Crescent Calling: The Crescent Witch Chronicles - Book One R Nicole (best novels for teenagers TXT) 📖

I couldn’t meet his gaze. The hot Irishman I’d only just met, ranted at like a lunatic, and bawled in front of all in the space of half an hour. I was really put together.

“That’s the thing about Derrydun,” he added. “If you need help, all you need to do is ask. Doesn’t matter who you are.”

Staring past him, I focused on a baby tree growing just off the edge of the field. It shuddered and leaned toward me in the most unnatural way, and I gasped. My reaction seemed to set it off, and it snapped back into place.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, stepping toward me. “Are you all right?”

“That tree,” I said, wiping at my tears. “It…”

Boone glanced to where I was pointing and smiled.

“That’s a hawthorn saplin’,” he said, not noticing how it had moved all by itself. Kneeling beside it, he ran his fingers over the leaves. “This is a good omen if you believe in those kinds of things.”

“How?”

“Hawthorns are full of magic. They guard the doorways into the realms of the fair folk among other things.”

“Fairies?” I snorted. “They’re just stories.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged and rose to his feet. “This land is old and full of wild stories. A new hawthorn is still good luck.”

I definitely needed some of that.

“Everyone’s goin’ to Molly McCreedy’s,” he said. “Will you come?”

“To who?” I asked with a frown.

“Molly McCreedy’s is the pub.” He waited, and when I didn’t reply, he added, “There’s good food, drink, nice people… I’ll go with you.”

“I… I don’t think…”

Boone smiled lopsidedly and held out his hand. “Don’t you want to see a bit of Irish craic?”

“Crack?” I asked, making a face.

“Craic. It means fun.”

Looking at his hand, I shrugged, stepped around him, and began walking back down the hill. There would be alcohol at the pub. Lots of alcohol.

Chapter 4

If there was one thing I learned about the place my mother called home, it was that Molly McCreedy’s was the heartbeat of Derrydun.

Stepping across the threshold, I glanced around with curious interest. I’d never seen anything like it.

The walls were full of framed photographs and paintings, the tables were all mismatched, the bar was made from a dark mahogany, and the golden beer taps glistened in the murky light. An open fireplace, covered with a wrought iron grate, was at one end, and over the mantle hung a painted portrait of a woman. The plaque set into the bottom of the gilded frame read ‘Molly McCreedy — 1655–1687.’

Behind the bar were shelves packed full of bottles, most of them whiskey, and below were modern fridges full of craft beers and cans of larger. Beyond was a door that led through to the kitchen, which was in full swing given the assembled crowd.

The scent of wood smoke, stale beer, and cooking filled the entire place along with the riotous sound of a sing-a-long. Someone had brought a guitar and a tambourine, and it seemed cause for celebration. Whatever song it was, everyone knew the words and were shouting in unison, having the times of their lives.

Everyone clapped at the right moments during the chorus—four, two, then shouted hey!—and sung along with something close to reckless abandon. Nobody gave two hoots what they looked like. This must be the craic Boone was telling me about.

“Do you know this song, Skye?” a man I recognized from the funeral asked.

I shook my head.

“It’s called Whiskey in the Jar,” he explained. “It’s about a man who steals some money from a ship’s captain and is betrayed by a woman.”

“Stop tryin’ to talk her up, Sean,” Boone declared behind me. “Give the girl a moment to catch her breath.”

“I was only bein’ friendly,” the man named Sean grumbled.

The entire way here, Boone had followed me, keeping his distance. I wasn’t sure what was more creepy—him following me up the hill in the first place or lurking behind me all the way down.

Ignoring the two men, I weaved through the packed room and found the bar. The moment I slid onto a free stool, a woman appeared before me. The first thing I noticed about her was her chestnut-colored ringlet curls and freckled nose. She would have to be around the same age I was, mid to late twenties. I wondered what she was doing here because the more people I met in this village, the more I realized the ratio of young to old in Derrydun swung a great deal more in one direction than the other.

“You must be the famous Skye,” she said, leaning against the bar.

“Uh, that’s me, but I’m not famous or anything.”

“I didn’t get a chance to offer me condolences today,” she said. “I’m Maggie Ashlyn. Me da owns the next farm over from Roy’s farm.”

“Oh,” I said, straightening up. “Someone told me about your dad. I think. Honestly, I can’t keep up with all the names and places. Then there’s the accent.” I moaned dramatically.

“Tell me about it. Me da moved here from the UK when he married me mam. So I’m half and half, though I grew up here in County Sligo. People tell me my accent slips into one or the other from time to time. Just to confuse you.” She winked. “Anyway, I’m sorry about your mam passin’. She was a lovely lady.”

“So I hear.” Jealousy was becoming my default setting the longer I was in Derrydun.

“Can I get you anythin’ to eat or drink?”

“No, I don’t really have much of an appetite.”

Maggie smiled, then held up a finger. Turning, she selected a bottle from the shelf behind her and flipped a glass over in her hand. Pouring a few fingers of the brown liquid, she slapped the glass down in front of me. “Here, have a dram of whiskey. It’ll warm you right up.”

Knowing I was a complete lightweight, I sipped tentatively as the strong woody scent burned my nostrils. The alcohol went down my throat in much the same way as fire blazed along a line of gasoline.