The Stolen: An American Faerie Tale by Bishop O'Connell

the truth of it, lad. You’ve my word.”
    Edward looked at Brendan for a long moment before he nodded. “All right.” He stepped to one side. “What do I do if they wake up while you’re gone?”
    â€œThey won’t stir till dawn at the earliest.” Brendan put a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “Just watch over them and keep them safe. I’ll be back when I find something or, God willing, the girseach herself.”
    â€œWhy’d you help her?” Edward asked as Brendan started to leave. “You don’t know Caitlin or Kris. So . . .”
    Brendan shrugged. “Well, it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? You can’t just leave someone to the mercy of this like. They’ve got none, you see.” He let out a breath. “I told you figuring things out wasn’t what I do.”
    Edward nodded.
    â€œWell, this is what I do.” Brendan didn’t look away from Caitlin. “I don’t just walk away.”
    Not anymore.
    â€œA lot of ­people can and do. It’s human nature to look out for ourselves above anyone else,” Edward said.
    â€œWell, it’s not my nature, then.” Brendan stepped outside. “Raise the wards as soon as the door is shut, and don’t lower them for nothing. I’ll be back, I swear it.”
    Brendan closed the door behind him and glanced over his shoulder when he felt the thrum of the wards. He got into his truck, turned the engine over, and headed back to the highway.

 
    CHAPTER SIX
    E dward passed his hand over the knob and focused his intent. The familiar tension of the wards coming to life put his heart a little more at ease, but apprehension ate at his insides as the headlights of Brendan’s old truck flashed through the window. The vehicle vanished down the street, and Edward was alone in the overwhelming silence.
    He let out a deep sigh and ran his hands through his hair.
    â€œAll right, genius, what now?” he asked, but the darkness didn’t answer. “Sure, now you’ve got nothing to add.”
    He retrieved a stethoscope and a sphygmomanometer from his black doctor’s bag. There were upsides to being a psychiatrist besides being able to prescribe meds. While he didn’t often use his medical training, he remembered it in pristine detail. Actually, he remembered everything in pristine detail. He’d always had an eidetic memory, or as close to one as he’d ever heard of, but it had proven to be both a boon and a hindrance for him. He’d always done well in school, never having to study something more than once, which had earned him a full scholarship. Unfortunately, as a general rule ­people didn’t like spending time with a walking, talking encyclopedia.
    He checked the girls. Their blood pressure was good, their breathing and heart rates were slow but not dangerously so. This fae slumber was fascinating. The effect was more powerful than the strongest anesthesia. It made him wonder if Rip Van Winkle was more than just a story.
    As he put his equipment away, he found himself staring at Caitlin, and he thought back to their first meeting, when she was just a nursing intern. She’d been so lovely that he’d actually walked into a wall when he’d seen her. He’d been mortified, but she’d just smiled and helped him up. He smiled now as well, remembering so many shared lunch hours at work after that, and those wonderful Saturdays he’d spent with Caitlin and Fiona at the park. He couldn’t help but smile as he thought of Fiona’s laughter and Caitlin’s radiant smile as she’d pushed the giggling little girl on the swing. She was his best friend. Hell, she was his only friend, and he’d contented himself with that eventually.
    He let out a sigh, turned the large leather chair to face the couch, and collapsed into it. His head fell back, and, as he stared up at the ceiling, he slammed his