and ugly man who looked as though he might live under a bridge and harass young goats as they tried to cross. An old saying came to mind; if one person calls you a duck, you ignore it; if two ­people call you a duck, you begin to wonder; if three ­people call you a duck, you’re quacking.
    The door to the gallery opened. Caitlin glanced over as a man who had to be at least six foot four stood in the doorway, guitar case in hand. Powerful, working-­man muscles strained his black shirt. His long, copper red hair was pulled into a ponytail. He wore old work boots and a hand-­folded olive green kilt, held in place with only a belt. Instead of a sporran, an old leather pouch sat on his hip. At the bottom front of the kilt was a pin so battered Caitlin couldn’t make out the design.
    Caitlin started to look away, but her gaze locked on his face. Not because he was handsome, though he was in a classic sort of way. No, it was the two wicked scars that crossed his face.