by Lila Dubois
The air of the catacombs was thick with ghosts, most too old or degraded to be more than featureless shapes. Walking those bone-studded tunnels had been like walking through a cold, wet fog. His memories of it were tempered by the fact that he’d been half-mad with grief and guilt over Jacques’ suicide when he went down there. The vivid replay of the murders in the Glenncailty nursery was perhaps the other most disturbing thing he’d seen.
Until now.
Melissa stood in the middle of the graveyard, but she was not alone. All around her were dozens of figures. In the daylight the area had been blessedly free of spirits, but either Seamus had disturbed the ghosts or they were only visible at night. Some were gray-tinged, as if they’d stepped out of a faded black and white photograph. Others were as real and solid as Elizabeth had been. He tried not to look too closely at them, but he couldn’t help but stare at a little boy who couldn’t be more than ten, who was the most vivid and alive-looking of the assemblage. He was naked except for a pair of ragged drawers. The skin of his back was black and blue, marked by long red welts and cuts. He was missing three fingers from his left hand.
“Jacques, what am I seeing?” Tristan asked his brother, hoping he would reply, though Tristan hadn’t seen him since the castle.
There was no reply.
Tristan swallowed back the fear that was creeping up his chest and neck. The urge to run was nearly overwhelming, but he wouldn’t leave Melissa. The thing that kept him from getting them both out of there was the memory of the wings burned into the stones of the church. Melissa was protected. He believed that, had faith in those wings that only he could see—a surety of faith that he thought he’d never feel again.
She took a few steps, torch beam sweeping the earth. The ghosts turned to watch her, their focus terrifying.
Rarely did ghosts react or acknowledge the living, but these were silent and attentive. When he’d arrived, they’d been milling around, some merely swaying side to side. Once Melissa stepped into the graveyard, they’d snapped their attention to her.
“Melissa, come away from there,” he said, struggling to keep his tone even. He didn’t want to scare her.
“Why?”
“Please.”
“Are there ghosts?”
“Yes. Come out of there.”
She waved his words away. “It looks like he only disturbed the one grave. It will be interesting to see what’s down there. It could have been a random selection, but that doesn’t seem likely.”
“Melissa, the graveyard is full of ghosts.”
“I heard you.” She continued to pace, examining the ground.
Tristan pushed to his feet. “You know ghosts are real.”
“Yes. I didn’t forget.”
“You saw Jacques—not just the way I see him, but the way he died.”
She grimaced. “I did.”
“When I tell you that you are surrounded by ghosts…doesn’t that scare you?” He could understand how she’d been impervious when she didn’t believe, but he’d seen people run screaming from the mere suggestion that there was a ghost lurking out of sight. It was a primal urge, as real as fearing the dark. Yet Melissa didn’t react.
She turned her torch on him. “Should I be afraid?”
“How can you not be?”
“I guess it never occurred to me to be scared. They’re there, but they won’t hurt me.”
Tristan shook his head. “You are far braver than I am. Even if I could not see them, if you told me I was surrounded by ghosts, I would run.”
“If there are ghosts here, the last thing they need is for me to run. I’m going to end this.” She swept her arm out, the beam of her torch like a sword in the dark.
Tristan looked over his shoulder at Glenncailty Castle. The roof was just visible above the trees. When he turned back, the ghosts were gone.
Melissa finished her catalogue of the damage, then carefully picked her way over to where Tristan was standing. His face was pale.
She patted his arm. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
His gaze snapped to hers and the shocked expression left his face, to be replaced by exasperation.
“I did.”
“I definitely believe you.”
“Thank you?” He shook his head. “They’re gone now.”
“Interesting. What made them leave?”
“You did.”
“How?”
“I have no idea. You make no sense.”
“We’re standing next to a desecrated graveyard in rural Ireland, and I just stopped the owner of the property from digging up said graveyard in the middle of the night. I don’t make sense?”
“When you say it like this…”
Her lips twitched and she took his hand. “You sound very French right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Thiz.” She stressed the “z” sound he’d used in place of the “s”.
“This.”
“You’re still saying ‘thiz’.”
He rolled his eyes, then lifted their linked hands and kissed her knuckles. “Come. It’s cold out here.”
“You go. I’m staying.”
“Staying here?”
“I don’t trust Seamus. He gave in too easily. He’s probably going to come back and try again.”
“You cannot stay here.”
“Why not?”
“It isn’t safe.”
“Do you really think that Seamus will kill me? There’s a big leap from grave-robbing to murder. He doesn’t strike me as stupid, and it would be stupid to kill me, because people would definitely ask questions.”
“I don’t think Seamus will kill you. And I don’t think he’ll come back.”
“Then why are you worried?”
“Melissa.” Tristan cupped her hips, pulling her against him. “The ghosts were watching you.”
A shiver danced down her spine. “Okay, that is a bit creepy.”
