by Calinda B
Lassi stared at the floor, grateful the tea wasn’t acting weirdly enchanted. But still...did I imagine it? That must be it. Even the scorched sheets. I’ll bet I was still dreaming. Everything is stressing me out. Or, it’s PTSD from all the shite happening since yesterday morning.
After Liam had swept all the pieces into the dust pan, he rose to standing. “All taken care of.”
He hefted the bits of mug. They clinked and clattered in the bin.
“Thank you.”
“You look the same as you did a few moments ago.” He opened one of the half-filled plastic garbage bags resting on the floor and dumped the broken pieces.
She looked down at herself. “Oh, I... I forgot something in here.”
“I see.” He rested the dust bin on the counter. “What did you forget?”
She scanned the room, searching for ideas. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be right back.”
Inside her bedroom, she whipped on her jeans and a soft, long-sleeved shirt. No way will I pull down the sheets and see if I was hallucinating. She entered the bathroom and combed her snarled locks, then gave her reflection a nod. A shimmering burst of light danced at the edges of her irises.
“Oh, come on.” She blinked furiously. When she looked again, the light was no longer visible. “I’m losing my mind. Seeing things that aren’t there. Hallucinating.”
She exited the room, hustled past the bed, and made her way into the hall.
“Let’s go. I’m ready,” she called to Liam. She retrieved her coat from the closet, donned her Wellies, and exited this bloody, freak-show of a cottage, with Liam close behind.
Outside, they strode down the driveway, their footsteps squishing through the muddy ground. Lassi took the lead, her arms and legs pumping.
The air was cool and misty but the usual dark clouds hung heavy, like they might fall from the sky given a nudge.
At least there’s no fog. She expected to march straight to the village, but a few yards down the driveway, Liam seized her upper arm.
She whirled and yanked her arm away. “Don’t touch me!”
He put his hands up. “Shite, woman, slow down. You’re going the wrong way.”
He pointed at a small path.
She shook out her arms. “What’s that? A shortcut?”
He studied her, puzzlement crisscrossing his face. “It’s the way to the rectory. Where Father Ward lives.”
She stared at a small cottage up the hill. She turned toward great-aunt Roberta’s cottage. Then, she looked back toward the cottage again. How could I not notice? He has a direct line of sight to my great-aunt’s cottage. Which means...he has a direct line of sight to me. Shivers and whirls blossomed in her belly at the thought. Does he watch me through the window? He sure came quickly to my rescue the first time Liam showed up at my door. Unsure of whether she should feel stalked or cared for, she turned and tromped up the small path.
At the stone rectory, she stood outside its blue door. The place gave her a sense of calm, even though the wind howled and rain threatened to pour. While waiting for slow-poke Liam, she fingered the bright door.
A minute later, Liam huffed and puffed behind her.
“That’s not the right door. Follow me,” he said, panting.
“What’s back there?”
He shook his head, perhaps too breathless to speak, and trundled ahead.
She followed along a sidewalk lined with Heather and bog rosemary. Does Cillian tend these? The garden looks so cared for.
Windows lined this side of the rectory. She glanced inside to see the two Dungarvan Inspectors sitting around a small table with Cillian. At the sight of him, her insides exploded with forest-fire heat and volcanic desire. Her limbs began to shake. Oh, this can’t be good. I’ve got to appear calm.
Liam disappeared into a side entrance. “Everyone is in here,” he called.
She hurried toward the door, took a couple of deep breaths, and pasted on a serious face before entering.
“Gentlemen,” she said when she stood near the table.
The two inspectors gave her a cursory nod.
She glanced around the clean room, sparse of any furnishings except for the essential table and chairs for dining, and recliner for relaxing. The room gave off an inviting vibe, all muted browns and gray stone. Intricate seashells lined the mantel. Perhaps Cillian likes the sea as much as I do.
“Where’s Father Ward? He was here a minute ago.”
“We’re investigating, Miss Finn,” Inspector Brown said curtly.
