Cresent Prophecy by Axelle Chandler (great reads TXT) 📕

a clue. I could see he was botherin’ you, and I mean… How many times can a woman say no before a man gets it? If I overstepped, I’m sorry…”

Sighing, I waved my hand. “It’s all right.”

“Was that what happened yesterday?” she asked sheepishly.

I couldn’t really tell her the sordid truth, so I just nodded and offered a watered-down version. “We had a long talk, and he accepted my feelings had changed. He left Derrydun yesterday.”

“Oh, that’s good, then. Are things okay with you and your boyfriend?”

“Boone and I had a long talk, too.” I shrugged, smiling at the thought of our romp through nature. “We’re solid.”

Lucy smiled and began straightening the stand of wind chimes. “Good for you.”

Rounding the counter, I searched for my tarot cards. Yeah, it was good for me. Boone and I were back to a good place, he’d voiced his fears, and I had mine, and now we could work through them. All while protecting the village from the threat of craglorn attacks. Then there was the prophecy to worry about.

I rolled my eyes and began shuffling the cards.

“Hey, Lucy?” I asked. “Do you believe in prophecies?” If anyone knew about the truth of these things, maybe it was her. She was the Irish version of Lara Croft, Tomb Raider with her archaeology and mythological studies skills.

“Prophecies?” She raised her eyebrows, then scrunched up her face in thought. “I don’t think I do. They’re kind of like your tarot cards, I suppose.”

“Like a suggestion?” I considered that idea and shook my head. “Have any ever come true? I mean, in history?”

“They feature in myths and legends in lots of cultures,” she went on. “But none have been proven. Not for certain, anyway. The problem is, words can be twisted to the point people see and hear what they want to believe. There was a story in the news a while ago about a blind old woman in Romania who supposedly predicted nine eleven in America and other disasters, though it was after the fact when it came out in the mainstream media. All her predictions since haven’t born any fruit, or so the sayin’ goes. Honestly, it’s hard to say. There has to be an element of belief.”

“So you have to believe in a prophecy to give it any merit?”

“Who knows.” She laughed and shrugged. “What brought this on?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said, turning back to the tarot cards. “Just a little early morning existential crisis.”

Shuffling the deck, I pulled a card from the middle and set it down on the counter. Please, not the Three of Swords, please, not the Three of Swords…

Turning the card over, I swore.

Chapter 11

“Are you ready?”

“Do we have to?” I glanced at Boone and screwed up my nose.

“Aye, we’ll have to show our faces eventually.” He nodded at Molly McCreedy’s, which we were standing outside of. “Once they see us together again, the battle lines will be erased, and things will go back to the way they were.”

“I’m not sure that’s any better.” I looked at Fergus’s donkey, which was hitched to a post with her nose in a feed bag. “What do you think?”

Boone placed his palm on her rump and smirked. “She thinks her oats are really good.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “A true Irish donkey.”

He grasped my hand and tugged me forward. Opening the door, he had to practically drag me inside. I knew how things worked around here. First in first out and all of that. Right after Aileen’s funeral, Boone had told me I’d always be welcome here. I was part of the McKinney clan—McKinney was Aileen’s maiden name—and apparently, it was like some kind of birthright. I doubted it meant much around here after Boone and my public fight over Alex even if I was magically linked to the land.

I squirmed as I felt a dozen or more pairs of eyes focus on us. Waiting for the various opinions to begin hurling through the air, I tensed, ready to deflect the word bullets.

“Did she cast a spell on you?” Sean called out across the bar.

“Shut it, Sean,” I exclaimed.

“Leave him to me,” Boone said, dropping my hand and going to sit by the farmer.

I watched as he patted Sean on the shoulder and began talking earnestly to him. Glancing around the pub, I scurried toward the bar, looking for Maggie.

She was behind the taps, pulling a pint of beer, and she raised an eyebrow as I slid onto a stool.

“You and Boone are back on?” she asked, nodding toward the men at the other end of the mahogany slab.

“Yeah. It was a big misunderstanding.”

“What happened to that Australian twat?” She gave me the evil eye.

“He twatted back to where he came from,” I said irritably. “Don’t be angry with me. He was the one who caused the trouble. Boone knows it, I know it. We’re good. Are you and I? Because it wasn’t really anyone’s business other than ours.”

“I told you, Skye, Derrydun looks out for its own.”

“And what am I? Haven’t I earned enough stripes or whatever yet?”

“None of it was Skye’s fault,” Boone said, sidling up next to me.

“You believe her?” Sean grumbled.

Boone glanced at me. “She said no, and he kept pressurin’ her. I kept showin’ up at the wrong moments. He was a crafty mac soith.”

“I hope you gave him another thrashin’,” Maggie quipped.

“What’s the score on the scoreboard,” I declared. “Do I register yet?”

“Calm down, Skye,” Maggie said. “You’re a Derrydun-erian.”

“Good.” I pouted.

The noise in the pub began to creep back up, and the ears of the rumor mill turned to other juicy topics.

“See?” Boone said. “I told you it would be all right.”

“I still think she’s a witch,” Sean declared, earning him a sharp clip around the ear from Maggie. “Ow!”

“What’s your problem, Sean McKinnon!” she screeched.

“Should I worry about that?” I asked Boone.

“Nay. He’s just stirrin’ the pot because he knows you bite.”

“Good, I was worried I might have to turn him into a toad