Dead.

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t even think it. He had known she was traumatized by Ioan’s death and he’d avoided her. Avoided her grief and rage like a coward. Had foolishly taken comfort in the regular reports that the girl was coping. This wasn’t Murphy’s fault; it was his.

Deirdre whispered, “She has to be all right, Carwyn.”

“Listen.” He took a deep breath and tried to think clearly. “You go to Dublin. You know it better. Murphy—”

“Murphy already has his men searching the city. They all consider her a friend, and they know we’ll be searching as well.”

“Can you think of anywhere out of Dublin that she might go?”

Deirdre frowned. “Anne, maybe? I know they’re close. Anne’s been trying to talk to her. Maybe… if Brigid finally broke down, she might have gone to Anne.”

Carwyn nodded. “Fine. You go look for her with Murphy’s men. I’ll call Galway and see if she’s there.”

“Just go. Travel underground; you’ll get there faster. And bring Anne back. Even if Brigid’s not there, we’ll need her. She’ll come. Brigid needs help, and we haven’t been there for her.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

Blame me.

Her eyes were hollow. “She’s Ioan’s. She was my responsibility.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Just go.”

Dublin

June 2010

Deirdre raised her hand to push in the door of the warehouse. The scent of her husband’s blood still lingered, and she held in a sob.

Ioan, have I failed her, too?

Murphy’s men had found no trace of Brigid. She had very few places she would go. A pub she liked. A church in Ringsend. The Ha’Penny Bridge at night. She was nowhere. But then Deirdre had found Emily. Had coaxed the awful truth from her, and Deirdre knew with a sinking feeling where she would go.

‘She said she only wanted a bit. Just to sleep. She hadn’t been sleeping well. I—I told her not to, but she wouldn’t listen! I only had a little and I didn’t want her getting anything dangerous. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…’

Deirdre searched the rooms, catching the faint scent in a corner of the basement. She could feel the damp creeping along her skin, but it didn’t mask the scent of Brigid or the harsh sweetness of the heroin.

Her breath caught when she saw her.

Ioan’s precious girl was lying slumped in the corner and the needle lay next to her leg, still bloody at the tip. The rubber strap lay limp in her other hand. Her eyes were partially open and rolled back in her head. Her heartbeat was faint and erratic.

“No,” Deirdre groaned and rushed over. “No, no, no.” She brushed the paraphernalia away from the delicate, wounded girl and lifted her up. Brigid’s breathing was shallow. Her pulse a mere flutter in her chest.

“Brigid!” she screamed and shook her. “Wake up. Wake up, girl. Please.”

She slapped her face; it did nothing. Deirdre slumped to the floor and rocked the small woman in her arms. “No, I can’t. I can’t lose you, too.” She dashed the tears from her eyes as she looked down into the deathly pale face. “I can’t, Brigid! He’d never forgive me.”

Deirdre screamed and tore her hair, remembering the sweat-soaked plea the girl had whispered so many years before.

“No, don’t… Please, don’t ask me. I don’t want to live forever…”

She rocked the girl’s still body back and forth until she heard the first falter of Brigid’s heart. Deirdre’s eyes cleared and she lifted a hand to smooth the hair back from Brigid’s pale forehead. “Forgive me.”

Wicklow

June 2010

Darkness. Fire. A twisting ache in her gut and a burning in her throat.

Burning. Everything was burning.

“Brigid?”

She heard his voice calling from a distance. Was she dreaming? She’d thought she was in hell, but he wouldn’t be there. No, he couldn’t be there. He was good. Pure in a way that she’d never been. The smell of smoke filled her nose and the fire rippled along her skin, soothing and burning at the same time.

Pain.

It was the consuming thought in her mind.

Burning. Tingling. Snapping tiny bites along her flesh. Stripping bare every nerve with its vicious claws. Pain. Consuming, breath-stealing pain. But she was no longer breathing and suddenly, she knew.

Fire. She was immortal and she had been born into fire. She felt sharp fangs drop in her mouth, piercing her lips, and she tasted her own blood. It was sweet. Not metallic or bitter. Sweet.

Why? She wanted to scream. Why, why, why?

She was in Ioan’s library in Wicklow, and Carwyn was moving toward her, calling, “It’s me.”

But it’s not me, her heart screamed. Stay back!

She silently begged him to stay away. Fire vampires were volatile. They killed those who came close. She couldn’t hurt him. She couldn’t. She tried to breathe. To calm herself. It gave her no relief.

Just then, she heard him start to sing a lullaby and felt the tears roll down her face, sizzling and steaming as they touched her skin. He sang the silly, childish song she’d heard Ioan humming to her as a child. When was that? Had she ever been a child? Had she ever been innocent? She felt the anger well up and the fire started to snap along her body again. She curled into herself, willing him to stay away from the monster she had become.