Feckin’ brilliant.
Now I was thinking about her naked.
Seven hundred and eighty-four. That was how many women I’d killed. Human or Danú, didn’t matter, my magic could feel the tug of attraction like a fisherman reeling in his catch. Only I was the fish.
The first woman I killed had been a maid working in my own castle named Grainne Browne. I’d been in a sorry state, wallowing over my loss of magic. I’d been convinced a woman was what I’d needed to bring myself out of the depths of despair. She’d found me in my study, drunk as a clurichaun, and blushed so prettily when I smiled at her. She’d giggled as I’d kissed my way up her vanilla-scented neck.
The moment my mouth grazed her rosy, red lips, she’d seized.
The curse spread like wicked black fingers down her chin to her throat, and she’d collapsed into my arms.
After that, I’d tried staying in the castle, but being a recluse drove me mad. I’d tried making myself smell like dirt and shite and worn threadbare clothes, convincing my brother it was some sort of bet when it was actually an attempt to save my sanity.
No matter what I did, I couldn’t escape.
The attraction was instantaneous.
Who wouldn’t be attracted to a person who looked as though he’d stepped out of their wildest fantasy? The embodiment of their deepest, darkest desires.
The pull of attraction felt like invisible threads being tugged in different directions.
The one that yanked the hardest usually won.
My body would turn toward her. My feet would walk in her direction.
Then it was a matter of fate.
Until I’d figured out how to manipulate it, fighting the strings even as they drew tighter. I found the weakest of the lot, the most innocent, knowing she would be the least likely to whisper an offer by the end of the night.
And when none of them seemed naïve, I found the most attractive one, showed an interest, drank to the point of oblivion, and let my curse take the reins.
After number five hundred and two, I thought,feck it. If I was going to be used, I may as well enjoy it.
And I became the thing the legends warned people about.
I became the Gancanagh.
5
The plaster wallof Briarhaven’s finest bawdy house bore a fresh coat of poppy red paint. I’d been standing here for the last ten minutes, watching the respectable folks cross the cobbled street to pass by, like the perfumed air and raucous laughter would somehow taint them if they got too close. If someone didn’t come along soon, I’d have to go in on my own.
Two young men, still pockmarked and gangly, burst from the pub next door, exchanging good-natured insults. When they saw me, they stopped dead in their tracks.
“Evening, lads.” I nodded. “Good night?”
Their wide eyes bulged even as they mumbled a convoluted response.
I knocked my knuckle against the doorframe. “Are you going in?”
This time, they nodded.
I shifted a handful of silver, holding it toward them. “I’ll give you each five pieces of silver to give Clara McNulty a message.”
The taller of the two, with wispy black hair, glanced at his mate. “What’s the message?”
“Tell her a prince is waiting for her outside.”
When neither of them made to take the coins, I flicked my wrist, forcing their hands forward, and dropped the money into their palms. “There. In you go.” I nudged them toward the door, hoping they’d be terrified enough to come through.