by Lila Dubois
Perhaps his belief was so strong that it had tricked her into seeing something. The power of suggestion couldn’t be underestimated.
“Perhaps…”
“Perhaps nothing. Elizabeth is real.”
“Tristan, she’s not. There was no one there.”
Their entrées came. Melissa looked at her food but wasn’t hungry. Her stomach was churning. She wanted Tristan to laugh at how strange it was that he’d once again been tricked by atmosphere and suggestive history. What she didn’t want was for him to sit there and insist that some ghost-person everyone but her claimed to have seen was real.
“Literature, art, history—there are ghosts in each. Everyone sees her. Everyone but you. You can’t imagine that maybe ghosts are real? Not a trick of light or sound, but people whose bodies are gone while their souls remain.”
“No.” The word was harsh, and Melissa had to grip the side of the table to keep her feelings in check. “Let’s stop talking about this.”
Tristan shook his head, but rather than speak he picked up his fork.
Melissa methodically cut her chicken into pieces and put them in her mouth, but now it was just routine—the lovely food was ashy on her tongue. Ten minutes passed, and though her dark thoughts distracted her from the tastes, Melissa finished her food—and her martini.
“Melissa?”
“Yes?”
Tristan smiled slightly and the tension eased from her shoulders. Melissa rarely cared what others thought of her. She knew most people considered her odd. But she liked Tristan—he was interesting and passionate, and his opinion mattered. Seeing him smile at her, even a little, felt like a step forward.
“Did you enjoy your food?”
“I did. What was it?”
“Duck à l’orange.”
“I thought it was chicken.”
“You mistook duck for chicken? Philistine.”
“At least I knew it was poultry.”
Their plates were cleared, and the server appeared with dessert menus. Tristan eyed her, then said, “No dessert. We have somewhere to go.”
Melissa’s heart pounded and she willed the server to bring the check so they could leave. She wasn’t sure what he meant, but wherever it was he wanted to go, she was willing to go with him.
“A walk? You want to go for a walk?” Melissa blinked at him.
“There are lights in the gardens, but we do not have to.” Tristan matched his steps to hers as they left Glenncailty’s gravel parking lot and skirted the side of the pub to get to the back of the castle and the gardens.
Lights lined the main paths closest to the building and lit up a few of the most mature trees. There hadn’t always been lights, but after Caera, the castle’s absent event manager, had encountered a dangerous ghost in the gardens, Seamus had started adding lighting back here.
“She doesn’t want to go for a walk. She wants to have sex.”
Tristan ignored his brother, who was walking with them. Jacques had been showing up at inconvenient times, usually appearing when Tristan was with other people and therefore unable to ask him about Elizabeth. Jacques had been protecting Tristan from the other ghosts since they arrived. Tristan didn’t believe he was in danger from them, but the fact that he could hear and see them meant that they were able to distract him, which caused a variety of annoyances and problems. Jacques’ presence usually kept them at bay. Yet Jacques had never said anything about Elizabeth being a ghost.
Melissa let out a sigh, and Tristan wondered about Jacques’ words. There was no doubt that he and Melissa were attracted to each other, but he couldn’t imagine that after what had happened today Melissa was thinking about sex. She was probably trying to decide who she should call about the mad staff of Glenncailty Castle.
“I need to talk to Seamus,” she said.
“I would like to talk to him too.” Tristan couldn’t shake the feeling that Seamus had known Elizabeth wasn’t alive. He hadn’t reacted when Melissa sat down. “Sorcha will find him and talk to him. She will get answers.”
“That’s good, but I don’t want to talk to him about the nonexistent general manager. I want to talk to him about the graves.”
“The graves?”
“Back there.” She pointed to the back of the gardens. “There’s a graveyard, next to the church.”
“Isn’t that where graveyards should be?”
“Graveyards shouldn’t have their headstones knocked over and defaced.”
Tristan cursed. “Desecrated.”
“It seems so.”
“I never went back there, to the church. It felt strange. I explored all the other buildings, looking for a place for my cheese.”
“You make cheese?”
“I wanted to make my own cheese, but I needed a place to age it. I never found a good spot.”
“That’s too bad. I love cheese.”
“Everyone loves cheese. It’s delicious. The Irish make very nice hard cheeses, but their soft cheese is a disgrace.”
“Spoken like a true Frenchman.”
“Bien sur.”
They continued to wander, taking the paths that led them deeper into the gardens, away from the castle.
“How did you find the graves?” he asked.
“I wanted to see what was back there. I could tell from the topography the land next to the church had been used for burials. I uncovered enough of one of the gravestones to see that it had been defaced. Seamus needs to make arrangements to have it cleared and at the very least have new headstones put in place if he doesn’t want to have the bodies exhumed and reburied.”
“Exhumed? Why?”
“I may not believe in ghosts, but I do believe that remains should be cared for.”
“You? You?” Tristan sputtered. “You boiled bones in my soup pot.”