“Of what?”
“A murder. Didn’t Mr. O’Donnell tell you?”
Lassi glanced toward Liam but he had disappeared. “Yes, he did. What can I do for you?” And why is Cillian being investigated?
“Sit.” Inspector Brown commanded her like she was a German Shepherd. She pointed to the chair between her and Conway.
“I’ll stand,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Conway cleared his throat. “Tell Inspector Brown everything Ailis said to you over the phone the day before.”
A notepad lay on the table before him.
She glowered at Conway. “Didn’t you tell her? You were sitting right there when it happened.”
“We’d like to hear it in your own words,” he repeated in his squeaky voice.
“Well...okay.” She recapped the conversation.
Brown fixed her beady eyes on her. “Did she say anything else?”
“No, that’s what I remember.”
“Did she tell you why she wanted to call Siobhan of all people?”
Lassi frowned. “No, why would she? Most people don’t explain why they chose the person they wanted to speak with. Especially if they supposedly had dinner the night before with the dead husband of the woman they’re calling.”
Brown pushed her chair away from the table and stalked toward Lassi. “So, did she tell you why she went to Waterford City?”
Lassi glared at her. “We’re not exactly close, Inspector. And I picked up at Siobhan’s request. I did as I was told. I was only a middleman, if you will. Can you tell me please why, exactly, you’re grilling me like a steak on the barbecue? The only reason I’m here is to deal with my departed great-aunt’s property and then I’ll be headed back to Dublin.”
“I told you she wouldn’t be much help,” Conway mumbled in his stupid, teenage voice.
“Fine,” Brown said. “I’ll see to Father Ward.” She huffed out a lungful of breath and turned to stride away.
Conway stayed put.
She stared at Inspector Brown’s back, wishing the woman hadn’t left. As imposing as she was, Lassi’s unease spiked at the idea of being alone with the ferret-faced Garda.
“So, what’s your impression of Ailis?” Conway asked. He picked up his pen and held it over the notepad.
Red flags began to wave in her mind.
“What’s my impression? I barely know the woman.” She leaned her hip against the table.
“That’s exactly why we’re asking. You’re the fresh eyes we need.”
Cautiously, her head cocked to the side, she replied. “She seems, um...very...hard-working. Ambitious, maybe? Knew everyone in the village it seemed.” In a biblical way but never mind.
Conway tapped his pen against the paper. Then, he asked, “Do you think there was anything going on between Dylan and Ailis?”
What? No! He adored his wife. She kept her expression neutral and said, “I honestly can’t say either way. I only met each of them two or three times. Dylan and Siobhan seemed genuinely happy, but you never know. Ailis seems like a man-eater, but then again, you never know. Assumptions from a stranger, namely me, hardly seem the best place to gain an accurate impression.” That sounds...safe enough.
Conway shrugged. “I thought maybe...as a nurse, you would have a good, quick way of sizing people up.” His mouth opened as if to add something but he snapped it closed.
Her eyes narrowed. What was he about to say?
&
nbsp; “Are you done with me? I’ve got a load of things to deal with.” She stepped away from the table.
“For the moment.” He closed his notepad and glared at her. “But don’t be leaving town.”
“I’ll be leaving when I’m finished, Inspector. But first I have a question for you.”
“What’s that?” he said.
“Why on earth are you questioning Father Ward?”
Conway got to his feet.
She took a step back.
He lifted his hand and pointed out a small window. “Do you see the roof of the cottage over there? The one through the bushes?”
“Yes, so?”
“And do you see the stone wall through the foliage?”
“Yes.”
“Father Ward lives next door to Ailis O’Neill.” He crossed his arms over his chest, appearing smug.
Her heart began to race. She tried to appear all cool and calm. “People live next to all sorts of people, Inspector.” But her insides told her another story. Could Father Ward be both a philanderer and a murderer? There weren’t enough expletives in the world to express her distress.