“Seamus must have been able to see them reacting to you.”
“So what does it mean that they were watching me?”
“I’m not sure, but once you walked in there, they all looked at you. That’s when he stopped and gave up.”
“I thought my inspiring speech had convinced him to do the right thing.”
“I was inspired.”
“Thank you.” Melissa rose up on tiptoe and placed a soft kiss on Tristan’s cheek. “But I have to stay.” She squeezed Tristan’s hand as she pulled back. “I’ll be fine. Even better if you bring me tea and breakfast in the morning.”
“Is that all I am to you? Food provider?” He was frowning, but his eyes sparkled with laughter.
“Well, your cooking is better than sex.”
Before he could grab her and convince her that finding a bed was more important than watching over the graveyard, she turned her back on Tristan and went in search of a place to camp out.
There was a stone bench, half-covered by ivy, against the side of the church. She cleared off the top with the butt of her torch, then used her arm to sweep away the beaded water drops. It was still cold and damp when she sat down, but it was better than sitting in the mud.
Pulling out her phone, Melissa scrolled through her list of contacts. It was time to call in reinforcements.
Tristan was not going to leave her alone out there. He returned to the castle long enough to make a carafe of tea, a few cheese-filled baguettes and a box of pastries and pack it all in one of their catering crates.
His steps slowed as he reached the garden wall, but when he ducked through the door, there were no ghosts—just the shadows of trees and the rustle of the wind.
Melissa was sitting on a bench at the side of the church, her phone to her ear. Her eyes widened when she saw him. She smiled and raised her hand in a little wave and Tristan smiled in return. It had been a long time since a woman had made him feel this way.
He took a seat beside her, wondering who she could be talking to at one o’clock in the mo
rning.
“Yes. First flight out. Call the department admin and tell them to put it on my research account.” She listened, then frowned. “What are you doing for him? I’ll call him, but it’s up to you. If you’d rather be in the library…”
Melissa winked at Tristan, who raised a brow. Whoever was on the other end of that call was being given very little choice but to agree to whatever it was Melissa wanted.
“Good. Before you book, call Susan. I’d prefer that you be on the same flight. Then you can both go to the museum and pick up the equipment we need.”
She tapped the screen, ending the call, then said, “You came back.”
“You thought I’d leave you out here alone?”
“You have to work in the morning.”
“C’est vrai.” He would undoubtedly regret his decision come sunrise. More precisely, the kitchen staff would regret his decision. He was not at his most patient when tired. “Who were you talking to?”
“A PhD student at the University of London.”
“Why?”
“I’m bringing in reinforcements.”
Tristan frowned as he poured her a cup of tea. “Why? We don’t want anyone else here. That’s why I was digging for you today.”
Melissa accepted the cup, but set it down by her leg. “You still want to keep this all a secret?”
“That’s not it.”
“What then? I understand, even if I don’t respect, Seamus’ urge to cover up whatever happened here. And Séan is from Glenncailty. His family is part of all of this, so yes, I get why he wouldn’t want strangers here. But you I don’t understand.”
Tristan looked away from her. He didn’t have an answer.
“Maybe you should go back, get some sleep. I’ll give you the key to my room.” Her words were quiet and stiff.
Tristan faced her, examined her profile in the moonlight. “Melissa.” She didn’t look at him. He pinched her chin, forcing her to face him. “I don’t have an explanation. It’s just how I feel.”
“Then I’m sorry.”
“This doesn’t mean that I’ll leave you alone in the dark.”
She rubbed her lips together, and if she were someone else, Tristan would accuse her of doing it on purpose to distract him. Those lips were worthy of poetry.
“Then thank you.”
“Drink your tea. I have filled baguettes and pastries too.”
“Filled baguettes? You mean sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches…named after some foolish Englishman who thought he invented using bread to house meats and cheese.”
“Didn’t he invent it?”
Tristan tsked, glad the moment of tension was past. He pulled out one of the baguettes.
She waved her hand. “I’m still full. Thank you again. That was, without a doubt, the most amazing meal I’ve ever had. And I ate it in a hotel room wearing this…” she plucked at her sweatshirt, “…and some fuzzy socks.”
Her mention of the food he’d sent to her room reminded him of their text conversation and the delicious noises she’d made when she called him.
“I was promised pictures of that.”
“I didn’t promise anything. You asked.”
“Why didn’t I get any?”
“Because I’m not a sixteen-year-old girl?”
“I don’t want naked pictures of a sixteen-year-old girl. I wanted them of you.”
“When did naked get added? I was wearing clothes.”
“To start. I would have asked you to take off one thing at a time, sending me a picture after each piece was gone.”
Tristan plucked a piece of soft Brie from the bread. “Open,” he said, brushing Melissa’s lower lip with the morsel.
