Chapter 40 #2
The confusion on my face must have been all the permission she needed to continue.
“More than six centuries ago,” she said, “when the two people most precious to me were brutally murdered—and I with them—the rubies told me to seek the daughter of flame.” Her gaze never left mine.
“I know you are a metalsmith. Descended from a long line of clairvoyants. I know your name.” She hesitated then, her voice lowering, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through her resolve.
“But what I need to know is whether you are the one who can help me.”
At her words, the buzzing under my skin swelled, warm pins and needles racing over every inch of me.
I knew that sensation—Brigid's power, waking and stretching inside me.
And though this was the last place I should give in to it, something powerful deep in my bones wanted to claim it here and now, in the open, before everyone.
After months of questions, I had no such doubts now. I was the one she sought.
I scanned the crowd, still unsure if it was wise to let the fire take me, knowing only two had seen it before—Baird and Sorcha.
Sorcha's face was as serene as ever, as if this were no more remarkable than pouring tea.
Then again, maybe it wasn't remarkable at all—an uninvited guest challenging the bride to reveal her supernatural power—just another day at a witch's wedding. I wouldn't know. This was my first.
Robbie, on the other hand, had turned away, muttering the same half-rhymed limericks he used to ward off evil, his fingers tracing the sign of the cross over the suit jacket I'd never seen him wear before tonight.
He looked distinctly uncomfortable with the saga unfolding around him, his eyes flicking from me to Magda, to Baird, to Sorcha—only to land back on me.
I knew there were two vampires here I could trust to glamour the humans afterward—make them forget the woman in the red dress, her words, and everything that was about to happen.
I made my choice.
I stepped past Baird toward Magda. My arms lowered, palms open, angled outward as if to offer myself to the night. Power surged from beneath my skin—crackling, electric—until the air itself seemed to vibrate. And then it broke free.
Flame—yellow and blinding—erupted across my body in a single, searing bloom.
It licked along my arms, arced from my shoulders, and flared upward like solar storms escaping the sun.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Magda's gaze locked on mine, her dark eyes swallowing the light until her pupils were nothing but a void.
And in the blackness of her eyes, I saw reflected back exactly what she saw—my gown haloed in fire, my hair crowned in living gold.
The heat kissed my skin but did not burn.
The ends of my hair fluttered in the updraft, edges glowing as if each lock had been forged in a smith's fire.
Even the yellow roses in my hair had caught the fire—open blooms glowing like embers, unopened buds unfurling into delicate tongues of flame—until the whole crown blazed into a halo of golden fire and light.
Around us, the guests drew back, their faces lit by my light, looks of awe and fear caught in stark relief.
I was Brigid in that moment—still myself, yet also her.
The triple goddess of poetry, fire, and fertility.
Keeper of sacred knowledge. Patron of smithcraft and artisans, whose gifts are bound to the forge itself and the forging of fates.
She, the one prayed to for blessed harvests and the blessings of motherhood.
She from whose name the word bride is born.
In that moment, I was both bride and daughter of flame, blessed by Brigid herself to wield her power.
The ring on my hand, as if refusing to be outshone, demanded its place in the moment.
It flared brighter—its rainbow refractions sharpening into the very thing they evoked: a crystallized shard of the sun itself.
Iridescent and golden light blended and spilled from it in wild, prismatic flares, as if it could reach the heavens themselves, illuminating the stone terrace of Brodick Castle.
And then, with the grace of a dancer, Magda—regal as an imperious queen, and as deadly as an assassin—sank to her knees at my feet.
She was bowing to me. Absurd. Impossible—and undeniable.
If I were standing in front of the being I saw reflected in her eyes, I would have bowed too.
I glanced around, wanting to etch this into memory before my mate and his kind erased it from human history.
Even Baird—who'd seen me illuminated like this more times than I could count—was transfixed.
And in Robbie's eyes, I caught something unexpected: the quiet confession as he stared not at me, but at Sorcha, that said Baird wasn't the only vampire to have fallen hopelessly for a woman with magic.
Anne and Dillon looked terrified, and my heart ached for them, though I knew the fear would be gone soon enough.
The same with our friends from the island—their stricken faces would be smoothed clean by glamour.
Knowing Robbie, it wouldn't be the first time he'd done it to them, and perhaps not the last. Then my gaze found the Garvie clan.
Morag's boys and husband stared, awestruck and confused; Evie's fiancé wore the same expression.
Evie and Morag themselves looked stunned but not afraid.
And finally, I found Granny Margaret. She stood near the group, tears shimmering in the corners of her eyes as she looked at me. She said nothing, she didn't need to, the emotion she felt written clearly across her face.
Pride. Familial pride.
“It would seem I have found the one I seek,” Magda said as she rose to her feet.
I willed the fire on my skin and in my hair to roll back like a receding tide, forcing it deeper and deeper until it was nothing more than a faint fizz beneath my skin—champagne bubbles under the surface.
