The Mighty Quinns: Brian. Kate Hoffmann

sorcerer of Maighdlin’s evil deed. It was only then that the sorcerer knew the answer to his question. Now he could die peacefully. And so Macha became a sorceress. And Riddoc her most trusted advisor.”

      “And Maighdlin?” Brian asked.

      “She became a toad. A slimy warty toad with a purple nose.”

      Brian laughed and Liam giggled. Sean just blinked in confusion. “She didn’t try to turn Riddoc into a toad?”

      Brendan shook his head. “No. He was too smart to let that happen.” He cleared his throat and continued. “After a time, Macha and Riddoc married. And they had sons, who had sons, who had sons. But none of them needed magical powers for they inherited something more valuable from their father—a clever mind and a thirst for knowledge.”

      “Are you sure Riddoc didn’t throw Macha over the cliff?” Sean asked. “Or maybe he took her back into the forest and chopped off her head? Da tells his stories different.”

      “This isn’t Da’s story, it’s mine,” Brendan said.

      Brendan always told the Mighty Quinn tales differently, Brian mused. In his versions, the women weren’t always the villains. “I liked this story just the way you told it.”

      Brendan nodded. “I did, too. And now you know that we’re descended from kings and queens, knights and ladies, plain farmers and a powerful sorceress. It’s time for you to get to sleep. It’s late.” He crawled off the bed and pulled the blankets up around the three brothers. As he walked to the door, Brendan flipped off the light.

      The room went dark and Sean rolled over, tugging on the blankets. Liam flipped over and nestled up against Brian for warmth and security. Brian threw his arm over his head and stared up at the ceiling. Images of the story still swirled in his head. The tale of Riddoc Quinn appealed to him—the clever boy and the beautiful sorceress living in their forest castle.

      “Do you think Da is all right?” Liam asked, his voice timid.

      “Da is a Quinn. He’s like Riddoc, he’s clever,” Brian murmured.

      “I’m scared. What if he doesn’t come back? They’ll come and get us and take us away. We’ll never see each other again.” Liam’s voice trembled and Brian could tell he was on the verge of tears.

      “Conor would never let that happen,” Brian said. He reached out and smoothed his hand over his little brother’s hair. “We’ll be together forever. Don’t worry, Li.”

      The little boy sobbed softly and burrowed under the covers. Brian curled beneath the threadbare blankets and closed his eyes. But sleep refused to come. When the house grew silent, he slipped out of bed and grabbed his winter jacket from the floor, pulling it on to ward off the chill in the air. As he passed the other bedroom, he peeked inside to find his older brothers sprawled out on their beds.

      The stairs creaked as he tiptoed down. When he reached the front parlor, he sat down in front of the portable television that Dylan had rescued from a junk pile in the alley. Brian flipped it on and the snowy picture illuminated the dark room. The antenna, draped with tinfoil, did little to bring the picture into focus. Brian could barely make out the weather forecaster standing in front of the map.

      “This is Storm Central on WBTN-TV. Forecasters say the storm is worsening in the North Atlantic. The waves are battering the New England coast and causing many residents to head for higher ground. The barometer continues to fall, which means that we’re still not over the worst of the storm. Marinas from Long Island to Maine have reported hundreds of boats ripped from moorings and destroyed. Many commercial fishing boats have also been damaged, a blow to those fishermen who have already had a bad summer season.”

      Brian leaned forward, trying to study the map, wondering where in the Atlantic his father was. He’d traced the route on the school atlas, but it had looked so simple then. He’d been on the boat before, far from the sight of land. Out there, everything looked the same.

      “Meanwhile, the Coast Guard has had its hands full with distress calls from boaters and fishermen caught out on the Atlantic when the storm blew up. The fishing boat Selma B. out of Boston sank after taking on water, but the crew was airlifted off the deck to the safety of a Coast Guard helicopter. The Willow put into Gloucester a few hours ago after a search by Coast Guard cutters. Their radio had been knocked out.”

      A knot twisted in Brian’s stomach and a wave of nausea washed over him. They all knew the dangers that faced a commercial fisherman. Brendan’s teacher had once said that commercial fishing was the most dangerous occupation of all, more dangerous than driving a race car or flying an airplane. That knowledge had stuck with Brian over the years and now it seemed like a weight pressing down on him.

      He stared at the man on the screen. If anything happened to the Mighty Quinn, the newscaster would know first. He’d know if the boat was sinking. He’d know whether Seamus was alive or dead. Like Riddoc Quinn, this man knew everything.

      Brian pulled his knees up under his chin and shivered, refusing to allow himself the luxury of tears. “Someday, I’ll be the first to know. And then I won’t ever have to worry again.”

      1

      THE NEWSROOM WAS a picture of controlled chaos as Brian Quinn strode through. Weekends were always a little crazy, the junior staff at WBTN-TV working with a skeleton crew. As he walked to his cubicle, Brian tugged on the starched collar of the pleated shirt, the fabric chafing his neck. He didn’t wear a tux often, but when he did he found the experience wholly uncomfortable.

      He caught his reflection as he walked by a plate glass window. The monkey suit did have an undeniable effect on the ladies, though. What was it about a black suit and a bow tie that made women swoon? A tux was no more unusual than a white T-shirt and faded jeans. Brian frowned. Women seemed to like that combination as well. That and plain old boxer shorts.

      Too bad this wasn’t a social occasion, he mused. At least then, maybe the starched shirt would have paid off in the end. Though there were bound to be more than a few beautiful women at the fund-raiser tonight, Brian was attending the party for business reasons. And he never mixed business with pleasure.

      “Look at you.”

      He glanced to the left and saw Taneesha Gregory leaning over the wall of one of the cubicles, her smile wide, her dark eyes bright with humor. Taneesha was his favorite cameraman—or camera goddess as she preferred to call herself. Shameless and fearless, she often had to muscle her way through a crowd of male news photographers to get the best shot, shoving her camera into a person’s face to catch the nuances of their reaction to a question. When it came to a hard-hitting investigative piece, Taneesha was the person Brian wanted to be there to get the shot.

      “Don’t even start,” he warned, wagging his finger at her.

      “You da bomb,” she said, laughing and clapping her hands. She came around the cubicle, then reached up and straightened his bow tie. “But I think a tux is a little over the top for a weekend anchor. I hear you’re doing the eleven o’clock news tomorrow night.”

      “Yeah. But the tux isn’t for that. I’m working on a story.”

      “I hope you don’t need me for this story. Because you know I don’t wear a—”

      “Dress,” Brian finished. “Yes. I know. The last time you wore a dress was your wedding.”

      “That’s right,” she said, brushing a speck of lint off his shoulder. “And I promised Ronald that I’d wear a dress on our silver wedding anniversary. That’s still eleven years off.”

      “Don’t worry,” Brian assured her. “Tonight I’m just checking out a lead. Richard Patterson, our sleazy neighborhood real estate developer is hosting a fund-raiser tonight. And I’m going to crash the party and get a look at his guests.”

      Taneesha groaned. “Are you still on that story? If the boss finds out you’re chasing Patterson around town, he’ll have your head. Or have you