by Calinda B
“I’m not so sure I should be drinking alcohol,” Lassi said.
“Nonsense. Every Irish mother worth her salt knows the healing power of a hot toddy.” Then, Mary opened the fridge and retrieved a lemon. After slicing two pieces, she asked, “Do you have any cloves?”
“Pantry,” Lassi said, pointing. “Top shelf on the right.” She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the fragrant scent of honey, clove-studded lemon, and whiskey wafted from the mug in front of her.
Mary settled into her seat. She lifted her mug for a toast. “Here’s to solving mysteries before they get out of hand.”
“I’ll toast to that.” Lassi clinked her mug to Mary’s and took a tentative sip. “Mmm. This is heaven.”
“A little bit now and then will do you well,” Mary said, lifting the mug to her lips.
The doorbell chimed.
Lassi started to rise, but Mary put out her hand.
“Stay,” she said. “I’ll get it. You let this elixir do its magic.” She hurried away from the kitchen.
Lassi took another sip, letting the delicious drink sooth her, draining the day’s fatigue from her body.
The front door opened. Mary and Ryan greeted one another in the foyer and then tromped down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Lassi lifted her head.
Ryan stood in the doorway, his arm around his mother’s shoulders, holding her close. His obvious affection for his mother warmed Lassi’s heart.
At least there are still good things in the world.
“Hello, Garda Conway.” She smiled, feeling the warming effects of the whiskey.
“Miss Finn. Have we gone all formal on one another?” He grinned and released his hold on Mary.
Lassi’s smile grew. “No, but look at you dressed in your uniform. Makes me think I should give a proper greeting.”
She studied his tall frame. When she met him two years ago, he’d been one of the investigators in the vicious murders. He was several years younger than her. Lassi hadn’t trusted him until, at the very end, he’d proved to be an ally. His mother Mary turned out to be a distant relative and knew about Cillian’s secret identity, as well as enough of the Finn magic to guide Lassi. And Cillian had insisted on wooing Ryan away from Dungarvan to work here in Ballynagaul. He’d brought his calm focus and his steadfast loyalty, coupled with his own adherence to the law, to the village.
At first sight, she likened his appearance to a pimple-cheeked ferret. Now his face had filled out, and his body bulged with muscle. While he’d never be a truly handsome man, he gave off a pleasant, confident appearance which some village gal was sure to swoon over.
“You look good, by the way,” Lassi said.
“Thank you,” he said. “You do, as well.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” Mary added as she entered the kitchen. She beamed at her son. “Sit, Ryan. We’re hoping you can help. Our friend Lassi here is with child.”
Ryan’s eyebrows rose. “Are you, Lassi? That’s wonderful.” He patted her shoulder, then settled onto one of the kitchen chairs. “Although I doubt I’ll be much assistance with that.”
Lassi scoffed. “Duly noted. And no, that’s not why you’re here. Your mum thinks you might be able to help with something. I seem to have lost my ability to channel magic.”
His eyebrows rose higher. “Why on earth did you think I could help with that, Mother? I’m a law-man. Magic is your and Lassi’s world.”
“Well,” Mary said, “we thought you might have an idea where to look for more clues. Lassi brought over all the material she had in storage, left by the Finn women. We’ve poured through it but have come up empty-handed.”
“I see.” Ryan frowned, rubbing his chin. “Have you looked through Father Quinn’s notes on the Leviathan transformation? Maybe he talks about females and pregnancy.”
“No!” Lassi exclaimed. “Great idea. Wait here.” She heaved her fatigued body up from the chair and shuffled to the front room. Once there, she stooped to comb through the boxes she and Mary had leafed through. She found Father Quinn’s notes—the one she’d used to transform. A shiver rolled through her as she recalled the process. The ecstatic bliss from the morphine. The blue flames covering her skin. The long slit she cut from the hollow of the neck to her mons pubis. And then, the searing pain of transformation. It had seemed so purposeful. And hadn’t she and Cillian done a bang-up job keeping the village safe?
