Dermot Michael Coyne isn't sure what he's gotten himself into. Nuala Anne McGrail, that beautiful and vivacious ""Celtic witch"" has finally agreed to marry him. But they've barely tied the knot when Nuala's psychic ""spells"" begin again. Visions of a burning castle, the captain of the infamous ""Black and Tan"" police force, a wild woman from Chicago, and bloodshed--all somehow connected--lead the two to the remnants of a mystery long buried in the mist of Ireland's turbulent and violent past. How did Kevin O'Higgins, the murdered leader of the movement to free Ireland, die? And who among the living will do whatever it takes to keep Nuala and Dermot from finding out? At the publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied.
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March 01, 2000
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Excerpt from Irish Mist by Andrew M. Greeley
1 nbsp; nbsp; “WERE YOU” the fella with whom I slept last night?” The women opened her eyes and peered at me. “I was.” She closed her eyes again. “How was I?” “Memorable.” She snorted derisively, another hint that something was wrong in our relationship. “’Tis all a mistake,” she sighted, cruling up against me. “Our sleeping together?” “No…ourselves going to Ireland.” It was the first hint that she didn’t think our trip was a frigging brilliant idea—to use her slightly cleaned up words. “Why?” “Bad things are happening,” she said, cuddling even closer—as much as a first-class set on an Aer Lingus Airbus 300 permitted. “To us?” “Won’t we be involved?” “The Irish media?” “Them gobshites!” My hand, always with a mind of its own where she was concerned, found its way under her loose Marquette University sweatshirt and took possession of a wondrous bare breast. Bars, she had insisted, were not acceptable on long overnight plane flights, a declaration I did not dispute. She sighed contentedly. “Anyway,” she continued, “the woman didn’t do it now, did she?” “Didn’t do what?” “Didn’t light the fire.” “Which woman didn’t light what fire?” “Och, Dermot Michael,” she said somewhat impatiently as, under her blanket, she pushed my hand harder against her breast, “if I were knowing that, wouldn’t I be telling you?” Here we go again, I told myself. We were at that stage of transatlantic flight that is much like the old Catholic notion of Purgatory—the minutes seem like hours and the hours like days. The human organism revolts against all the indignities imposed on it in the last seven hours—dry mouth, wet sinuses, aching teeth, the guy across the aisle with a cough like a broaching whale. It will end eventually but only on the day of the final judgment. My Nuala Anne is, among other things, fey, psychic, a dark one—call it whatever you want. She possesses, though only intermittently, an ability to see and hear things that happened decades ago or are happening now but at some great distance or haven’t happened yet but will. Maybe. My brother George the priest, the only other one in our family to know of my bride’s “interludes,” claims that her ability is a throwback to an earlier age of the evolutionary process when our hominoid ancestors, nor possessing thoraxes suitable for our kind of speech, communicated mentally. “There’re a few genes likes that around, Little Bro,” he informed me, “but don’t invest in any grain futures because of what she thinks she sees.” I had stopped investing in the commodities market several years ago, mostly because I wasn’t very good at it. “It’s weird, George,” I had argued. “Part of the package,” he said with a shrug. Easy enough for him to say. He didn’t have to live with her. Nor was he awakened in the middle of the night when she had one of her dreams. She sat up straight in her seat, dislodging my predatory hand. “They’re going to shoot the poor man, Dermot Michael,” she whispered, “and himself going to Mass!” Fortunately, the man across the aisle hacked again, so violently that I thought the plane swayed. His explosion drow