by Kate Sweeney
“I’m sorry, Sister,” he called out.
She held up her hand and walked away.
Grayson stared at her palm. “I’ll be damned.”
Regaining his senses, Corky let out a war whoop and clapped his hands. He quickly looked around and picked up a thick book. “See if you can bring it to you.” He placed the book on the edge of the desk.
“Corky…”
“Oh, just try. How will you ever know what powers you have until you try them? Now just concentrate.” He stood back and eagerly waited for Grayson.
Grayson shook out her hands and flexed her neck back and forth.
“Ya look like a prize fighter,” Corky said with a laugh. “Sorry, concentrate.”
Grayson flexed her left hand a few times, as if testing it, then raised her hand, exposing her palm to the book. When Grayson cleared her mind, the tingling sensation started again; her heart raced, and with that, the book, as the pen, flew across the room, but out of Grayson’s reach. It sailed over her head.
The high-pitched screech they heard would stay with them for the rest of the day. Grayson whirled around just in time to see the book hit Sister Michael square in the chest; it bounced off the flailing nun, hitting the floor with a resounding thud. With a clang, the broken stapler hit the floor.
“Oh, damn,” Grayson mumbled frantically.
Corky stood perfectly still, his green eyes wide and his complexion ashen.
Sister Michael adjusted her veil and picked up the book. After examining it, she said, “At least you didn’t toss Saint Thomas Aquinas out the window. There’s hope for both of you.”
“We, uh…” Grayson had no idea how to explain.
“Do not attempt to try.” Sister Michael set the book back on the desk, along with the stapler parts. “I’ll have them place an order for more durable office supplies.”
She dusted off her hands and turned back to Grayson, who looked down into the serious blue eyes. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Grayson raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Sister Michael continued. “We have a new abbess. She should arrive shortly. ”
Corky exchanged glances with Grayson.
“So soon?” Grayson asked.
The old nun nodded. “I’ve written the bishop, and with some smooth talking, I convinced him not to reassign the younger nuns, to keep them and me. Although he knows full well he cannot close this monastery. I convinced him we needed a new abbess. Her name is Sister Gabriel. She’s coming from a cloistered convent in the Aran Islands. This will be a good place for her.”
“How did the bishop agree to this, Sister?” Corky asked. “I mean, I know he wasn’t too fond of Sister Daniel and her views on the church and paganism.”
“Too true. However…” Sister Michael walked over to the fireplace; she held up her hand to warm them. Grayson watched her as she stared into the glow from the peat fire.
“However?” Grayson gently prodded. She was slightly surprised to see tears well in Sister Michael’s blue eyes.
She smiled slightly. “I convinced him Sister Gabriel was not at all like Sister Daniel and did not share her views.”
“And this is true?” Grayson asked.
“You have a suspicious nature. I—”
“Sister Michael?” a young nun softly called from the doorway. “Sister Gabriel is here.”
“Please show her in, Sister.” Sister Michael looked at Grayson and Corky. “Sister Gabriel has lived all her life in seclusion. She is very old school if you know what I mean. So behave yourselves.”
Grayson chuckled; Corky looked slightly offended. Grayson was completely curious when the door opened. In walked a tall woman. The first thing Grayson noticed was the nun’s serious posture. Actually, Grayson thought, her face was void of any real emotion.
Dressed in a very severe nun wardrobe, she seemed comfortable in her starched black habit; she wore the stiff white wimple, surrounding her chest, neck, and head, covered by the black veil. The heavy wooden rosary worn as a belt around her waist and the dark crucifix were a dark contrast to the starch white as it hung around her neck. With the habit reaching the floor, Grayson dismissed her childhood curiosity to see if nuns really had legs, fearing she’d go blind should she actually see them. To Grayson, it looked extremely uncomfortable, yet at the same time, Sister Gabriel looked very content.
“She looks like Ingrid Bergman in that American movie with Bing—” Corky groaned as Grayson gently but firmly elbowed him in the ribs.
Sister Gabriel walked into the room and extended her hand to Sister Michael. Grayson watched the exchange. A vision flashed through Grayson’s mind. It was disjointed and fleeting; it was of Sister Gabriel and…
“It’s good to see you again, Sister.”