She glanced through Father Quinn’s neat writing, finding nothing of use. Lifting her head, her gaze landed on the rectory windows.
Glowing with light, they served as a sorrowful reminder that Cillian would not be by her side tonight. Maybe not ever. Once again, doubt sloshed through her mind. If she and Cillian broke up, this town was too small to avoid running into one another. And where could a useless, drained of magic Leviathan go? She’d have to find out if things continued to go south with her and her lover. That thought made her softly cry, as Ryan and his mother chatted and laughed from the kitchen.
Cillian, she thought, wiping the tears away. I really thought you were the one.
Chapter 9
Day 4 – Friday morning - Siobhan
Certain she would be a sleepless zombie for the rest of her life, at 5 a.m. Siobhan shuffled into Paul’s bedroom to check on him for the thousandth time. The poor child had been awake half the night. Nothing worked to soothe him and definitely not singing. Her voice seemed to stir him to hysteria.
Why does he shriek when I sing to him?
Placing her palm on his sweaty brow, she frowned. His damp curls stuck to his skin. He still has a fever. He’s not getting better. With a sigh, she slumped on the child-sized orange stool next to his bed. At least he’s finally sleeping deeply. He looked so sweet, tucked under superhero sheets, with his big, brown teddy bear next to him. And yet, when she gazed upon him, her love and adoration were always mixed with grief. She pictured the tender love-making she and Dylan had shared to create him. Tears filled her eyes…again. Again and again and again. Always tears. It’s like I’m trying to wash away with my tears, trickling into never-ending sorrow. Why can’t I just let go?
A headache formed behind her ears. It clawed its way around her skull and reached for her temples. I’ve got to get something for this pain. She rose, stretched, and glanced out the window. Something—someone—caught her eye. She startled, her heart lurching into a galloping panic. Someone’s standing at the edge of the field. Who the hell would be out there at this hour? Is it dead Ailis? She blinked. Or, could Petra be skulking about my property?
Managing to conjure enough sense to race through the house and grab her raincoat and Wellies before bolting outside, she headed for the mudroom. She hustled out the door toward the field where she’d spied the person. Mud spattered her nightgown as she lumbered through the field, passing beneath the tree where Dylan’s body had been torn apart. Nothing. She jogged toward the front yard, her eyes searching everywhere. Still nothing. Her legs propelled her to the side yard, then out into the street. She gazed up and down. The figure was nowhere to be found. She stumbled once more into the backfield, and stood beneath that blasted tree, in the very spot where she’d found Dylan.
Dawn’s light forced its way through the gloom of what promised to be another rainy day. An eerie mist surrounded her, touching her face with its ghostly cool fingers. Birds began to sing their morning song. As she listened, she shivered. Another song, more haunting than the birds’ warbles, floated through the air. It beckoned to her from somewhere dark and cavernous. Is that someone singing? The voice stirred memories from deep inside. She strained to remember where she’d heard it. Her fuzzy, fatigued brain proved no help whatsoever. It’s a wonder I remember my own name.
The sound of a vehicle approached. Tires crunched against the driveway.
Siobhan stiffened like a startled deer. Her heart beat a rapid cadence against her rib cage. Who could be here at this hour?
Headlights flashed on her
like a spotlight, then shut off. The engine rumbled to a stop.
She hugged her raincoat around herself, ready to sprint. Squinting, she made out a familiar sight—a forest green Land Rover with a simple bumper sticker next to the front license plate reading THE DOC. She instantly relaxed.
Stephen stepped from the Land Rover, wearing a khaki anorak and jeans. He must have caught sight of her shivering in the backfield. He craned his neck.
“Siobhan?” he called. “Is that you?”
“It’s me,” she said weakly. An overwhelming sense of gratitude surged through her heart. Her arms fell by her side.
He hurried toward the backfield, halting when he stood within touching distance. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”
“I’m fine,” she said, clutching her belly.
