The Shadow and the Night: Glenncailty Castle, Book 3

by Lila Dubois

  “That is who you work for, the UN?”

  “Most of the time. If not them then there are initiatives and projects that focus on various areas and causes. But this time I was working for the UN. It’s an important project, and I went even though I was warned that the country could be dangerous. We were escorted by UN peacekeepers—soldiers.”

  “But something happened.”

  “We were in Abidjan, the biggest city in the country, and the site of most of the violence. We’d set up in a warehouse down the street from one of the sites. We were still in the first phase, gathering bones, and I went back to the site to take some photos. All the bones were out, but I didn’t have photos of the site post-removal, which I needed. It was a quick errand. I was supposed to be there and back in ten minutes, so I didn’t wait for the escort to get his gear on, I just left.”

  Melissa stared at the melted chocolate, and though it smelled delicious, her stomach rolled with nausea.

  “I’m not sure, even now, what happened next. There was shouting, and gunfire. I ducked into a doorway, and there were people running. I tried to hide, and my arm started to hurt. Then there were men in the street. They seemed like boys, but they had huge guns and bandanas covering their faces. They saw me, dragged me out from where I was hiding.”

  Melissa’s hands were shaking. She carefully took the spatula out of the chocolate and laid it on the counter.

  Tristan turned off the burners under her pot and his frying pan.

  “You do not have to say anything more.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You’re crying.”

  “I am?” She touched her cheek, felt the wetness there. “I guess I’m still scared. It’s been nearly a year and I’m still scared.”

  “I’m sorry. I should not have asked.” He tried to hug her but she resisted.

  “Let me finish. It’s probably not as bad as you think.” She half turned so she didn’t have to face him. Instead, she focused on the pots hanging over the range. “They beat me—hit me with the guns and kicked me. My French is passable, but either I was in too much pain to understand or they were speaking another language, because I didn’t know what they were shouting. Whatever their cause or problem, I was a symbol for it. Eventually they picked me up, carrying me away.”

  “No one helped you?”

  “No.” That was one of the most haunting memories—looking at the quiet, blank faces of the people who lined the streets, watching the grim little parade. “Maybe some of them called for help once we’d gone. I don’t know.”

  “And your escort?”

  “One of the guards had come after me when they realized I left. He was shot and killed only a block from where I’d tried to hide. The others had to shelter and wait for assistance.”

  “They did not look for you?”

  “No. There are rules, protocols.”

  He muttered something and crossed his arms. “How did you get away?”

  “I didn’t.” Melissa closed her eyes, and like poking a bruise to see if it still hurt, she let herself go back. “They carried me to the edge of the district. There were whole blocks that were still in ruin from earlier fighting, and that’s where they dumped me. They threw me down into a concrete pit. Later someone told me that it had been the bottom of an elevator shaft for the office building that had once been there.

  “I was there for two and a half days. I had trouble standing and couldn’t see well. The pit was only about ten feet deep, but I couldn’t get out. My left arm was…I’m not sure if it happened in the street or when I landed, but it was broken, and the bones were sticking through the skin.”

  “Mon dieu. Melissa…”

  “The doctors think I was shot before the beating. I remember my arm hurting when I was trying to hide. If the bullet had fractured the bone, it wouldn’t have taken much to cause the catastrophic break. The concrete was pitted and crumbling. If I’d had two hands, I would have been out in a matter of minutes, but my arm was useless.”

  “It must have been awful, to suffer for so long, in such pain.”

  “The worst part was the myiasis.”

  “What is that?”

  Melissa looked at the delicious food he was preparing. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do.”

  “Maggots.”

  Tristan’s face went pale. “Non. C’est impossible.”

  “For maggots to infest tissue on a live person? It’s not. Actually, it can be used as a treatment. In my case, the wounds on my arm drew flies, and though I tried to keep them off, they laid eggs. A day later the maggots had formed. It was…very hard to keep calm.”

  “Calm? There is no way to be calm with maggots on your arm.”

  “I tried my best. I knew that if I picked them off and they ruptured it could make the situation worse, so I simply did my best to cover my arm and wait.” She touched her left arm with her right hand, and for a moment she was back there, sitting on the pitted concrete, huddled in the one bit of shade she had. The remains of her shirt, which she’d wrapped around the torn flesh and exposed bone, moved under her fingers as the maggots wiggled about. She’d vomited until there was nothing left in her stomach, wept until there were no tears and screamed until she had no voice. It was just her, the punishing sun and the maggots.

  “Without them I might have died of an infection,” she added. “As it was, after a few weeks in the hospital I’d started to recover. I’d had my vaccinations and didn’t have any fluid to fluid contact with anyone, which was the most immediate concern.”

  “That was your first concern?”

  “It was, in a region where HIV and HAV are common. But I was, and am, negative for both. My arm is taking a bit longer to heal. My elbow joint was damaged beyond repair. I have a prosthesis at the joint, and a rod here.” She touched her upper arm. “And three plates here.” She touched her forearm. “They used open mesh where possible, hoping that the bone will regrow over time. The muscle is slightly more problematic, since I lost quite a bit of it.”