Sister Michael smiled. “Let me introduce you.” She turned to Grayson and Corky. “This is Sister Gabriel, well, Mother Abbess. This is Grayson MacCarthaigh and Timothy Kerrigan. They knew Sister Daniel.”
“Mother Abbess.” Grayson gently took her hand with both of hers. The tingling sensation shot up Grayson’s left arm. Again, the vision flashed. A young woman, no, Grayson thought, two young women talking…
“Sister Gabriel will be fine, Grayson. No need for formality here,” Sister Gabriel said and pulled her hand away. Her voice was soft, like the nuns from Grayson’s childhood. It was soothing until the ruler across the knuckles came.
She turned her attention to Corky and smiled slightly. “Mr. Kerrigan.”
“Sister, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said with a nervous smile. “And please, call me Corky.” When Sister Gabriel raised an eyebrow, Corky glanced around. “E-everyone does. It’s a nickname.”
“Well deserving, I’m sure,” Sister Gabriel said.
Corky laughed nervously, the blush creeping up from his neck. “So where were you stationed?”
Grayson hid her grin as Corky realized what he said. “I mean, where…”
Sister Gabriel smiled. “I lived in a small convent on Innishmore.”
“That’s the largest of the Aran Islands, isn’t it?” Grayson asked. “Why pick a place so remote?”
Sister Gabriel looked into Grayson’s eyes. “A choice. I wanted a life of seclusion to devote my life to God. This seemed the best way. To be far from the trappings of the material world.”
“I understand Gaelic is the primary language.”
“Yes, it tis. Do you speak the Irish?”
“Yes, I do.” Grayson then recited a poem she had learned long ago from her grandmother. As she spoke, she knew the words were not only traditional Gaelic, but a more ancient dialect.
Sister Gabriel cocked her head. “That is very impressive. To know and understand Gaelic is quite an undertaking. Your knowledge and understanding of the ancient dialect is amazing. Where did you learn that?”
Grayson saw her glance at Corky’s book. She could be wrong, but Grayson had a sense that the old nun was trying to look at it. You’d never believe it, Grayson thought; she glanced at Corky. It’s not that she wanted to lie to a nun. “My grandmother,” Grayson said, much to Corky’s relief.
To Grayson, what was more impressive was this nun, who did not look ancient, but knew the ancient Celt dialect. She wanted to know more of the cloistered Sister Gabriel.
“Sister Gabriel, why don’t I show you around the monastery and to your rooms? You must be tired,” Sister Michael offered, giving Grayson a scathing glance.
“Thank you,” Sister Gabriel said.
Grayson was going to offer her hand once again. However, the new abbess slipped her hands in the billowing sleeves of her habit and nodded. “It was nice to meet both of you. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
Grayson nodded with a smile and watched as her long black habit whisked her out of the room. Sister Michael followed.
Corky let out his breath; Grayson laughed at his meek posture.
“Don’t laugh. Nuns scare me.” He flounced back in his desk chair.
Gr
ayson was still laughing when Sister Michael re-entered. She walked up to Grayson, who stopped laughing.
“And, you, questioning her like that.”
Grayson raised an eyebrow. “What? I just asked…”
“Enough.” The old nun held up her hand. “Now if you two insist on hiding in this damp library hovering over that book written by heathens, then at least eat something.”
Behind her, Grayson saw a young nun wheel in a cart filled with sandwiches and a pot of tea.
“Sit down,” Sister Michael said.
Grayson smiled and obeyed. Corky rubbed his hands together. “Thank you, sisters. And it’s not written by heathens.”
Sister Michael grunted as the other nun poured the tea. “Sister Daniel, God rest her soul, believed you, I know. But I doubt the new abbess will. Now eat,” Sister Michael said, then quickly left the room.
Corky and Grayson exchanged glances. They did not tell the other nuns of the abbey who Sister Daniel really was. I mean, really, Corky thought, as he bit into the sandwich. How do ya tell a bunch of nuns, “Your Mother Superior was really the ancient mother of all of us, the goddess Danu?”