“Exactly. I cleaned and identified them.”
“You put them in plastic bread tubs.”
“I put them in clean, well-labeled containers until further arrangements could be made.”
Melissa’s steps slowed. The back part of the garden was not lit, but he could see her face in the starlight. Her mouth was set in a grim line.
“I know it might not make sense to everyone, but the one thing I do believe is that human remains deserve respect. They are nothing more than biological matter, but there is value in them, placed there by the survivors and by society. Anthropologically speaking, mourning and the disposal of remains in ritual or symbolic manners is a mark of a complex society.”
“It seems strange to me that you will not acknowledge the possibility of ghosts, considering.”
“It’s not strange at all.” Melissa stopped and faced Tristan. “If ghosts are real, then I…” She shook her head. “I’ve stood in pits full of bones, picked bullets out of ribs and skulls knowing that I’m the only one who can tell that person’s story. How can I do that if I believe that those souls might be trapped, that all around me might be ghosts looking down at their own bodies and screaming, stuck in the horror that they lived through? If death doesn’t bring an end, if it only brings more horror, then…”
Again she shook her head. “I can’t even bear to think about that.”
Tristan’s heart clenched. It was not scientific dismissal or disbelief that made her deny ghosts, but empathy and respect. He looked around, but Jacques was nowhere in sight.
“Melissa.” He took her hands. “That was a beautiful thing you said. I understand. You’re right. Suffering should end with death.”
“Ignoring the scientific impossibility, I refuse to accept that ghosts are real because if they are, then all my work has been for nothing. I’ve spent most of my life thinking I’ve brought peace to survivors and respected the memory of those who died, but if they’re stuck here anyway, none of it matters.”
“Non. That is not true. The worst thing that can happen is not knowing if a loved one is alive or dead.”
There was pressure on Tristan’s shoulder. He looked back to se
e that Jacques was now there.
Melissa rubbed her arms. “It’s getting cold. I think I’m going to go inside.”
“Of course. I’ll escort you.” Tristan offered her his arm.
Most of the paths looped back on themselves, so rather than turn to backtrack, they headed forward. An elm tree blocked part of the path, the branches drooping low. Tristan ducked under one, finding himself in a cathedral of leaves and branches.
“I love old trees like this,” Melissa said, resting her hand on the lowest branch. “I always wonder what they’ve seen, what they know. It’s strange to think that in many ways it’s more fragile than humans, and yet it is permanent in a way a human can never be.”
“I think we are permanent things.”
“You do? I wish it were true, but we’re not. Even our memories of those who’ve died fade.”
“But we are powerful. We change the world by living.”
“Well, of course. Climate change and increased carbon—”
“That is not what I mean.”
“What then?”
Tristan took her hands. He saw her expression change from pensive to nervous as she realized what he was about to do. Standing there in the shelter of the mighty tree, he pulled her close, cradling her hips in his hands.
“We’ve talked too much of death.”
“I agree.”
“Bien, then let’s remember what it feels like to be alive.”
Tristan dipped his head and captured her mouth in a kiss. Her lips were soft, her hands gentle on his shoulders. She was so full of personality that it took him by surprise how slight she felt in his arms.
She broke the kiss, licked her lower lip as she pulled back. “That was nice.”
Nice?
“Nice?” Jacques laughed, peering down at them from his perch in the upper branches of the tree.
“I am not ‘nice’.” Tristan grabbed her right wrist and jerked her forward until she bumped into him, her free hand coming up to brace against his chest.
She looked up at him, her eyes big and soft. He’d intended to ravage her, but she seemed so fragile and delicate. He changed his plan, releasing her wrist to brush her hair back from her face. “You are a complicated woman.”
She frowned. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You had a great caveman thing going there. What happened?”
“What…you wanted that?”
Melissa jumped him. Tristan staggered back a step and she wrapped her left arm around his shoulder, right hand gripping his hair to hold his head still as she kissed him, her tongue swiping across his lips. He grinned, then returned the kiss, nipping her lower lip and pressing his tongue into the warmth of her mouth. He grabbed her ass and lifted. When she wrapped her legs around his waist, he turned and braced his back against the tree.
Melissa moaned and threw her head back, offering the pale skin of her throat up to his lips. He kissed and licked his way down to the fabric of her jacket.
“Your clothes,” he grunted.
She ripped her jacket off, revealing a thin white tank top. She released him, balancing in his hold as she struggled to remove the jacket. She winced slightly as she pulled her left arm free.
“Her arm.”
His brother’s horrified words stopped Tristan in his tracks. He remembered the scarring he’d seen on her forearm. Still carrying her, he stepped out of the shelter of the branches so the moonlight fell on them.
Her left arm was webbed with scars from mid-forearm up to her biceps. The scars were so deep that her arm was slightly misshapen, the flesh above her elbow concave and shiny.
“Your arm.”
“Put me down.”
Tristan did as she asked, then watched as she picked up her jacket and put it back on.