Silently, I thanked Brigid that I'd finally begun to learn to control how and when her power coursed through my veins.
Turning to Baird, I placed a hand on his shoulder and rose onto my tiptoes—still dwarfed by his height, even in my four-inch heels—to whisper in his ear.
“Can you and Robbie…” I let the rest hang, tilting my head toward the stricken crowd still gathered around us on the dance floor, my eyes pleading: Please fix this.
He nodded and began to turn away, but something in him shifted—he pivoted back, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead.
When he lifted his head, his gaze found Magda.
Wary. Measuring. A silent warning in the steel of his eyes.
If looks could kill, she would have crumpled to the terrace stone.
Then he stepped into the sea of stricken faces, leaving her in his wake.
“He doesn't trust me,” she said without preamble.
My answer was just as plain. “No. He doesn't.”
She didn't hesitate to press on, but my attention drifted past her to where Baird and Robbie were at work.
I watched them move through the crowd, speaking a few calm words, their eyes glowing faintly with that particular brand of vampire magic—gently pulling at the threads of memory, unwinding the last five minutes from each human mind.
“I don't hold him—or you—accountable for Bastien's death,” she said.
My head snapped back to her, startled—by both her words and the notion that this was the time or place to air the dirty laundry that belonged to our strange vampire family.
She tilted her chin toward a small table for two at the far edge of the terrace, choosing a more private corner before continuing.
We walked together, her voice calm—almost casual—but the weight of her words cut through the night air like a blade.
“Baird gave Bastien what I refused him—absolution. I knew it was never mine to give…” She shrugged as I looked at her in confusion.
“I went to Paris to see Bastien after Clémence died…” Magda said, letting the words trail off, and I thought I saw a flicker of sadness in her smile.
“But enough of this story—it can wait for another time,” Magda's gaze swept over the guests again, scanning the terrace, before turning back to me. “Tonight is for celebrating.”
I followed her line of sight. Most faces looked happy, if faintly puzzled. A few wore sheepish expressions, as though the hazy gap in their short-term memory was nothing more than the effect of the generous pours of wine, champagne and whiskey that had flowed freely all evening.
“I am anxious to speak with you—about the ruby,” acknowledging the comment she'd made minutes ago. “And about Bastien. But…” I hesitated, choosing my words as if each one might tip the balance. Magda was not someone to be trifled with. “Not tonight. My place is with our guests.”
“Yes, of course. I will go,” she said, starting to rise.
I caught her hand. “Please—stay. I didn't mean you should leave…
unless there's somewhere else you need to be.
I only meant…tonight wasn't meant for magic, or enchanted rubies, or vampires.” My voice softened, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips.
“I want it to be…as close to normal as it can be for us.”
Her eyes glittered with amusement. “If it weren't for magic—and vampires—you wouldn't be here at all.”
She wasn't wrong, but before I could answer—a sharp, commanding ‘“No” rang out from across the terrace—cutting through the fragile laughter that had begun to replace the stunned silence.
Only moments ago, Robbie and Baird had begun smoothing away the terror—moving from guest to guest, glamouring their memories, replacing the vision of a bride engulfed in golden flame with something softer, benign: music, wine, laughter.
Robbie was making his way toward Granny Margaret, who stood squarely in front of Evie and Morag, shielding them.
The rest of the Garvie clan had already succumbed—chatting animatedly with other guests, laughter spilling easily, one of them waving down a waiter for another drink—blissfully adrift in the false memories the vampires had spun for them.
Granny stood her ground, chin lifted, her voice low but iron-clad.
“Stay back, Abhartach,” she snapped, using the ancient Celtic term for a vampire-like creature.
“Ah dinnae need yer bleedin' help. Let me keep ma memories—I’ll explain to ma daughter and granddaughter in ma own way.” She was indignant.
“They've just seen the first Garvie tae wield Brigid's might in a century! I’ll no let ye tak' this gift fae us.” Baird had started toward Robbie as soon as he'd heard Granny's initial protest. He reached Robbie in three long strides, his presence a quiet command.
He gave him a single, deliberate nod, then turned to Granny.
With a wink and a finger pressed to his lips, he sealed between them a wordless pact. Not the first.
Granny's stern gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat, then her features transformed. She smiled—a fierce, radiant thing, crooked teeth and all—and in that moment she was every inch what she had always been: the living heart of the Garvie line, the keeper of the flame's legacy.
The rest of the evening unfolded quietly.
One by one, then in pairs, guests took their leave.
Magda vanished without a word, though I knew in my bones our paths would cross again.
Our closest friends lingered to see us off, helping me into the Range Rover, my skirts gathered carefully in their hands.
The car gleamed beneath the lights, freshly washed and waxed, Just Married written across the back window in shaving cream.