“Liar. You look like you haven’t got a lick of sleep,” he said, scanning her face with clinical professionalism. “Why are you out here at this hour?”
“Why are you?” she countered.
“I woke up worried about you. I had to come to check on you and Paul.”
For a second, her frozen heart began to thaw.
“Thank you,” she said, swaying toward him.
Placing his large hands on her shoulders, he said, “Tell me what’s going on before I head in to see to Paul.”
A huge fissure cracked through her chest in response to his care.
“You want to check on Paul?” she asked as if she hadn’t heard him the first time.
“Both of you.” His green eyes cut through her hazy fatigue. “How are you?” His hands remained on her shoulders, lending her strength.
“I’m tired, but what’s new?” Her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.
A whistling wind kicked through the tree. It rattled the leaves, taunting Siobhan with reminders of Dylan’s death.
“Why are you up so early?”
Stephen’s voice calmed her somewhat. She longed to wrap her arms around him and be comforted. “I thought I heard something out here. I was wrong. Honestly, I’m so fatigued it’s a wonder I can form a full sentence. Paul couldn’t get to sleep until 3 a.m. last night. But, otherwise, I’m fine. I rarely get a good night sleep.”
“I don’t think you’re fine, Siobhan,” he said, gently. He drew her close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, then hesitated, easing her back. “What I really want to know is how you are emotionally?”
Her inner walls fell into place. Stephen’s damn green gaze tried to penetrate the barrier. She attempted to push away from him, but his hands held her firmly.
“I’m going to be blunt, Siobhan. I’m worried about you.”
An avalanche of bricks landed on her belly. She turned her head away from him. “Is this my doctor speaking?”
He didn’t dignify her with a response. “You’re not getting better. Well, that’s not the right word,” he said. “You don't get better from grief, but you do learn to cope. You learn to live with it and live through it. You’re not doing that.”
His words struck her like a slap to the cheek. She pried his fingers from her shoulders and shoved him away. “Fuck that, Stephen, and fuck you. You’ve got an agenda with me. You only want me to get better, so I’ll screw you.”
Stephen stumbled back and put his hands out. “Is that what you think? You think I only care about you so I can screw you?”
His icy expression should have stopped her verbal onslaught. But the words kept on coming. “Maybe. What do I know? I’m not exactly in an available status, am I?” She stared at the ground, hot shame replacing the chill. Words kept tumbling from her mouth like she’d let loose a landslide of trapped emotion. “I’m the one grieving, not you. I know all about grief, thank you very much. I haven’t exactly been sitting at home, wailing and wringing my hands. I’ve raised my son, managed the house, and turned the Rat around. I’m doing fine. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.” She eyed her house, ready to make a run for it. Then, she glanced at him, both hoping she’d wounded him enough, so he’d leave, and fearing she’d done real damage.
“That’s merely the mechanics of life,” he said, flatly. His jaw solidified into a granite block.
“So what?” she said, unable to think of a better response. “It’s something.” Her lips smashed flat.
They stood like two statues, unspeaking, staring at one another while riveted to the ground by awkward silence.
Finally, he glanced away from her and let out a long sigh. His body deflated, dragging her anger with it.
Siobhan tensed and wrung her hands together. Is this where he turns to leave?
When his eyes focused on her again, an expression of soft resolve radiated from his face.
She wanted to grab a ballpoint pen from her purse and stab the kindness from his eyes.
He continued to regard her, his gaze soft and open.
His compassion surged inside of her, liquid and intense, threatening to dissolve whatever kept her going, day after day. Her heart pounded against the bones of her ribcage, pleading for release.
His fingers plowed furrows through his hair before speaking. “You’re right. I’ve never gone through what you went through. But, you’re still alive, Siobhan. Two years later and you still breathe, and you’ve kept it together enough to turn around a business and raise a child.” He nodded, encouragingly. “But what I’m talking about is the mechanics of the heart. You don’t allow yourself to live.” He touched her face in a caress.
