“I’m going home.”

“Go, then. I won’t stop you.” He tucked his hands back in his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to do just that. “Mind this, Brenna. I won’t come to you. Once you work out what’s inside you yourself, you know where to find me.”

She walked away. Shawn could say what he would about pride, but she needed herself. She didn’t start running until her boots hit the street.

“That’s the way you charm the ladies, is it?” Carrick stood in the shallow surf and lifted the silver pipe he held to his lips to play a quick tune. “What strange ways you mortals have.”

“I know what I’m about here.”

“I’m sure you think you do. You pea-brain. If you love the woman, why do you let her wiggle away like that?”

“Because I love her.” The fury he’d barely held in check broke out now as he rounded on Carrick. “And you didn’t do so very well in your own time with your own woman, did you?”

Carrick’s eyes flashed, a wild blue that matched the lightning that split the star-strewed sky. “You’re looking to take on the likes of me now, Gallagher the younger?” He stepped out of the surf on boots that were soft and dry. “Didn’t your dear mother ever warn you about what comes of challenging the Good People?”

“You don’t worry me, Carrick. You need me. It’s come down to you, with all your power and all your tricks, needing a mortal man. So hold your threats and your light shows. They don’t impress me.”

Temper simmered, settled. “Hah. The woman thinks she knows what’s in you, but she’s yet to dig deep enough. Have a care you don’t show her too much too quickly and scare her off.”

“Go to the devil.”

Carrick flashed his teeth. “He won’t have me,” said he, and faded away to the tune of his pipe.

SEVENTEEN

BRENNA WENT TO early Mass. The little church with cool morning light coming through the glass smelled of candle wax and holy water. It always seemed to her that holy water carried a faint metallic scent. When Brenna was a child Mollie told her it was the blessings in it. She often remembered that, found comfort in that, whether she dipped her fingers in the church font or the water of Saint Declan’s Well.

A baby was fussing in the back pew, little fretful squawls that his mother tried to hush with murmurs and pats. Brenna didn’t mind it. It was rare to sit at Mass and not hear a baby whimpering or wailing, or children squirming, starched clothes scratching against worn wooden pews.

She liked the familiarity of it, as much as the ritual. It was a fine time and place for thinking, which to her mind was the same as praying half the time.

She had choices to make. And if she wanted to repair the damage that had been done, she had to make them quickly. When there was a crack in something it only widened if you didn’t tend to it. Let it go long enough, a crack became a break, and you had a hell of a mess on your hands.