“I didn’t meant to…” Tristan didn’t know how to apologize, didn’t know if he should.
“I forgot about it. That’s actually rare, since it hurts.”
“It hurts you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“An accident at work.”
“An accident?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What more do you want to know?”
“I want to know what happened.”
“You mean you want the gory details.”
“No, I want to know about you, and that includes understanding your pain.”
“It’s not a nice story.”
“I did not think it would be.”
“You don’t have time for this. You need to go, mon frère.”
Tristan didn’t acknowledge Jacques’ words. Melissa was staring at the trees, her face like pale blue porcelain.
“Tristan, go!”
Cold wind whipped through the gardens, carrying the sound of a woman’s scream. Melissa frowned, but to Tristan the sound was piercing, like nails being driven into his body. Spinning, he looked in the direction the sound had come from.
“Tristan?” she asked.
“What is it?” he asked Jacques, scanning the shadows.
“The evil beyond the garden wall. It’s trying to get in.”
“That noise? It was probably just the wind.” Melissa touched his shoulder.
“Can it get in?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to tell, because of her.”
“Her? Why? Why can’t she see the ghosts?”
“She’s protected.”
“Protected? From what?”
“From us.”
“You’re not talking to me, are you?” Melissa said.
The scream came again, the sound closer. Little flecks of gold and white light appeared in the deepest shadows.
“We need to go,” Tristan took her right hand and started pushing her toward the castle, keeping his eyes on the darkness by the garden wall.
“Tristan who are you talking to?”
“My brother.”
“Your…brother.”
“Yes, I’m talking to my dead brother’s ghost. There’s something bad coming. My brother is warning me about it.”
“Your…dead brother…is warning you about…some ghosts.”
“Once we’re safe, I’ll explain.”
Melissa sighed. “I doubt that.”
“Tristan, now!”
“Merde.” Tristan cupped Melissa’s chin and forced her to look at him. “Run. I know you don’t believe any of this, but please, run.”
She searched his face, nodded once, took his hand and started running.
Chapter Seven
They bolted through the gardens, then pounded up the steps at the back of the castle. Melissa grabbed a door handle, but it was locked.
“The kitchen,” Tristan said.
She followed him as they leapt off the patio and circled around to the kitchen. Tristan’s hands were shaking as he took his keys from his pocket. The wind was icy cold, cutting through her clothes and making her grit her teeth. She huddled closer to Tristan, looking up at the sky to see if it was about to rain. The wind was making a sound that was reminiscent of a scream as it tore through the trees.
She had no trouble understanding why the mood had changed. The night seemed less hospitable than it had ten minutes ago, but it was a change in the weather, nothing more.
As they stumbled into the dark kitchen, Melissa tried not to think about what he’d said. She liked Tristan, and that kiss had done things to her that she hadn’t anticipated. But if she let herself dwell on the fact that Tristan had a seriously overactive imagination and a slightly skewed view of reality, it might kill off these delicious feelings she had for him. The mass delusion was one thing, since it was clear that Tristan was a victim of whatever had caused the others to react so strangely, but the dead brother…
That was worrying.
Tristan flipped on the lights. He paused, hand in midair and focused on something in the dark corner. He nodded. Melissa turned a
way, not wanting to watch him have conversations with imaginary people.
“I will make us something.” Tristan finished flipping on lights and then took a pot from under one of the long metal counters and set it on a burner.
“Maybe I should just go to my room.”
He shook his head. “We should talk.”
“There really isn’t anything to talk about.”
“There is.”
He was still rattled—he kept folding and unfolding his arms, and his “s” sounds had turned into “z’s” as his accent thickened.
“Okay.” Melissa sat on the counter near where he was working. “What are you going to make?”
“Something with chocolate.”
“Then I’ll definitely stay.”
She was content to watch him as he added water to the pot then set a metal mixing bowl on top to create a double boiler. He chopped up a bar of high-grade chocolate with a huge knife, then scraped the flakes into the warm bowl.
“Stir this.” He handed her a spatula, and Melissa slid off the counter to stand at the bowl and obediently stir. He took a few forgotten croissants and started cutting them.
“Tell me about your arm.” He was cracking eggs into a dish and adding cream.
“Are you making French toast?”
“You mean pain perdu? I am not using yesterday’s bread, but I am going to dredge and fry the croissants, then add chocolate and fruit. So it is the same technique, but will be much richer with the buttery croissant.”
“That sounds amazing.”
“It will be, but I am not distracted. Tell me about your arm.”
Melissa wrapped her left arm across her waist, her muscles protesting the movement. Now that she was thinking about it the pain was right there, a reminder of something she’d rather forget.
“I was in Ivory Coast, the country, not just the area.”
“The Republic of Côte d’Ivoire?”
“Yes. I was part of a UN team sent in to exhume bodies that were put into mass graves in 2011 during the post-election violence. The country had tried to do some of it on their own, but finally a UN team was called in.”