Chapter 14
Taking her leave from this so-called investigation—or, witch hunt, as I prefer to call it—Lassi stormed out of the rectory. She trekked past the heather and bog rosemary on the narrow sidewalk next to the rectory. Then, instead of following the path back to Great-Aunt Roberta’s cottage, she turned toward town.
A man-made pond lay at the edge of the rectory yard, complete with a waterfall tumbling over rocks. Seashells surrounded the pond.
She moved closer to get a better look.
A glint of something gold sparkling near the waterfall caught her eye. She crouched, finding a small circle of gold embedded in a smooth stone, almost like a fossil. Squinting, she ran her fingers along the time-worn surface of the limestone. It looks like a wedding ring. How did it end up embedded in stone?
When her fingertip landed on top of the gold, a jolt of electricity shocked her. She yelped. Holding her hand before her face, she stared at it for a few seconds, as if it wasn’t part of her body.
“Oh, Jesus, this can’t be good. Whatever it is, I’d best leave it alone.”
Rising to her feet, she followed the path through a small copse of trees. When she pushed through the foliage, the church was directly in her line of sight, a couple of yards away. The trees shielded the rectory from view.
She scanned her surroundings, spying the clearing encircled by trees Cillian had shown her before sending her on the shortcut path to the cottage—the place where she thought he would kiss her. In fact, from what she could see, this whole hillside adjacent to the village was crisscrossed with worn paths, like it was trodden upon by deer, sheep...or maybe Father Ward and his mysteries.
She eyed the church. “Maybe he’s in there.”
She trekked toward the ornate front door, wrestled it open, and entered. Once more, the exquisite silence of the hallowed space mantled her. Light filtered through exquisite stained glass. Candles burned on the altar. Banners depicting Christ and his disciples hung from the walls. The ceiling loomed overhead in high-beamed arches.
She scanned the pews.
Cillian, dressed in his usual black priest attire, sat in the first row, his head bent, perhaps in prayer, perhaps in exhaustion.
Softly, she shuffled toward him, expecting him to turn and acknowledge her.
He stayed in the same statue-like position.
She closed the gap between them with heavier footsteps, waiting for him to turn around.
He sat utterly motionless, like a petrified human. Is he dead? Her heart clenched. Maybe he’s meditating? She stood next to him, waiting for him to look at her, to tell her to go away.
He stayed in the same “still as stone” repose.
“Father Ward,” she whispered. “Cillian.” Her mouth formed a crisp rosette at his comatose behavior. Is he asleep? She studied him for signs of a pulse, his chest rising and falling—anything to indicate life.
She slithered down to crouch on the cold stone floor directly in front of him. She peeked up at him. He even looked like a statue.
His face was smooth and unlined, as if recently carved from clay. His eyes were closed.
Sharp prickles of fear stabbed her insides. Is he on drugs? In some deep sleep state only priests know how to attain? She cleared her throat, hoping to snap him out of his funk. All kinds of red flags began to wave inside her head at his complete lack of response. Come on, Cillian, we’ve got things to do. There’s an investigation going on! She slipped into her professional Nurse Lassi persona and gave his knee a gentle shake.
“Cillian,” she said.
Nothing.
“Cillian,” she said, her voice louder. She gave him a stronger shake. When he still didn’t budge, she called, “Cillian! You’re starting to freak me out!”
His eyelids drifted open in a strange, robotic fashion. A flash of green glimmered from his eyes, then, disappeared. He blinked a few times but didn’t seem to see her.
“Are you with me, Cillian?”
He stared straight through her.
Every hair on her head stood at attention. She inched closer, wriggling between his legs, resting her hands on his knees. “Cillian, you’re pissing me off!”
She drew her arm back, prepared to slap him awake, when a huge smile split his face. “There you are,” he said.
Relief filled her. She lowered her hand. “Here I am. But, where were you?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
The phrase hung between them like freaky tea droplets. It seemed loaded with meaning. Or maybe I’m tired and still hallucinating. Lack of sleep and no tea can do things to a girl’s mind.