She was breathing deep and her eyes were wide. He doubted she knew how obvious it was when she was aroused, and he wouldn’t tell her. If he did, she might try to hide her reactions, and he didn’t want that.
She took the cheese from his fingers, licking them clean with the tip of her tongue. Tristan’s cock was hard as steel in his jeans.
“My turn,” Melissa whispered. She tore off a small chunk of bread and held it to his lips. Tristan accepted it, nipping her fingertips, then cupping her wrist, holding her arm still as he kissed the center of her palm. Her fingers curled against his cheek.
“How do you make such simple things seem so sexy?” Her skin was silvery blue in the starlight, but he could hear the blush in her voice.
“Life is sexy.”
“I’ve heard life described a lot of ways—scary, fragile, painful. Never sexy.”
“It doesn’t have to be one or the other. Life is all those things.”
Tristan held up another bite of cheese but she turned away. “Too full.”
His lips twitched in a smile. He popped the Brie into his mouth. He’d been so engrossed in making her food that he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten.
Melissa shivered, and he wrapped his arm over her shoulders. She tentatively leaned into him. He lay his head against the wall of the church and took a bite of the baguette. She relaxed against him. His cock was demanding action, but his heart was happy enough to hold her.
She’d said she loved him.
He’d been thinking about that off and on ever since it happened. He was sure her words were genuine when she said them, but the stress of the situation had probably caused her to feel things that didn’t apply now that the danger had passed.
“Tristan?”
“Yes.”
“Are you religious?”
He looked up at the stars. “I was.”
“What happened?”
“Jacques.”
“You stopped believing after he died?”
“Church was a ritual to me. Something I did because it felt right. I was never a good Catholic. For example, I intend to make love to you even though we are not married.”
She made an odd little sound, cuddling closer to him.
“What changed?” she asked after a moment.
“After Jacques died, I couldn’t go back. Suicide is a mortal sin. According to the church, my brother was now in hell. He suffered while alive, and that suffering is what pushed him to kill himself. The idea that he had to suffer more was…”
Tristan stopped as anger and grief choked him.
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s fine. How could we not think about it when we’re faced with all this death?”
“Not just death, but what comes after it.”
The shadows, which had seemed so cold and threatening, now felt like a cocoon around them, creating a place where it was safe to say these things.
“I asked Jacques’ ghost,” he said.
“Asked him what?”
“If he was my brother’s soul.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he didn’t know—he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to tell.”
“I don’t know why, but that makes me feel better. If that thing in the church was wrong, and after death some people are condemned to remain here, perhaps ignorance protects them.”
“What about you? Are you religious?”
“No. I was confirmed, but I think churches are the social constructs of men and women.” She sat up, twisting to face him. “But I do believe that there’s something bigger than us out there.”
“You believe in God.”
“Whatever name is used.” She looked up at the stars. “I have to believe that there’s peace waiting for us, even if that means that we’re scattered into a million little atoms that go spinning off into the universe.”
Tristan looked up at the stars and smiled. “Peace.”
Her hand crept into his, and he laced their fingers together.
“I don’t know if I want you to be right,” he said after a moment.
“Right about what?”
“About ghosts. Right about the souls moving on.”
“Why?”
“Because part of me wants Jacques’ ghost
to be real—a real piece of him.” Tristan’s stomach rolled. “I would trade places with him, yet I want his soul with me. It makes no sense.”
“It’s human, and I’ve been thinking about it—the question of what exactly the ghosts are. We are complicated, complex creatures. Maybe the soul is that part of us deep inside that we feel only when we’re most afraid, most happy. Maybe that part of us is what moves on, protected and at peace.”
“If that’s true, then what are the ghosts?”
“Intellect, personality, spirit.” She shrugged. “There are a million possibilities, and no matter what, it’s still horrifying that ghosts exist. But maybe, just maybe, they’re not suffering—they exist but don’t suffer. They may remember what happened when they’re alive, remember that pain, but it’s not ongoing.”
Melissa’s gaze met his, and there were tears in her eyes. “Then again maybe I’m deluding myself, trying to make it okay.”
Tristan cupped her cheek. She leaned her head into his hand.
“That feels like truth,” he said. “What I saw in that church today is the closest I’ll ever come to meeting God.”
Tristan grabbed her, pulled her onto his lap. Melissa straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips.
“My brother’s death, and his ghost, taught me hell is real, and it’s here.” He touched his head. “But you…” Tristan examined her face. She was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful person in the world. “You’re teaching me how to hope.”
Melissa wrapped her arms around him. Tristan buried his face in her shoulder.
Feelings welled up in him, so strong that he couldn’t hold still. He needed to touch her.
“Melissa.”
She knew what he needed. He wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did. Melissa kissed him, her fingers soft on his shoulders as she feathered her lips over his. His fingers dug into her hips, and she deepened the kiss.