The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

sunlight like bright jewels,tipped by white waves that spewed drops like tears. Beneath the surface, where silence should have reigned, was music. A celebration of sound that quickened the pulse and fed the spirit.
    He went toward it, searching shadows and light for the source. The golden sand beneath his feet was littered with gemstones, as if some carelessly generous hand had strewn them like bread crumbs.
    A silver palace rose up into the blue light, its towers glinting and a banquet of flowers spread at its feet. The music swelled, seduced, became female. A woman’s voice raised in song. A siren’s call that was irresistible.
    He found her beside the silver palace, sitting on a hill of rich blue that pulsed like a heart. There she sat and sang and smiled at him in a beckoning way.
    Her hair, dark as midnight, flowed around her, teased the milky skin of her breasts. Her eyes, blue as the hill, laughed.
    He wanted her more than he wanted to live. The wanting made him feel weak, and the weakness infuriated him. Still he couldn’t stop himself from going to her.
    “Darcy.”
    “Have you come for me, then, Trevor?” Her voice wove spells, magic threads winding even when she spoke. “What will you give me?”
    “What do you want?”
    She only laughed again, shook her head. “It’s for you to figure out.” She reached out a hand, coyly inviting him to join her. Jewels sparkled at her wrist, little points of brilliant fire. “What will you give me?”
    Frustration beat through his blood. “More of these,” he said, touching the gems at her wrist. “As many as you want, if that’s what you want.”
    She held her arm out, turning it so the stones shot fire. “Well, I can’t say I mind having such things, but it’s not enough. What else have you got?”
    “I’ll take you to all the places you want to see.”
    She pouted at that and picked up a glittering comb to run it through her flowing hair. “Is that all?”
    Temper snaked up, hissed in his throat. “I’ll make you rich, famous. Put the damn world at your feet.”
    Now she yawned.
    “Clothes,” he snapped. “Servants, houses. The envy and admiration of everyone who sees you. Everything you could ask for.”
    “It’s not enough.”
    He saw that this time when she spoke, her eyes wept. “
    Can’t you see it’s not enough?”
    “What, then?” He reached for her, intending to pull her up, to make her answer, but before his hands could touch, he slipped, stumbled, and was falling.
    The voice that followed him wasn’t Darcy’s, but Gwen’s. “Until you know and give, it won’t be done. Until you do, it won’t begin.”
    He shot out of sleep like a man at the edge of drowning, heart thundering, breath raw. And even then, awake, aware, he heard the faintest whisper.
    “Look at what you already have. Give what’s only yours to give.”
    “Christ.” Shaken, he got out of bed. Darcy shifted closer to the warmth he’d left, and slept on.
    He started toward the bathroom, for water, then yanked on his jeans instead and went downstairs. Three A.M., he thought when he saw the clock. Perfect. He got down the bottle of whiskey and poured a stiff three fingers into a glass.
    What the hell was wrong with him? But he knew, and knocked back the whiskey, hissed at the heat, set down the glass. He was in love with her. With a half laugh, he pressed his fingers to his eyes. Fell in love over bagels, he decided.
    He’d been doing fine until then, he thought. Holding his own. Attraction, affection, interest, sex. Those were all safe and sound, those were all controllable.
    Then she brings him a bagful of baked goods and he’s gone. Joke’s on you, Magee, he thought. You’ve been on your way since the first minute. The last slide just took you by surprise.
    Hell of a slide, too.
    He hadn’t thought he had it in him. After Sylvia, when he’d done everything he could to be in love, had planned it, orchestrated it, and failed so miserably at it, he’d been sure he simply wasn’t capable of that kind of emotion toward a woman.
    It had worried him, dismayed him, angered him. Then he’d accepted it as likely for the best. If a man lacked something, it was only logical, efficient even, to compensate for it elsewhere. Work, his parents, his sister. The theater.
    It had been enough, nearly enough. He’d convinced himself of it. And convinced himself that he could want Darcy, have Darcy, care for Darcy without it ever being more than that.
    Now, without