He extended his arm and snaked a finger along her cheek in a warm, soothing caress.
She closed her eyes, pushing into his hand like a cat.
“So beautiful. So bewitching. My Lassi.”
His hand slid behind her neck.
She opened her eyes and studied him, captivated by his eyes.
Looking at Cillian was like considering a vast ocean—a sea of possibilities and wonder.
She’d crushed on boys before. Even thought she might be in love a time or two. But whatever it was she felt for Cillian was beyond reason, unparalleled. He’s a priest, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. Her face pulled tight in scrutiny.
The softest, sweetest smile she’d ever seen appeared on his face. He stroked her neck with his thumb, regarding her tenderly. His other hand reached for her waist. For a second, she hung suspended in some vast, timeless place of infinite wonder.
He let out a long, slow breath, like a decision had been made.
“Okay,” he said, in a husky voice. “Okay,” he said again. He pulled her close, locking his lips to hers.
At first, she resisted, keeping her mouth shut. Don’t forget—he’s a priest. As heat built inside, she stopped caring about labels and let go into the kiss, responding with hunger and need. He’s more than a priest to me. She sucked on his tongue, and he moaned into her mouth.
He made circles with his head, grinding his lips to hers. He peppered her lips with butterfly kisses. He kissed her slow and deep. His mouth ravaged her. He made his kisses feather soft.
She found herself absorbed into him, being drawn into a passion so deep she thought she’d disappear. She pulled away from the kiss and faced him, panting.
He bore the kind of lust-filled, satisfied expression she expected from a hot, experienced lover, not a priest. His arms stretched wide along the pew and his legs did a man-spread maneuver, like he was the king of the fecking world, not a servant of the Lord’s kingdom.
She blinked at him, her mind racing. Her body, however, was stoked by the feral hunger flashing in his sea-green eyes. I should repay the favor he bestowed on me with that fantastic orgasm. She reached for his pants, tugging at the placket of his waistband. Her fingers seemed like fat sausages as she fumble
d with his zipper, the way they had when Jonny O’ Cleary had tried to get her to go down on him in secondary school. Oh, so, that’s why I’m thinking my fingers are like sausages. Jonny had a prick like a knockwurst. I could barely get my mouth around it. And, come to think of it, it kind of tasted like a sweaty sausage.
Having managed to unzip Cillian’s fly, she shook those thoughts from her head. Cillian won’t taste like a sweaty sausage. Cillian will taste like heaven.
His cock, heavy, weighted, and throbbing, fell free from his britches.
A priest going commando? She gulped. And, a priest with a cock as big as a stallion’s? Shouldn’t it be withered from lack of use?
He rocked his hips forward. His glittering eyes and expressive grin surprised her. His expression suggested wildness, like an unfettered animal, acting without reservation.
A wicked looking scar snaked upward, from the base of his penis, disappearing under his shirt.
Hernia? She pondered it for a second, and wrapped her hands around his thick erection, gripping him tight, aware Jesus hung watching her from a couple of yards away. She hoped her actions didn’t set his wooden representation on fire. This was wrong on so many levels. But, when had she let right and wrong guide her actions? She and Cillian shared some strange, undeniable destiny. Still, she paused for a second, searching his eyes for signs of hesitation.
“What if we get caught? I already have a wing picked out in Hell but you, Father? What about your soul?”
“The name’s Cillian.” He smirked, like this was merely a teenage prank and the benefits far outweighed the risks. “We’ll have to see what happens, won’t we?”
Drawn in by his lusty expression, she dropped her head and placed her mouth over the head of his cock.
His head fell back and he let out a low laugh. His legs spread even wider.
Her awareness heightened, listening for the opening of a door or the tramp of footsteps. Her core ached and burned like being dipped in the fiery basin of a volcano. And her mouth—When have I ever experienced this much pleasure from sucking a guy’s cock?