Emerald Isle (A Stacy Justice Mystery)

  Also by Barbra Annino

  Opal Fire: Stacy Justice Book One

  Bloodstone: Stacy Justice Book Two

  Tiger’s Eye: Stacy Justice Book Three

  Gnome Wars: A Short Story

  Every Witch Way But Wicked: An Anthology

  (includes a Stacy Justice story)

  My Guardian Idiot—fantasy tales to tickle your funny bone

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 Barbra Annino

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  PO Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477805848

  ISBN-10: 1477805842

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013901627

  For Mom

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE The Awakening

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART TWO The Reckoning

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  PART THREE The Tempest

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Author’s Note

  Irish Stew

  Cheddar-Chive Biscuits

  Rosemary Roasted Potatoes

  Green Isle Sauce

  Hot Buttered Cider

  No-Sew Sweet Dreams Sachet

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Amethyst, Illinois. Twenty-nine years ago.

  Birdie Geraghty stood in the vast bedroom of her childhood home, staring at the pile of beautifully wrapped presents with just one thought on her mind.

  Today is the day.

  She could feel it in her blood, smell it on the wind. Even her sleep had been disrupted all through the night by the excited chatter of a thousand generations of ancestors gone before her, whispering in her dreams, She’s coming. Birdie couldn’t recall the last time she had tossed and turned so much in a single evening when the moon wasn’t full. Perhaps before she had divorced Oscar. That man could wake the dead with his snores. Of course, that was no longer a problem now that she slept alone and he was living across town.

  She glanced around the room, tucked a crimson lock of hair behind her ear, and wondered if the house was lonely with fewer bodies to fill it.

  But the decision about what to do with the Queen Anne home her father had built would have to wait. She had far more pressing matters at hand. Because today was the day she would become a grandmother. And the world would gain a gift.

  Birdie finished dressing, careful to wear jewel tones so as to ignite imagination and inspiration in the child. She had to make certain that the infant felt a spark straight from the womb. It was important her granddaughter bond with the family bloodline as soon as possible. The little one would need a mountain of strength to face the challenges before her, and Birdie intended to help her build it. She wanted the child to recognize who she was born to be as soon as her little eyes gazed upon the world. No buttery yellow, sky blue, or bubblegum pink for her granddaughter. Certainly, soft pastels were quite soothing and necessary for other infants, but a witch who would one day be Seeker mustn’t be sheltered from the wonders—or the cruelties—of this world and beyond.

  Birdie smiled in spite of herself. She was practically giddy as she arranged the gifts into two large shopping bags. She couldn’t wait for the council to accept the nomination of her granddaughter for Seeker. She knew it was only a matter of time, a mere formality. She knew it as sure as she knew her own name. And it was her task, as the mother of the mother of the only Seeker of Justice born in the New World, to protect the child at all costs.

  She had a slew of gifts left in the closet, some for future milestones, some rewards for lessons learned in training. These were not meant to be given until the child was much older, but the one gift Birdie longed to give, the one she hoped would come in due time, wasn’t hers to present. No, that gift—that precious talisman—would come only in a way Birdie herself didn’t quite comprehend.

  One day, the witch thought, one day it shall be yours, Anastasia.

  Birdie picked up the quaint little card she had bought for her granddaughter’s arrival and ran her strong hands over the embossed letters.

  ANASTASIA

  meaning: “resurrection”

  It was the name she would call the girl. One more suitable for the woman she would become than the name chosen by her parents.

  Birdie signed the card, stuffed it in an envelope, and slipped it inside one of the shopping bags perched on the bed. Just as she was about to rush to her sister’s home, presents in tow, a light flashed and the black mirror in her room chimed, then filled with silvery mist.

  Who would be bothering me now? She hesitated. Perhaps Lolly or Fiona? Do they need something for the baby’s witchening?

  She decided she should check. She set the bags near the door, crossed to the walnut fireplace, and tapped the gold-framed scrying mirror that hung above it.

  As soon as that wretched Tallulah’s taut face appeared, Birdie regretted answering the call.

  “Birdie, darling. How lovely to see you.” Tallulah’s narrow head was wrapped in a turban with a teardrop diamond dangling from its crest. Every inch of her pale face was pinched tight and powdered. She looked to have been the victim of a poor plastic surgeon or a spell gone awry.

  Either way, Birdie didn’t much care. “Tabby, I don’t have time to talk right now. I’m on my way out. What do you want?” The woman irritated her to no end. The best thing about Tallulah was that she was an ocean away.

  Tallulah stuck her bottom lip out in a pretend pout and rolled her eyes, her false lashes giving the illusion of two spiders nesting.

  “Well, now, is that any way to speak to someone who is only calling to congratulate you on the arrival of your granddaughter? Honestly, Birdie, you can be so ungracious.”

