Saint Denis, Paris
It had become a habit to stand in front of the mirror and look.
No, not look, Niamh thought. Look suggested vanity.
Search.
She was searching.
Who are you?
She glanced over the muddy-brown hair she’d piled on top of her head, tendrils falling around her face. She fingered a brown lock, remembering the light blond color that hid beneath it. With the touch, a memory flooded her, so sharp and clear it felt like it happened only yesterday …
Niamh huddled on the bed, her arms wrapped tight around her small knees as she stared hard at the crack beneath the bedroom door. Light spilled through it from the hallway. Everything had been good for a while. And things had been awful for ages before that, so Niamh had been grateful for the good.
When Mam died, she and Ronan had been sent to live in a group home. She’d hated it. It was hard to keep the strange things that happened to her under wraps when there were lots of other people around. She’d shared a bunk bed with Ronan, but they’d shared a room with four other kids.
Ronan had hated the group home too.
He hated having to watch their backs constantly and cover up Niamh’s weird behavior.
But then things got better when Siobhan came into their lives. Siobhan knew what it was like to lose her mam. And her dad. They left her lots of money so she didn’t have to work. Instead she decided to foster kids. Her house was four times the size of the old flat they’d lived in with Mam. When they’d first come to live with Siobhan, she was fostering a baby girl named Shannon. But three months later, Shannon got adopted. Niamh was sad. She’d grown attached to the little thing. For a blissful six weeks, however, Niamh and Ronan had Siobhan’s undivided attention.
She was the best. And because she didn’t work, she could give them more attention than even Mam had.
The strange part was that in all that time, nothing weird happened with Niamh. It was like being in such a safe place made all the weird stuff stop. Ronan was over the moon.
Then Joe arrived to stay with them, too, but he was only thirteen months old, and as busy as he kept Siobhan, she still had time for them.
They’d started attending a really nice school, small classes, and the kids weren’t too bad. A few were a bit snobby, but nothing Niamh couldn’t handle. Ronan was two years ahead of her, and now that she wasn’t using any powers or getting any visions, he wasn’t hovering so much. Niamh couldn’t decide if she liked it or not.
She hadn’t liked sleeping in separate rooms.
Back when Mam was alive, Niamh and Ronan shared a room in their tiny two-bedroom flat. Living at Siobhan’s was the first time Niamh had slept alone. It had taken weeks for her to get used to it, but she didn’t want to be a baby, and Ronan was fourteen now. She knew he needed his space. And eventually she liked having her own space too. Especially once her period started. She was glad she didn’t have her big brother around when that first happened two months ago.
She was kind of surprised it did. Part of her wondered if her body would work the same way as a human’s. In that respect it did, which Niamh thought was pretty rubbish, actually. Surely being a magical creature from another world should have come with perks like not having a period?!
Siobhan had been really nice about it, though. Siobhan was nice about everything.
Yeah. It had all been grand. Until now.
Niamh’s heart raced as her eyes stayed trained on the crack of light beneath the door.
About a month ago, Siobhan started bringing Miller around. They knew she’d been dating someone because every Friday, either Ronan babysat them or if he was out with his friends, Siobhan got a babysitter so she could attend these dates.
Then, after two months of dating the guy, she decided it was serious enough to introduce him to them.
Niamh had gotten a bad feeling off Miller from the moment they’d met.
He was overly affectionate with Siobhan in front of them, always kissing her, petting her, pressing his lips to her neck or patting her arse, and Niamh thought it was a bit much, considering they didn’t know him. Ronan had commented on how much he didn’t like it either.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he looked at Niamh when he didn’t think anyone was watching. And he winked at her a lot.
Yet nothing was worse than the last week. He’d started touching Niamh. Nothing terrible at first. Placing a hand on her shoulder when he asked her something. Then on her lower back, when he sidled up to talk to her in the kitchen.
Then brushing his fingers through her hair when they were alone, telling her what beautiful hair she had.
Stroking her knee when he sat down on the couch beside her and Siobhan was in the kitchen feeding little Joe. Telling her what gorgeous legs she had.
Hot looks and compliments that Niamh understood too well. She’d always known things other girls her age didn’t know. Born with the sight, Ronan said. She’d seen things someone her age shouldn’t have seen, understood things about human and not-so-human nature that had chipped at her innocence. Or hammered away at it, really.
And she knew that Miller was after what was left of her innocence. She knew because anytime Niamh felt danger, the hair on her neck rose. Her pulse raced. Dread filled her tummy.
Since as long as she could remember, she’d had a sixth sense for danger and understood exactly what all those feelings meant.
And this evening, when Miller came over for dinner, her whole being went into high alert.
Looking into his eyes, she knew. Whatever sickness was inside of him, he couldn’t hold it back any longer and he was planning to hurt her.
Niamh didn’t know what to do.
She loved Siobhan.
And Ronan was happy. Finally happy.
Niamh didn’t want to ruin anything.
Perhaps she could deal with it herself and no one would ever know. She’d give Miller a fright and he wouldn’t want to speak of—
A shadow flickered across the crack of light beneath her door. Niamh’s pulse throbbed and she could barely hear a thing over the rushing of blood in her ears. Energy crackled around her and she felt it tingling on her fingertips, even her toes.
