pages she’d read between customers, was an ancient text thought to predate the Book of Kells—the illuminated manuscript written sometime in the eighth century. The Book of Kells was famous for its ingenious illustrations and the breathtaking artwork interwoven into the text. It told the story of Christianity, combining gospels with portraits, ornate canon tables, and intricate symbols. But where that book was dedicated to Christianity and was a historical treasure of Ireland, the Book of Fennore dealt with a darker side of Irish culture—the part seeped in superstition and born of its pagan ancestors. Its claim to fame came in the form of sinister legend and damning lore.
And the Book of Kells was real and on display in Dublin. The Book of Fennore was only a myth.
Or so the numerous pages she’d read claimed.
Danni tried to take comfort in that consensus. The Book of Fennore didn’t exist. Like the boogeyman or the Loch Ness monster, it wasn’t real. But she could still smell it, still sense it in the air. Still see the blood seeping from the pages and feel that dark, malevolent vibration working its way through her body.
All that from seeing it in a vision. She couldn’t imagine what it might be like to really stand in its presence. She didn’t want to even think of it. But there was a reason her mother had shown her the Book of Fennore, and Danni was afraid it had been a warning of what was to come. Of what she might be forced to face.
She rubbed her eyes. If that didn’t make her sound like a raving lunatic, she didn’t know what would.
Fennore, she read, was from the Gaelic word meaning white ghost . She noted that Fionúir, as in Ballyfionúir, was listed as a derivative. The white ghost. Was she the woman who’d appeared to Danni? It certainly fit.
Some experts speculated that the white ghost had been a pagan priestess before the birth of Christ. The Book of Fennore, they claimed, was her guide to the underworld of dark magic. Others thought the Book was propaganda created by the last of the Druid priests to instill fear into their dwindling flock of believers.
It’s thought that our ancestors were ancient Druids, Sean’s voice whispered in her head.
It was all conjecture, of course, because there was no tangible evidence that the Book of Fennore was anything but a widely circulated legend. Still, the controversy over who authored the Book raged on. Danni couldn’t help but see the irony in an argument over who might have written the Book they all agreed didn’t exist.
The disparity narrowed when it came to the content and purpose of the Book. All parties concurred that the Book of Fennore was believed to be a fearsome tool capable of harnessing the power of the universe. What was meant by that remained unknown. Likewise, how all that power could be utilized was a mystery as well.
What seemed clear to everyone was that the Book of Fennore should not be trifled with. All that power didn’t come cheap. As with most religious myths, the gifts the Book of Fennore bestowed would inevitably bring tragedy and death—worse, anyone foolish enough to use it for personal gain could ultimately unleash on the world an evil of unimaginable dimensions. The Book of Fennore could not be trusted to obey any man’s law—worthy or not.
“Terrific,” Danni muttered. “So why’s my mom got all the evil in the universe hidden in an antique coffer?”
It would take a historian to make sense of everything she had read, and Danni was far from that. But it seemed for every expert refuting the Book and its powers, there was another coughing up proof that it had existed at one time even if it did no longer. In the infinite realm of belief, the Book of Fennore had a great following. There was even a picture of it, drawn in a journal by a monk who’d lived seven hundred years ago.
All the skin on Danni’s body seemed to pull tight as she stared at the sketch. He had the asymmetrical shape right, the pitted
And the Book of Kells was real and on display in Dublin. The Book of Fennore was only a myth.
Or so the numerous pages she’d read claimed.
Danni tried to take comfort in that consensus. The Book of Fennore didn’t exist. Like the boogeyman or the Loch Ness monster, it wasn’t real. But she could still smell it, still sense it in the air. Still see the blood seeping from the pages and feel that dark, malevolent vibration working its way through her body.
All that from seeing it in a vision. She couldn’t imagine what it might be like to really stand in its presence. She didn’t want to even think of it. But there was a reason her mother had shown her the Book of Fennore, and Danni was afraid it had been a warning of what was to come. Of what she might be forced to face.
She rubbed her eyes. If that didn’t make her sound like a raving lunatic, she didn’t know what would.
Fennore, she read, was from the Gaelic word meaning white ghost . She noted that Fionúir, as in Ballyfionúir, was listed as a derivative. The white ghost. Was she the woman who’d appeared to Danni? It certainly fit.
Some experts speculated that the white ghost had been a pagan priestess before the birth of Christ. The Book of Fennore, they claimed, was her guide to the underworld of dark magic. Others thought the Book was propaganda created by the last of the Druid priests to instill fear into their dwindling flock of believers.
It’s thought that our ancestors were ancient Druids, Sean’s voice whispered in her head.
It was all conjecture, of course, because there was no tangible evidence that the Book of Fennore was anything but a widely circulated legend. Still, the controversy over who authored the Book raged on. Danni couldn’t help but see the irony in an argument over who might have written the Book they all agreed didn’t exist.
The disparity narrowed when it came to the content and purpose of the Book. All parties concurred that the Book of Fennore was believed to be a fearsome tool capable of harnessing the power of the universe. What was meant by that remained unknown. Likewise, how all that power could be utilized was a mystery as well.
What seemed clear to everyone was that the Book of Fennore should not be trifled with. All that power didn’t come cheap. As with most religious myths, the gifts the Book of Fennore bestowed would inevitably bring tragedy and death—worse, anyone foolish enough to use it for personal gain could ultimately unleash on the world an evil of unimaginable dimensions. The Book of Fennore could not be trusted to obey any man’s law—worthy or not.
“Terrific,” Danni muttered. “So why’s my mom got all the evil in the universe hidden in an antique coffer?”
It would take a historian to make sense of everything she had read, and Danni was far from that. But it seemed for every expert refuting the Book and its powers, there was another coughing up proof that it had existed at one time even if it did no longer. In the infinite realm of belief, the Book of Fennore had a great following. There was even a picture of it, drawn in a journal by a monk who’d lived seven hundred years ago.
All the skin on Danni’s body seemed to pull tight as she stared at the sketch. He had the asymmetrical shape right, the pitted
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