  “That is why your arm…”

  “That’s why it looks like a chunk of it is missing. A chunk of it is missing.”

  “Let me see.”

  Melissa hugged herself, then slowly unfolded her arms. He knew the worst of it, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to see her deformity in the bright lights of the kitchen. The rational part of her mind knew that she was lucky, that a large scar and weakness were spectacularly good results.

  When she didn’t take the next step, Tristan reached for her jacket. She’d only gotten it partially refastened before their mad dash. He paused, fingers on the fabric, waiting for her to stop him. She didn’t.

  He worked the buttons, parting the material and then sliding the jacket off her shoulders. She wore a simple camisole under it, and though it had as much fabric as many women’s tank tops, she felt naked. She rarely went without sleeves anymore.

  He cupped her left arm. “Am I hurting you?”

  “No.”

  Like a knight in a fairytale, Tristan dropped to one knee and bent his head, kissing her left hand. Her breath caught and tears pricked her eyes.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “You suffered, and that deserves to be acknowledged.”

  He rose, then gently ran his hand from her shoulder to her wrist. The scarred tissue had little to no feeling, but she was aware of the pressure of his hand as it passed over her elbow.

  “You paid a very high price for your job.”

  “It’s not just my job. I mean, it is my job, but it’s my way of helping people. I know it sounds corny, but that’s how I feel.”

  “It is not ‘corny’. To fight and sacrifice for others is a noble thing.”

  “I don’t exactly fight, but like I said, I do believe families deserve to know that their loved one is dead, and each life deserves the recognition of a proper burial.”

  “You are a beautiful soul, Melissa Heavey.”

  “Tha
nk you, Tristan.”

  Their gazes met, held. Melissa’s heart fluttered, and her hand, still in his, tingled. Desire she understood—it was a biological imperative and there was no doubt that Tristan was attractive. His features were almost entirely symmetrical, which from an evolutionary standpoint indicated a nearly perfect development process. His expression changed from sad and concerned to something she wasn’t sure she could name.

  “Did you know there have been multiple studies that link symmetrical features with measurable attractiveness and therefore desirability as a mating partner?”

  The words were out of Melissa’s mouth before she could stop them. She didn’t do well with intense emotions, and Tristan was like an intenseness-generator. Without planning to, she’d resorted to her default say-whatever-was-in-her-head defense tactic.

  He raised one brow. “And do I have symmetrical features?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Meaning you find me attractive.”

  “I said that symmetrical features are linked to attractiveness. It’s because nonsymmetrical features are indicative of growth and development problems in the zygote and embryo.”

  “The zygote? But of course. I was a very symmetrical zygote.”

  “I seem to have lost control of this conversation.”

  “And were you trying to control it? Were you trying to distract me so I wouldn’t kiss you?”

  “That’s what you were going to do?”

  He laughed, then turned the burners on. “You cannot hide from me anymore, Dr. Heavey.”

  “I wasn’t trying to, Chef Fontaine.”

  “Lies, lies, lies. Now, what do you prefer, blackberry or boysenberry?”

  “Blackberry.”

  “Go to the refrigerator and get me some. It’s that door over there.”

  “Aye, aye, Chef.”

  They ate in the restaurant. He took her to the best table in the house, a two-top near the window. Rather than light up the place and have someone come to investigate, he took candles off the tables around them and lit them. Between that and the lights spilling in the windows from the garden, they were more than able to see.

  They each had a plate of delicious pain perdu-style croissant topped with blackberries and chocolate. He would never put it on the menu, but it was delicious.

  “She’s pretty.” Jacques was sitting on top of the table next to theirs. Tristan nodded once to acknowledge his brother’s comment.

  “She thinks you’re crazy.”

  Tristan sighed. He was aware of that. Melissa’s face when they entered the kitchen had been a study in pity. She’d run with him when he asked, but it was clear that it was not because she’d felt or seen what he had in the garden. She’d done it because he asked her to, or maybe because she thought she should indulge his madness.

  “You need to tell her about me. About what happened to us.”

  Tristan didn’t respond. He couldn’t without tipping off Melissa that he was once again talking to his brother’s ghost.

  “This was delicious.” She was scraping the chocolate off the plate with her spoon. “I’m not being facetious when I say this may be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Then you need to let me feed you more often. This was good, but hardly worth such praise.”

  “I don’t think you could top this.”

  “I assure you I can.”

  “Don’t get my hopes up.” Melissa placed her spoon on the plate and leaned back. She ran her hands through her hair, then twisted it into a bun at the back of her head, holding it in place with her hand. With her hair pulled back, her face was classically lovely, with perfect pink lips and round cheeks. It was only her eyes that seemed not to fit the image of a creamy English rose—they were intelligent and piercing.

  Tristan took his last bite, then he too sat back.

  “Are you going to tell me about it?” Melissa asked.

