Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you, lads and lassies, and welcome to Ketch Tavern on this fine day!
Since one of me characters from Death Island is Irish, I thought I would honor the day with him – Joshua MacAllistar. I loved developing this character. He’s a fun-loving man who refuses to grow up and is always getting himself in some sort of trouble. He loves to sing with a pint in his hand and his favorite drink is called “Irish Medicine”, but you’ll have to read the book to find out what that is 😉 .
So, for this lovely day celebrating Ireland, I have provide a short excerpt introducing me good friend – hope you enjoy.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
Meanwhile, Tucker whined and pawed my leg at the same time Wally’s ears perked up, alert.
“What’s wrong?” I asked them. “Nervous?”
Suddenly, the sound of people screaming and shouting traveled through the main road. A brown horse and cart turned the corner with the driver crying wildly. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest while the one creature that terrified me more than ghosts and omens charged right for us. I could feel Tucker tug on my britches as if attempting to pull me out of the way. Still, I couldn’t bring my muscles to move. My thoughts had flashed back to the last horse I rode. The one that left me dangling from a tree. My mind warped that horse’s image and wild temper with the horse before me, though I knew it wasn’t the same demonic creature.
“Whoa, laddie, whoa.”
Right before the horse trampled the spot where I stood, a pair of hands grabbed my shirt, yanked me out of the way, and wrapped their arms protectively around me. My body still numb, I listened to my heartbeat pound in my chest. When my mind finally cleared, I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to see the familiar ginger hair and peridot gem eyes I craved to see again. Yet, it was Cyrus’s honey-brown irises that stared at me. His brows creased with worry. Looking down, it was no wonder. The cart’s front wheel came to a stop inches from my foot and Tucker’s nose.
“Looks like I made it in time,” an Irish accent spoke. I glanced at the cart’s driver, who had stood up and dismounted on the other side. He was a man about the same age as Cyrus with auburn hair like my father. However, his face was much longer, his cheek bones sharper, and his eyes were hazel. His unwavering smile reminded me of a mischievous young lad.
“Joshua McAllister,” my mother shouted from somewhere in the near distance. “You nearly killed my daughter.”