“Come on!” Micheál jumps over the small wall and jogs toward the jetty. I look around me to see if anyone’s watching and then I follow him. I feel like we’re about to do something naughty, and I’m tingling with excitement. When I catch up to him he’s sitting in a small boat with an outboard engine attached. He feels around under the bow of the boat and produces a bunch of keys. Dangling them at me so that they tinkle he says, “Jump in. Quick!”

The engine starts up, put-putting over and over, until he revs it. My feet jump before my head has time to consider, landing me in the boat. Michaél angles the engine and turns up the power, heading us out to sea.

“Who’s boat is this?” I yell.

Micheál just shrugs, his eyes searching the black water ahead, I hope for other boats or rocks. The moon provides our only light.

What the fuck am I doing? I’ve just met this guy and now we’re stealing a boat together…? “Where are we going?” I yell again.

“You’ll see!”

CHAPTER TEN

RIDLEE

I CANNOT WATCH ERIN DROOL over this guy any longer. Mostly because it’s embarrassing but also because every once in a while she sneaks a glance over at me to see if I’m watching and then she stops for about five seconds. I’m making her feel bad for having a massive, over-sized insta-crush on a drummer, and that’s just not cool. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway? A one-night stand in a country she no longer wants to call home with a hot guy who has magic in his hands? Yeah. I’m not getting in the way of that. That’s the kind of thing that gets your BFF card revoked, and that’s the most valuable card in my wallet.

Leaving the bar without Erin or her drummer boy seeing me is about as easy as you’d imagine. The two were oblivious, but as far as they’re concerned, I was probably there one second, gone the next. This town is too small for anything bad to happen in it, but Erin will forget that when she can’t find me. I stop off and tell the bartender where I’m going, just in case Erin freaks.

The next pub down in my crawl is called The Irish Arms. It’s small and paneled in dark reddish wood with rooms for rent over the bar. I swear this time I will not inhale the pint I’m given, even though it has a perfect frothy foam on the top and the striated dark goodness below that I’ve come to appreciate.

I sit down next to a table with two old men at it, and it’s not long before I’m drawn into a conversation about faeries.

“O’ course they exist. I’ve seen many round the Cliffs of Moher. There be selkies there, you can trust me on that.” The man saying it looks pretty much like a leprechaun himself, so I’m inclined to believe him. I can almost see a green tinge to his skin, and he can’t be more than four and a half feet tall when he’s standing. I’m pretty sure his feet aren’t touching the floor as he sits in his chair.

“The Cliffs of Moher?” I say, leaning in. “What’s that?”

He looks at me and smiles. “The Cliffs of Moher are a place of beauty and legend, unrivaled in all the world!” His arms spread wide, and he does it with an impressive Guiness-inspired flourish if the empty pints in front of him are any judge.

“Och, Paddy, you exaggerate.” His friend has half the amount of empty pints in front of him. “Selkies? Come on, man.”

“I’ll tell you about the hag if ye like,” Paddy offers to me, ignoring the naysayer next to him.

I turn my chair more fully around and cross my legs. “Do tell. I love me a good Irish legend.”

He rubs his hands together and leans in a little. “Ye have to be careful about who hears ye tell the story.”

I lean in too. “Why?” I’m speaking as low as I can in a busy pub and still be heard.

“Because.” He looks around. “The witches aren’t gone. They’re just more quiet about their business.”

His friend snorts and takes another pull from his beer. “Go on then, y’old codger. Tell her the legend.”

“I was gettin’ to it. Just sit back and relax, there, William, and leave the storyteller to his business.”

William flicks his hand at his friend. “Away, then, wit’ it. We’re all ears.”

Paddy gives it all he’s got, and I almost feel like I’m in his little story from long ago the way my head is swirling inside with his accent and the effects of the dim lighting and way too much alcohol…

“Over a thousand years ago, when druids did the work of magic, Erin was covered in green grasses, bold and deep as a polished emerald, and warriors ruled the land…”

I hold up my hand. “Wait. Stop for a second. Did you say Erin?”

“Of course. This is a story about Ireland, lass.”

“But you said Erin.”

“Aye, I did. That’s the Irish word for Ireland.”

My mouth drops open. “Oh my god. She never told me.”

“Who never told ye?”

“Erin.”

“You’re expecting the island to speak to ye?” He turns to his friend. “She’s a witch. I knew it.”

“I’m not a witch. I have a friend named Erin.”

“Erin Mulligan?” Paddy asks.

“No.”

“Erin Greene?” William suggests.

“No.”

“Erin McClanahan?” They both say together.

“No.” I’m trying not to laugh.

Paddy frowns in confusion.

William hits him on the arm. “Just ask her the name and be done with it.”

“No, I’ll get it. Just give me a moment.” He taps his finger on his lips and stares at the ceiling. I see him sway in his seat.

I decide to spare the poor leprechaun the headache. “Her name is Erin O’Neill. She doesn’t live here.”

He scowls at me. “Well, why didn’t ye say so?”

William pushes his friend sideways. “Ye didn’t give her the chance, ye old fool. Didn’t you have a story to tell?”

Paddy has shifted to pouting. “Well, I did, but then I was interrupted.”

“I’m listening now. I’m sorry.” I fold my hands over my knee and smile, nodding in the least-witchlike way I know how.

Paddy sniffs. He might want to keep pouting, but it appears the lure of telling the story is too strong to resist. “Okay. So … as I was sayin’ … there lived in Ireland a hag who hailed by the name of Mal. At the same time, there lived a great warrior who hailed by the name of Cú Chulainn. He was one of the Red Branch Knights, the warrior band of the High Kind of Ulster, Conchobar mac Nessa…”

I have to blink my eyes several times just in an attempt to keep all these Irish words straight, but I give up shortly after the hag’s name. I’ll have to do some Googling later to see what I can resurrect from this conversation. I encourage him with smiles and nods, pretending I’m totally comprehending every word.

“…Cú Chulainn was said to be handsome and fierce, the kind of man all the ladies fancy. Unfortunately for him, he caught the attention of Mal the hag. She’s said to have fallen in love with him upon first sight and became dogged in her pursuit. She refused to take no for an answer. His only recourse was to run, and run he did, indeed … all the way to the edges of the Cliffs of Moher.”

“Where are those cliffs?” I ask.

“Just a skip from here, lass. You could go on foot and be there in less than an hour.”

“Really?” I take a sip from my beer, suddenly very intrigued by the idea of a late-night walk by a cliff. I must really be drunk.

“I wouldn’a lie to ye.” Paddy’s ready to be offended.