“Aye, well, that’s why you should do something about your hair.” Ronan gestured to her long, light blond hair. She didn’t know where it came from. Although she and Ronan shared the same green-blue eyes, he had brown hair. Just like their mam. They didn’t remember their dad. He left before Niamh was born. Mam had said he was a loser, anyway. But she also said he didn’t have blond hair. No one in her family had blond hair like Niamh’s.
“I don’t want to dye it,” she said petulantly.
“Dye it, cut it,” he insisted. “And stop dressing like a fairy princess.”
“But I am a faerie,” she teased, trying to break the tension between them.
Ronan scowled. When she was younger and she first started spouting stories about Faerie, her mam and Ronan thought she just had a wild imagination. As she got older and her powers started to present themselves, Ronan at least began to believe Niamh was one of the fae. She explained about the Faerie Queen’s spell that had brought about Niamh’s existence in the human world along with six other fae children, but Mam insisted it was nonsense.
“I gave birth to you!” she yelled in exasperation on Niamh’s tenth birthday. “I remember the bloody pain! I’m your mother, and stop saying otherwise, you ungrateful shit, or they’ll put you in the nuthouse!”
It was the nastiest thing her mam had ever said to her. She hurt any time she thought of her mam and how one day she was alive, and the next, she was gone. And they’d never really known each other. While Niamh and Ronan had an unbreakable bond, Niamh and her mam had never forged one. Ronan was close to Mam. Her death hit him the hardest.
It hit Niamh hard for a different reason. She’d always thought that one day, her mam would eventually believe her, and the bond would grow between them.
They never got the chance.
“Don’t say that stuff out loud,” Ronan reprimanded her. “And from now on, stop dressing in a way that will get attention and dye and cut your bloody hair,” he repeated. “We need to move around without being noticed.”
But Niamh refused.
In her vanity, she refused.
“You’re going to get me killed,” her brother said in exasperation.
Niamh blinked rapidly, coming out of her memories.
“You’re going to get me killed, Nee.”
How many times had Ronan said that?
And she’d just taken it for granted that she’d be able to protect him.
“I couldn’t even dye my bloody hair for him,” she muttered angrily.
Turning from the mirror, Niamh strolled into the sitting room of the small apartment in the shitty neighborhood.
A small blond was huddled in the corner.
Lights of gold encircled her wrists and ankles, holding her in place.
She’d never used such magic before. Every day, Niamh learned something new about her capabilities.
She’d also used her magic to silence the witch. She couldn’t bear her nonsensical pleading: “It wasn’t me. She made me. She made us.” Assuming she referred to the leader of the O’Connor Coven who’d led the charge that day, Niamh didn’t want to hear it. An adult was responsible for their own decisions.
When she’d hunted Meghan O’Connor down to a café in Sèvres, she’d waited until the witch left the café and followed her. The entire time, Niamh had felt like she was being watched, as though someone was following her following the witch. The sensation made her fear that Kiyo had, by some miracle, found her. But when she glanced behind and all around, there was no one there, and she needed to focus.
So she abandoned the feeling with reckless pursuit. Meghan entered a park and as soon as they were alone, Niamh traveled until she was right behind her and hit her carotid with energy until Meghan passed out. She traveled to her rental car, the witch in tow, and drove thirty minutes north to the shithole neighborhood she’d chosen to carry out the murderous deed.
When a neighbor came out of her apartment as Niamh easily carried Meghan’s limp body upstairs, she’d made an amused, casual remark in muddled French about her girlfriend not being able to day drink. The neighbor just shrugged and pushed past them.
Niamh stared at the terrified O’Connor witch.
She should have just killed her in the park.
Why was she drawing it out like this?
Who are you?
Her conscience sounded like Kiyo again.
Please, please don’t hurt me.
She flinched, remembering Meghan’s pleas when she’d first gained consciousness hours before.
Do you know who I am?
The witch had shaken her head.
Your coven murdered my brother trying to take down Rose Kelly.
Meghan’s eyes widened with recognition. I remember you. You threw me out the window.
You survived. Ronan didn’t. Your coven murdered him.
I’m sorry. It wasn’t me. She made me do it. I’m sorry.
Me too.
Niamh glared at the witch now. I’m so sorry, Ronan.11As Conall slowed the rental car to a stop, Kiyo scowled at their surroundings. The neighborhood was one big dumpster fire. Between buildings was garbage and piles of discarded junk. Old, stained mattresses were stacked next to an ancient, rusted-out washing machine, flanked by rotten pallets and black garbage bags long decimated by vermin.