Page 63 of Go Luck Yourself
No. Right? No, that’s not—
A shout rips through the air. Not from any of us.
Off to the side of the finish line, a fight has broken out, bodies in a tussle of fists and kicking legs.
“Shite.” Loch tears off without hesitation and I pitch after him, but Siobhán grabs me, and Finn gives me a withering glare.
“He can handle this,” Finn snaps. “You’re in pieces.”
She isn’t as unsettled as she should be. There’s afistfight,at one of their Holiday events, a place that should be all joy and happiness—and Finn seems tired. Siobhán drops her eyes to the ground.
Meanwhile, Loch is centered in the conflict, and I recognize that telltale flick of his hands. He’s using magic—not to stop the fight; our magic can’t change a person’s choices. But it can, if needed, lighten spirits.
Which is generally something akingshould do, and on a much grander scale.
But their king isn’t even here. His advertisements are, though.
Doing what Loch is doing should be wildly unnecessary. His uncle should have this covered, blanketing everyone at this festival, everyone celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, in a feedback loop of joy and goodness and light. I get that the King might not be at every event we go to, but the people generate joy, he uses that joy to enhance their happiness, and it builds and builds everywhere people are celebrating his Holiday.
The press swivel from taking shots of me all ripped up to getting pics of Loch in the crowd.
“What is going on here?” I ask, breathless.
Finn glowers at Siobhán. Who glowers right back.
“Ya both are stubborn arses,” Siobhán barks at her sister before she turns to me. “Our uncle is a right prick.”
“Siobhán! It’s none of his business.”
“It’smybusiness, and I’m na about to let the chance at Loch having a real ally pass by.”
My face widens in surprise.
“Now, Kris.” Siobhán’s sweet smile is marred by the first show of anger I’ve seen on her. “To be fair, our father was a right prick in his own way, too.”
“Jesus, Siobhán. You’re on your own.” Finn walks away, towards the fight that’s now settling.
I stay focused on Siobhán. Who sighs and folds her arms.
“We’ve had a long run of prick rulers for St. Patrick’s Day,” she says. “Our grandda and da weren’t cruel, just poor managers. No vision. But our uncle keeps a tight hold on the magic, hoards it all up.”
A few police are intermingled with the crowd around Loch now. The doctor has his medical kit back out.
“This happens a lot?Fights?” I can’t stop the disgust from warping my voice.
Siobhán nods with a wince. “Our uncle does na use his magic as he should. The attitude gets… muddled.”
“So St. Patrick’s Day is running out of magic?”
“We’ve quite a lot of it. But our uncle’s a greedy son of a bitch who uses all our magic to make the luckiest business decisions for his distillery, claiming it’s an Irish company, so its success isimperativeto St. Patrick’s Day’s success. It’s all fucked. Finn and I get no magic; Loch barely gets enough to do—well, that.” She waves at her brother. Who doesn’t appear to be using magic now, as the fight’s stopped; he’s got his hand on someone’s shoulder and is talking to them, posture gentle and soothing.
“That’s why we drove here instead of using magic to travel,” I connect.
“Yeah.”
My lungs grip tight. For all Dad’s jackass ways, he never limited our magic. He threatened it, but we always had enough. Which turned out to be because other Holidays were being forced to give us their magic. So, perspective and all.
But I feel a pulse of empathy. For Siobhán. Finn.