How he could still manage to be kind to her was unfathomable. Her body began to tremble, but she didn’t pull away. More goddamned tears filled her eyes.
The wind wailed around the shed where Dylan had been working on the day he’d been murdered.
“Sweet Siobhan. You have to start growing again. You can't just cope. You have to open up to let people in to help.”
She wanted to claw his soothing green eyes from his head and tear his caring words from his throat. Instead, she stepped back, away from his gentle touch. “Thanks, but the only place that’s opened up for help is my house where my very sick son is waiting upstairs.”
Stephen put his hands out, palms up. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I overstepped my bounds.”
“Do you think?” she shot back.
Her gaze darted toward her carport. A sense of urgency took over, propelling her toward the house. She scurried away from him. Her insides quivered, however, with the feeling that maybe… just maybe, his words were worth listening to. She wanted to let go. She hadn’t a clue as to how that might be possible. And, she knew from experience, things sometimes had to get worse, before they got better.
How much worse could things get?
Chapter 10
Day 4, Friday, noon - Lassi
At midday, the jarring ringtone of yet another call battered against Lassi’s eardrums. Sitting in her car at the Dungarvan clinic parking lot, her stomach whining with need, she squeezed the phone and thought about not answering. Her sense of duty forced her to press the connect icon.
“Nurse Lassi here,” she croaked into the device.
“Oh, Nurse Lassi,” a woman’s voice gushed. “It’s Anne Kennedy from Ringville. Do you think you could stop by and check on Bartley? The lad’s come down with something fierce.”
A bottomless sigh left Lassi’s throat as the thought of lunch evaporated.
“I’m on my way.” She powered up the Skoda and backed up, then cranked the wheel to head out to Ringville, which stood just west of Ballynagaul. This is the eighth house call this morning. So many sick children. And no known cause. They simply wake up, feverish and screaming.
After twenty minutes of driving through another deluge, she passed the cemetery at the edge of Ballynagaul. Spying two figures near Ailis’ grave, one of them holding an umbrella for the other, she slowed to a crawl. Is that Ryan? Who’s he with? She stepped on the brakes and squinted. It’s Moira Brown, the Garda inspector from Dungarvan. She’d first met both Inspector Brown and Ryan on the day of Dylan
’s death.
With her sturdy, rectangular build, she looked like Spongebob Squarepants’ unsmiling cousin. And, Inspector Brown seemed to have lost her sense of humor the instant she graduated from the academy and assumed her role as Garda.
If she’s here, there’s got to be mayhem afoot. Lassi navigated the car through the cemetery gate and parked near the mausoleum.
Stone gargoyles perched on the corners of the small building, water dripping from their pointy chins, disfigured ears, and gnarled hands. They each bore sinister smiles, like this kind of weather suited them just fine.
Lassi retrieved her umbrella from the back seat. After peering out the windshield at the relentless rain, she opened the door and flipped open the umbrella. Then, she stepped free from the Skoda. Rain splashed against her legs as she hurried toward the two Garda. The droplets made a hollow papery sound over her head as they struck the umbrella. As she approached, her heart began to race.
Ailis’ headstone had been tipped over and cracked in half. Only a sledgehammer or the force of a supernatural being could have broken the thick stone. The word “WHORE” had been spelled out with sticks over the bed of the grave.
“What the feck happened?” she blurted, coming within earshot.
Both Inspector Brown and Ryan turned their heads toward her, giving her a somber-eyed gaze.
Ryan’s eyes conveyed, what the paranormal fuck do you think happened here?
Inspector Brown’s expression said I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.
They joined Lassi in turning their attention to the grave.
As Lassi gazed at the tortured grave site, her heart gave way to despair. Ballyna-nowhere…it swallows people’s souls.
“We got a call this morning at around 5 a.m.,” Ryan said, giving her a meaningful look. He kept the umbrella poised over Inspector Brown’s head, while huge drops spattered and danced along his hat.