The doorknob turned.
Chest heaving, arms tightening around her knees, she watched as the door opened inward without a sound and then closed behind the tall figure as he stepped inside. She could see him looking at her in the dark. He wouldn’t know how clearly she could see him. Niamh had excellent night vision. He had sweat on his upper lip, and he was breathing too heavily.
He moved quietly toward her.
“I’ll scream.”
“What for?” he whispered as he lowered himself onto the bed. He reached out and placed a hand on her knee and everything within Niamh revulsed. “I’m not going to hurt you, little one.”
Lies.
“I just want to make you feel good.”
And then he lunged, covering her mouth with his hand as he attempted to push her small body beneath his.
He grunted as Niamh resisted, stronger than any human twelve-year-old could ever be.
And something dark flickered inside her.
Something foreign to who she was.
Something angry and vengeful.
Because she couldn’t imagine she was the only child he’d tried this with. Had he succeeded with others?
The thought turned the rage to a flame and as they grappled, the energy tingling through Niamh’s extremities grew hotter and hotter and hotter—
Miller hissed in agony and scrambled off her, staring at his hands in horror.
Niamh did too.
His fingertips glowed like golden fire … and then they just …
The golden fire chased black ash, and the ash began to crumble. His finger, palms, wrists, arms all crumbling to dust.
Niamh gaped at his face and watched as it cracked and blackened and caved in on itself.
Until there was nothing left but a pile of ash on the bed and floor.
Skittering away from it, Niamh fell off the other side of the bed. Sickness swarmed from her gut and she threw up on the carpet, heaving until there was nothing left.
Sensing someone’s presence, Niamh looked up and saw her brother standing in the light spill from the open door.
His attention swung between her and the ash.
“What happened?” His eyes blazed fiercely.
“Miller,” she replied, falling back on her rump. Tears spilled in hot rivers down her cheeks. “He tried to hurt me.”
Ronan skirted the vomit and kneeled beside her, pushing her hair off her face. He looked murderous. “What did he do? Where is he?”
“He was going to hurt me, Ronan.”
“I had a bloody awful feeling about him,” he choked out. “It woke me up. I’m sorry, Nee. I should have said something sooner. Did you hurt him instead?”
Her lips parted to speak but she couldn’t quite say it out loud. Instead she stood and Ronan put his arms around her, holding her. She pointed to the ash on the bed.
She felt her brother stiffen. “Nee?”
She sobbed, trying to muffle the sound so she wouldn’t waken Siobhan. “I didn’t mean it,” she gasped softly. “I don’t know how I did it. It just happened.”
Her brother released his hold on her, stumbling toward the bed to stare closer at the ash. “Are you saying … you incinerated him?”
Nausea rolled through her again. “I didn’t mean it.”
Ronan stared back at her. And for the first time, she saw fear in his eyes.
It made her cry harder.
“Shh, Nee.” He patted her shoulder tentatively.
He was afraid of her.
“We have to go.” He ducked his head to hers to meet her eyes. The fear hid behind panic. “No one can know. They’ll take you away.”
“Maybe they should.”
Anger clouded his features. “Don’t ever say that. This was self-defense, Nee. The bastard was a sick fuck. You hear me?”
She nodded quickly.
“Okay. Pack a bag. Quietly. Pack only what you need.”
“But what about Siobhan?”
Sadness flickered across his face. “She can’t protect you.”
“But how—”
“Just pack a bag and meet me at the front door.” He darted out of the room.
Niamh stared at the ash.
They couldn’t leave it there. It was evidence.
As easily as the horrible magic had come to her to defend herself against Miller, it didn’t come so easily as she tried to open the window with it. Ronan didn’t want her using it a lot, so she was out of practice.
And exhausted from what had just happened.
Sending her energy like powerful arms and nimble hands toward the window, she pushed down the handle and watched it open silently.
Then, with a flick of her hand toward the ash, it swirled into the air like a cyclone, the room sparking with the electricity of her magic. With an aggressive thrust of her hand, the ash cyclone swept out of the room, through the window, and out into the night sky.
Trembling with weariness, Niamh used what little energy she had to locate the things she needed without moving from the spot. Then she used her magic to clean up the vomit, tidy her bed, and teleport downstairs.
Ronan was already at the front door and he jumped a mile when she popped out of thin air.
He surprised her by saying, “You probably should practice.”
“Why?”
“Because a fourteen-and twelve-year-old won’t survive out there without magic.”
His words followed Niamh as they disappeared out of the nice house on the nice street in the nice neighborhood. She ached for Siobhan, and her mind railed against the truth.
She’d killed a man.
She didn’t deserve nice.
A touch of darkness had bled into her soul.
“Don’t feel guilty,” Ronan had lectured her a few days later as they sat in the first-class carriage of a train heading for mainland Europe. Niamh had used her ability to trick humans into seeing whatever she wanted them to see to get them on the train without passports. When she accidentally did it to her mam the first time, her mam was so angry, she made Niamh vow never to do it again.
Ronan wanted her to use it all the time now.
“We need to survive. And that’s what you did back at Siobhan’s. You survived.”
“They’re looking for us.”
It was all over the news back in Cork. They thought Miller had kidnapped them.
“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.