  How does she know already?

  “Then you must know I am anxious to get to my daughter’s side, Tabby, so if you don’t mind…”

  Birdie stepped forward to end the conversation by tapping the mirror three times.

  Tallulah couldn’t hide her irritation at the snub. She waved her hand before the connection was cut, and the mirror grew fuzzy, but retained a hazy image. “Birdie, I want you to know that I am aware of your plans and it will never work. She is not what you think she is. She is not one of them. I plan to file a formal protest of the nomination to the council.”

  Birdie didn’t bother to ask Tallulah how she knew of her inten
tions. Witches were notorious gossips. Birdie stepped closer to the mirror, her unlined face taking on a few crossroads as she narrowed her eyes at the woman who had been like acid on her skin since the day they met all those years ago.

  “Do what you must, Tallulah, but I assure you, she will be stronger than you can imagine. I wouldn’t step into affairs you know nothing about, if I were in your shoes. This is for the good of all the clans. This has nothing to do with your petty insecurities.”

  “Ha! My insecurities? You are the one, my dearest Birdie, who cannot stand the fact that my son Pearce is twice the wizard your daughter is.”

  “You mean warlock,” Birdie said, just to ruffle Tabby’s feathers.

  “That’s a lie! Pearce never took the dark path. You withdraw that malicious accusation!”

  “Fine, I take it back. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a Seeker to meet. Let’s talk again when you have a grandchild.”

  This, Birdie could see before she cleared the mirror, infuriated Tallulah.

  Sorry, Tabby. This time, I win.

  PART ONE

  The Awakening

  You want your God to be wild and to call you to where your destiny awaits.

  —John O’Donohue

  Chapter 1

  Birthdays are supposed to be a celebration of life, renewal, and endless possibilities. There’s that little spark of hope you get, no matter what age, when you wake up in the morning on the day you came into this world and think, This year will be different. The last twelve months don’t matter, because there’s a brand-new slate to fill, a new you to find.

  Some women rise to frolicking kids cooking breakfast. Some crawl out of bed to discover a sexy note left by a lover.

  At this point, I would have welcomed a call from a radio disc jockey.

  My grandmother Birdie was perched at the foot of my bed, and she wouldn’t stop talking. She was incredibly excited, and because my level of enthusiasm before I’ve had my morning coffee is on par with that of a kid being whisked off to fat camp, I was not sharing her energy.

  She didn’t hide her agitation when she said, “You still don’t understand, do you?”

  “Not really, no. Come back later and tell me all about it.”

  I flung the comforter over my head and burrowed deep under the covers with my Great Dane, Thor. It was a sunny fall day at the end of September. Mabon, to be exact. The autumnal equinox, when the earth divides night and day in equal proportions and pagans honor the spirits of our ancestors. There are gardens to harvest, offerings to be made, rituals to perform.

  It sucks sharing a birthday with a holiday.

  Birdie sighed, as if the weight of the world rested on her lips. “I will explain it one more time.”

  She yanked back the covers, exposing my bare arms and legs, sending a chill across my body.

  “Please.” I put my hand up to stop her. “I need coffee first.”

  I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and stretched. Thor yawned in protest at being roused at such an early hour. He stood, circled the bed so his head faced away from the window, and collapsed onto a pillow.

  Birdie offered to make the coffee and thankfully left my bedroom. As I rummaged through my closet, looking for a pair of sweats to throw over my shorts and tank top, I contemplated just what she was trying to tell me.

  Which was, essentially, that I had not woken up the age I thought I would be today when I went to bed last night.

  Of all the absurd conversations I had had with this woman over my lifetime, this was right up there with the dangers of garden gnomes.

  You see, today was my twenty-ninth birthday, but Birdie was trying to work some sort of new math to convince me that I was actually turning thirty. This would not be that big a deal except that in my family—the Geraghty family, whose roots trace back to ancient Druids from Kildare, Ireland—turning thirty was a whole lot more than a number. Thirty was a milestone. A momentous occasion. A commitment to being all you can be.

  Simply put, thirty was the year that I was to grow into my full power as a witch.

  And I wasn’t quite ready yet.

  Granted, I had been training these last few months. Honing my ability to communicate with the dead, mastering spellcasting and psychic defense, studying the history of my heritage, my Celtic people, even combat techniques. Plus, I learned six different formulas for potions that would knock a man out long enough to steal his wallet.

  Not that I was a thief, but you get the idea.

  At every milestone along the way, with every achievement earned and test passed, I received a small token from Birdie or her two sisters, Lolly and Fiona, as a reward. Some were wrapped in faded, dusty paper. They must have been in storage for years. I have to admit, despite digging my heels in for so long, reluctant to be what my family wanted me to be, I enjoyed all I had learned over the summer and appreciated all they had gifted me. My little cottage in the tiny hamlet of Amethyst, Illinois, was now filled with books, heirloom seeds, crystals, wands, and athames. Everything a good witch needs.

