“You’re skippin’ out to go on a date with Boone?” Mairead exclaimed.
“No! I’m borrowing Sean’s car, and Boone said he would bring it by so I didn’t have to walk all the way over to Roy’s.”
“A likely story,” she said, pushing into Irish Moon, leaving me standing on the footpath.
Rolling my eyes, I turned to the car. Her crush wasn’t working out so well, and knowing how messed up I’d been at that age, I felt a pang of sympathy. Being seventeen was a pain in the ass. It was old enough you had the urge to forge out into the world on your own but still too young to be able to do it legally and with your parents’ permission. I’d been exactly the same as her, maybe even worse.
The car window rolled down, and Boone’s head appeared.
“Jump in,” he said, leaning across the passenger seat.
“You’re coming? Mairead’s already pissed off at me.”
“Why?”
“Ugh.” I rolled my eyes. “Why do I bother?”
Boone raised his eyebrows and flipped the lock. “Jump in before I change me mind.”
“But what about…the thing.” I glanced around the empty street, looking extremely shifty.
“Like I said, I have to leave the thing sooner or later. I can’t keep stickin’ me head under the sand and hopin’ whatever out there will go away. This is important. We’ll work better together.”
I made a face and opened the car door, sliding inside. “I hope you know what you’re getting us into.”
“So do I.” He checked the mirrors and planted his foot on the accelerator, careening around the hawthorn and tearing through the traffic lights.
“On second thought,” I declared, holding on for dear life. “I hope I know what I’m getting myself into.”
* * *
Nothing happened when Boone left the boundary. At least, nothing noticeable, so for now, it seemed like we’d gone undetected.
We spent the two-hour drive talking about stupid things like had Boone seen Game of Thrones and if he was team Lannister or Stark or even if he was team Targaryen. We talked about what our favorite colors were—his was red, which explained the shirts—coffee versus tea, Guinness versus cider, was there an Ikea in Ireland so I could change the floral furniture in the cottage, and the completely outlandish topic of ‘what animal do you want to change into next.’ The answer to that one was definitely a tiger and definitely not a flamingo.
By the time we saw Croagh Patrick, it was creeping closer to midday. The peak itself rose high into the sky, its tip green and gray, the snow having melted months ago. The fields below were a startling emerald color, trees and sheep dotted the landscape, and a town glittered in the distance. I was beginning to understand why the tourists who passed through Derrydun always had their cameras in their hands. Ireland was breathtakingly beautiful.
Parking the car in a spot furthest away from the entrance to the Visitor’s Center, Boone killed the engine and glanced at me.
“You drive like a crazy person,” I said, unclipping my seat belt.
“I’m not used to it.”
“I’ll say. Do you even have a license? How did you get one without any ID? You totally had a fake one made, didn’t you?” My mouth dropped open.
“I don’t have a license,” he said, scratching his head.
“No!” I gasped dramatically. “And I let you drive!”
Getting out of the car, we stood in the sunshine, staring up at the mountain. It wasn’t a big monster of a thing, not compared to the Himalayas or the Rockies, but it was big enough. Even from this distance, we could see the shapes of people walking to the summit. My thighs were already burning just looking at it.
“Where do we start?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the sun. “Should we ask at the Visitor’s Centre?”
“They would know the area. This is the furthest I’ve ever been…that I can remember.”
He was looking uncomfortable as if the world was giving him a severe case of shell shock, so I took his hand and led him toward the chaos.
The Visitor’s Centre was teeming with tourists, who were arranging a variety of activities. Horse riding down on the beach, leisurely hikes, bike riding, and pilgrimages to the summit where a chapel dedicated to St. Patrick stood. The smell of freshly roasted coffee wafted from the cafe, and the air was filled with the murmuring of people shopping for souvenirs at the gift shop.
A lady behind the information desk armed us with a map detailing the various walking trails, pointing out locations of ponds and lakes, not knowing if there were any underground springs in the area. She explained that all the water in the catchments came from the melt.
Outside, we studied the map, comparing it to the satellite image on my phone.
“There’s gotta be some kind of underground water source,” I said, feeling lost. “The book said the athame must be charged with the lifeblood of Ireland. The water from the spring is the only way.”
“It may have been hidden with magic,” Boone offered. “Maybe that’s why no one knows.”
“Great,” I declared, glancing up at the sky. “Thanks, Universe. Thanks, a lot.”
We set out, climbing the track toward the summit. When we reached the first marker, I stopped and glanced back down into the valley. It was a beautiful view of the rolling hills, the farmland, and we could even see the ocean and the beaches that wrapped around the coastline.
“Look at this,” Boone said, waving me over. He was standing by a slab of rock that was pockmarked with different sized holes and a few spiral designs.
“The map says it’s called the Boheh Stone or St. Patrick’s chair,” I said. “It’s Neolithic rock art. The dots are meant to represent the stars of the Milky Way.”
Boone peered at it, looking unimpressed. “If you say so.”
Ignoring him, I knelt down by the slab and pressed my palms against it. The dark surface was spotted with gray and yellow lichen, much like