  “About what?”

  “About your brother.”

  Tristan looked at Jacques, who grinned and said, “I told you so.”

  “I do not think it’s a good idea.” Tristan picked up one of the little glass candleholders, rolling it between his palms. The light flickered and the glass was warm against his skin.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you won’t believe me.”

  “That’s…true, but I’d like to hear what you have to say.” Her tone was measured, but there was a hint of concern, of pity, in her voice that he didn’t like.

  “My brother’s death was a terrible thing, and what came after it worse. Let’s not say anything more about it.”

  “If that’s what you want.” She cocked her head to the side. “Will you tell me what happened in the garden?”

  “There’s something out there.”

  “What exactly do you think it was?”

  “I don’t know, but it was evil. It was dark.”

  “Yes, it was dark outside.”

  “That is not what I mean. I know you don’t believe, that you can’t see what we see, but that does not mean it doesn’t exist.”

  “Tristan, I’m not trying to be difficult or dismissive of your experiences. I believe that whatever’s happening is real to you. Clearly there’s something about this place that is causing these mass delusions and visions.”

  “Delusions and visions.” Tristan snorted, then took her plate and stacked it on top of his.

  “You need to tell her.” Jacques stood on the other side of the counter.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “You do. And do not be angry with her. She cannot see. She’s protected.”

  “You said that before. What does it mean? Who is protecting her?”

  Jacques shrugged.

  “Tristan? Are you talking to your brother’s…ghost?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s here?”

  “He’s sitting on that table.”

  “And what does he look like? Opaque or transparent? Does he have identifying features or is more amorphic?”

  “He looks like my brother, but pale, and sometimes he is not solid. Right now he looks the same as you—real, warm.”

  “And is he warm?”

  “I cannot touch him.”

  “So it’s different with him than it was with Elizabeth this morning.”

  “Yes. She’s very different. Jacques, did you know she was dead?”

  “She’s not dead. Well, she’s not just dead.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Jacques just shook his head.

  “What did he say?” Melissa asked, peering at the other table.

  Jacques waved at her, then blew her a kiss.

  “He said that Elizabeth isn’t just dead.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They were silent, then Melissa said, “Will you tell me about him? When he was alive.”

  Tristan relaxed. “He was younger than me, but only a few years. He was, how do you say, intense. The things he did he wanted to do so well that he would not stop until he was the best at them. And yet he loved to escape. He would take off for Africa, Germany, Canada, whenever he wanted to get away.”

  “He sounds a lot like you, the intensity.”

  “I guess we were alike, but all I ever wanted to do was cook. I planned to own my own restaurant, to create my own foods that would be sold in the best shops. I was so focused that I didn’t see how Jacques was suffering.”

  “Suffering?”

  “He was sick, here.” Tristan touched his temple. “The doctors all thought different things—depressed, bipolar. In the end it didn’t matter. Jacques had everything he wanted. At least I thought so. He’d always enjoyed cycling, and in the year before his death he trained for hours every day, doing so well that he was asked to join a professional team.”

  “That’s quite an accomplishment.”

  “I thought so. When he called and said he was tired, that he hated his life, I laughed a
t him. He had something many people can only dream about. He’d always been dramatic. When something didn’t go his way, he acted as though the world were against him. It was the way he was. I didn’t think about it.”

  Tristan looked at Jacques, who was staring out the window.

  “I didn’t hear from him for two days. He didn’t answer the phone. Finally I went to his apartment. I was pissed. I figured he’d lost his phone or had been out partying all weekend. But I remember as I walked to his building that I started to feel sick. I didn’t know why, at the time.

  “He’d hanged himself. I knew when I opened the door that something was wrong. The smell…I cannot describe it.”

  “I know what you mean, and it is terrible.”

  “I didn’t recognize him. His face was purple, his tongue hanging out.” Tristan shook his head and looked away. He hated that memory.

  “That must have been awful.”

  “I should have listened. I should have known something was really wrong.”

  “If your brother was suffering from mental illness, there might have been nothing you could have done. He probably needed professional help.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “What he said… Because you can still talk to him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask him why he chose suicide?”

  “I did. He will not answer. All he says is that it wasn’t my fault.”

  “It wasn’t. And there’s nothing you could have done.”

  “You should have made me listen, little brother. I would have helped you.”

  Jacques shook his head. “Sometimes life is too big.”

  “When did you start seeing his ghost?” Melissa asked.

  “A month after he died. I walked into the kitchen and he was there, sitting at my table. It was so normal that I prepared food for both of us, put the plates on the table and started to plan my day without saying anything. It was as if I’d forgotten he was dead. When I looked up from my paper, there was no one there—just a plate of food sitting in front of an empty chair.”

  “That must have been terrible.”

  “I thought I was going mad, but then it happened again. This time I realized what I was seeing wasn’t real. But it kept happening. I went to a doctor, and they gave me medication for anxiety. I still saw him. He spoke to me. He told me he was sorry, then asked me about the rugby scores.”