  Or, in my case, Seeker of Justice.

  I still didn’t know if I bought that title. I certainly didn’t feel like part of the intricately woven fabric of ancient Druid laws. What I did know was that all of this training was to prepare me to meet with the pagan council in Ireland that had imprisoned my mother over fourteen years ago. Her crime was murder. Her case was scheduled for review this Samhain, or Halloween, and Birdie insisted that they would release her then. She thought my involvement in protecting an ancient text from a homicidal couple last winter tilted the scale in our favor.

  I hoped she was right. Because the man my mother had killed had intended to kill me. I was still a bit sketchy on the details. Not even Birdie knew exactly what had happened, because my mother had been taken abruptly and then denied all contact with our family. The man she had killed (my grandmother told me not long ago) had been a member of the very council I was soon to face for her freedom. So the lessons, the tests, the work I had poured into learning my path and my craft were more important than ever. There was no way to know if they would be put to use at the hearing, but I had a sense that the council across the pond might have a few tests in store for me.

  It was important to be prepared for anything.

  I stuffed my feet into fuzzy slippers and shuffled into the kitchen. My grandmother handed me a coffee cup dosed with cream and sprinkled with nutmeg. Just how I liked it. She watched me as I took one sip, then another, before she spoke. I climbed on top of a stool and put my elbows on the breakfast bar, giving her my full, caffeinated attention.

  “All right.” Birdie paced, her aubergine skirt waving behind her. “It’s like this. The minute you take your first breath, the clock starts ticking.” She began counting on her fingers. “You are born, essentially, at the age of zero, then you complete one full year and”—she spun toward me—“in society’s eyes you are considered one year old.” She held up one finger.

  “I think that’s how a calendar works, yes.”

  “But you are actually entering your second year of life on this plane.” She paused, tried to read if that had sunk in. “Do you see? You have lived one full year.”

  Somehow, it made sense. “I’m with you.”

  “So.” She rolled her hand in the air, coaxing me to come up with the correct answer.

  I put my head on the smooth counter and mumbled, “So I am entering my thirtieth year on this plane.”

  “Precisely!” She smacked her hands together. “And upon its completion, you shall be fully vested as a proper witch.”

  Leave it to Birdie to find a loophole in basic math. “But I haven’t even been studying that long. Surely, there’s a lot more to learn. We’ve barely tapped the Blessed Book.”

  The Blessed Book, a written history of my ancestors and our theology, was filled with spells, potions, herbal remedies, rituals, and stories from generations past, as well as predictions for future generati
ons. That’s where Birdie got the idea that I was the Seeker of Justice in the first place. My great-grandmother Maegan had predicted that a Seeker would be born in the New World. Personally, I thought it just a coincidence that my father’s last name happened to be Justice, but there you have it.

  Birdie said, “You still have plenty of time before your mother’s review. With your great-aunts’ and my assistance, I think we may just get you fully vested before then.” She beamed at me.

  “That’s just over a month away. I can’t learn the whole book in one month!” Seriously, the thing was thicker than Webster’s and Oxford’s dictionaries combined.

  Birdie rolled her eyes and said, “Hogwash. You learned it all years ago. This is just a refresher course.” She patted my hand. She was in a suspiciously good mood.

  I lifted my head. “What’s going on with you? Why are you so…bubbly?”

  “Am I?” She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and winked.

  “What’s wrong with your eye?”

  She leaned on the counter, directly across from me. “You know, I’m not all business. I can be fun too.”

  “Uh-huh.” I sipped my coffee. Birdie turned and reached for the pot to top off my mug, adding more cream and nutmeg.

  “I have a surprise for your birthday is all,” she said quietly.

  That woke me up. “No. No surprises, please. I hate surprises, Birdie, you know that. I’ve had enough surprises to last a lifetime.” Insane relatives, incarcerated parents, dead bodies, ghosts that not only talked to me but touched me, zombie dogs—these were just a few of the surprises that life had lobbed my way recently. I just wanted to relax and enjoy my first Friday off in years.

  I asked, “Is it a trip to a day spa?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m not interested.”

  “Don’t be so cynical. You’ll adore it.” Birdie reached for her wheat-colored cape and headed for the door. “See you at dusk. Don’t forget to tell Lolly what you’d like for your special dinner. And bring all your tools for the ceremony.”

  The ceremony. I’d almost forgotten. Mabon was a prime time of the year for a witch to rededicate herself, as was any birthday. Because I hadn’t been practicing—or even interested in practicing since my father died, when I was a freshman in high school—Birdie thought I should be initiated again.