“You don’t tell them, Cork,” Grayson said as she selected a sandwich and took a healthy bite. She saw Corky’s stunned look with the sandwich hanging out of his mouth. “Hey, you’re the one who wants me to hone my gifts.”
“What do you think of Sister Gabriel?” Grayson asked as she took a healthy drink from the mug of tea.
“I don’t know.” Corky struck a thoughtful pose, then bit into his sandwich. “She reminds me of the nuns from long ago. So severe, so rigid. Yet…” He stopped and shrugged.
“What?”
“Well, she seemed young, I suppose. Too young to appear so old? I’m sure that sounds crazy.” He shrugged and took another healthy bite. “But who can tell under all that starched black and white?”
While Grayson ate, she thought of what Corky just said. It was so hard to affix an age to a nun. She looked to be in her late fifties perhaps. Her Irish skin looked rosy and soft; her eyes were green and shining. Without the habit, Grayson assumed she had graying hair. All at once, she chuckled inwardly, the old Detective Sergeant Grayson MacCarthaigh reared her head, and for an instant, she missed her years on the Chicago police force. She brought herself back to the present when Corky spoke.
“I wonder how nuns choose their names,” he said and drank his tea.
“I thought they took their family name.”
“Well, if not that, Gabriel is a surprising name for a nun who chose a life of seclusion and being cloistered.”
Grayson looked up from her sandwich. “How do you figure?”
“Gabriel was the archangel who announced good news. He was the messenger of God.” Corky wiped his mouth on his napkin. “He proclaimed the Annunciation to Mary that she was chosen. How can you do that if you’re cloistered and kept away from people?”
“You know your Catholic history, as well.”
Corky shrugged. “She still scared me.”
Grayson chuckled and finished her tea. Although Sister Gabriel did bring back her parochial school days, there was something about Sister Gabriel that Grayson could not put her finger on. It was the sadness in her eyes perhaps, she thought. With her lunch finished, Grayson stood and stretched. “Well, let’s take a break. I’m going to head home. What are you going to do?”
“I’ll read a bit more. We can get together tomorrow when Neala arrives from Dublin.”
Suddenly, Grayson realized she missed Neala. Usually, she was around. “Good, she needs to be here.”
“You miss her, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Grayson patted him on the shoulder, and once again, the vision of young Caitlin Delaney flashed through her mind. This time, for some reason, Grayson did not tell Corky.
Chapter 4
Grayson took the mile walk from the abbey to Dungarin on her way back to the cottage. This gave her time for her mind to wander, which was or was not a good thing. Now she remembered her mother, Maeve. She missed her terribly. Everything that had happened in the past six weeks had been completely surreal for Grayson, and she knew it was that way for Corky and Neala.
Finding out she was part of an ancient prophecy and the true descendant was mind-boggling, even though Grayson grew up surrounded by mysticism and druidism. Her mother was proud of her heritage and reveled in being a druidess. Grayson smiled, remembering how her mother believed in the gods and in God, how all things were connected on some level. Nothing was left to chance. When Maeve found out, through Corky’s prophecy, that she and Grayson each had their destiny, Maeve immediately accepted it. Grayson, on the other hand, was not so readily convinced; her logical brain would not allow it. But now? After what happened nearly six weeks earlier, Grayson could not deny her destiny. The power of the ancient druids of Ireland was on the verge of getting into the evil and dangerous hands of Phelan Tynan.
The stars aligned, the residual moon foretold the time when Grayson would stop Phelan’s bid to procure the “knowing” and use it for his dark purpose. His father, Figol, the ancient wizard and druid, placed Phelan in the real world, and on that autumn night under the residual moon, Phelan nearly carried out his plan with the ritual.
Grayson ran her fingers through her black hair and shook her head as she stopped by the short rock wall that lined the dirt road and sat down. She looked across the green sloping fields remembering the night.
“It was close, Phelan. You almost did it,” she said with a sigh, then smiled sadly. “I only wish I could have destroyed you that night. Now you’re out there somewhere. You wolfen shape-shifting, asshole.” She picked up a stray rock and angrily threw it into the field. She then laughed and looked to the heavens. “I know, stop swearing. Sorry, Ma.”
She stood with a deep sigh and started up the road and into town. Grayson saw Mrs. Barry right off as she stood outside her doorway. “Hi, Mrs. Barry.”
“Good day, Grayson,” she said. “Have you been at the abbey all this time?”
Grayson nodded. “Yeah, I’m just picking up a few things, then heading home before it starts raining.”
Mrs. Barry raised an eyebrow. “You’ve not been home then?”
Grayson cocked her head. “Not since this morning. Why?”
“An old friend is here to see ya.”
“Old friend?” Grayson asked.
“That’s what she said.”
“She?” Grayson raised an eyebrow and smiled. “It’s not Neala Rourke?”
“No. I believe she said her name was Elinora. Dark hair, dark eyes. Looks Greek.”
“Have you been to Greece?” A smile tugged at Grayson’s mouth.
“Don’t sass me, young lady.”
Grayson laughed. “Well, I have no idea who that is. She’s at my house?”
“I believe so, though I’m not sure.”
“Hmm. This is curious.” She looked at Mrs. Barry. “Is she attractive?”
The old woman narrowed her eyes. “You’re a sinful woman, Grayson MacCarthaigh.” She pushed at her shoulder. “Go on with ya. And be careful.”
Grayson took her hand and lightly kissed it. “I will, Mrs. Barry. Thanks.”
“You’re like your father, you blue-eyed devil. Go on…”
Grayson laughed, then leaned in and kissed Mrs. Barry on the cheek. “Thanks. I…” She stopped and ran her fingers through her hair.
Mrs. Barry put her hands on Grayson’s shoulders. “I miss your mother, as well, darling.”
Grayson took a deep breath to steal away the tears that threatened once again. She nodded, not wanting to take the chance to speak.
“She loved you very much, Grayson. Just as your grandmother loved her, and so on…” Mrs. Barry then stepped back and picked up her shawl. After tossing it around her shoulders, she slipped her arm through Grayson’s. “Come, I’ll walk with ya.”
They walked down the dirt road, away from Dungarin. “How many times have I walked this
road on my way to see your mother?” Mrs. Barry said wistfully.
Grayson nodded and looked around the green hills. “I remember you and Ma sitting at our kitchen table.” She gave Mrs. Barry a side glance, “gossiping.”
“Go on with ya,” Mrs. Barry said with an indignant tone. She then chuckled along with Grayson. “Well, maybe a little bit of town gossip. Do ya remember your grandmother and how she used the tea leaves?”
Grayson frowned for an instant. “Yes, I remember.”
“Don’t be frownin’.”
“It was all so long ago.” Grayson stopped then and looked at the old woman. “Why bring that up?”
Mrs. Barry leaned back against the stone wall that lined the dirt road. Grayson helped her ease against it and sit down. “You must have moved the cottage, Grayson Fianna. I don’t remember the walk bein’ this far.”
“I must have.” Grayson laughed and kicked at the stones on the ground. “Now tell me why you’d bring up the tea leaves.”
“I want to read yours.”
Grayson hung her head and groaned. “Oh, no.”
Mrs. Barry laughed quietly. “You can’t get away from your heritage, girl.”
“Now you sound like my mother.”
“Come with me,” Mrs. Barry said. When Grayson didn’t follow, she raised an eyebrow in motherly fashion—Grayson followed her back into town and to Mrs. Barry’s house.
Mrs. Barry led her down the hall to the kitchen. “Sit ya down.”
Grayson sat and watched as her old friend prepared the tea, then set two small plates on the table. She groaned when Mrs. Barry placed the large cup in front of her. “Ya know what we’re going to do.”
“Do we have to?” Grayson asked, impatiently running her fingers across her brow.
Mrs. Barry smiled. “You look so much like your father. Dermott MacCarthaigh was a handsome devil. Hair as black as coal, but you’ve your mother’s eyes, God rest them both.”
Grayson said nothing as Mrs. Barry set the china teapot on the table. She watched the ritual that she remembered from her youth. She could almost picture her mother and her grandmother, Deirdre Grayson, sitting around the kitchen table with Mrs. Barry preparing the tea.