by Marie Harte
The need to find her and to hold her in his arms pulsed through him, as strong as his heartbeat, which he could make out distinctly, each of its thumps a painful blow against the inside of his skull.
“Get out of my way!” he cried, pressing a hand against his head as he stood, grasping a sheet in front of his groin with the other. He silently begged God for patience, but religious thought only conjured images of twisting the linen he clutched into something like a whip and using it to clear everyone out of the room, as Christ had driven the merchants from the temple. He’d even turn over the bedside table for good measure if he had to. His anger must have shown in his eyes, for Katrina went distinctly pale and eyed the bedsheet dubiously.
The doctor—apparently not used to having his patients object to his suggested treatments with such vehemence—looked quite taken aback. His jaw hanging agape, he fumbled with the tube-like thing he’d pressed against Aaron’s chest, nearly dropping it.
“Now see here! The man is delirious! This—this must not… That is to say, he must be kept in bed!” Gathering every last bit of what composure he still possessed, he fixed Aaron with his firmest stare, which wasn’t very intimidating at all.
Nevertheless, Aaron promptly collapsed, his sheet and all related sinister intentions forgotten as he fell backwards onto the mattress with a muffled whump, the ceiling and ring of concerned faces that surrounded his bed spinning into darkness above him.
He lay that way for what seemed to be a very long time, voices and faces fading in and out, teasing in their inconsistency.
It was a pinprick of pain in the crook of his left arm that brought him back to a full, if hazy, consciousness. He turned his head to the side just as the doctor pressed a lancet against the inside of his elbow, releasing a flow of crimson liquid that he let stream over Aaron’s arm and drip into an unsettlingly large cup. Did he really mean to fill the whole thing?
Yes, he did. That much was painfully clear several minutes later. Aaron’s blood continued to stream thick and vividly red from the wound the doctor, who was watching the bleeding with a certain air of grim satisfaction, had made in his arm. The light wavered again, the room going quite suddenly dark. The last thing Aaron heard was another admonition from the doctor. “And, for God’s sake, don’t let him out into the rain again!”
* * * *
The rain was leading her to Aaron, Caitlin was sure of it. She couldn’t say how or why, exactly, but her unexplainable confidence guided her like an internal compass. She’d travelled miles from the place where she’d awakened in the forest, picking her way through what seemed thousands upon thousands of trees, until she’d stumbled out into a field, a blessed expanse of grass without trees to hide the lay of the land from her sight. It hadn’t been long before she’d started to recognise the territory and directed herself in the way she thought the O’Brien home lay. Now the manse was finally visible in the distance as a large, dark smudge against the lesser blackness of the stormy night sky, its windows yellow pinpricks of light in the gloom.
Her heart rate increased with each step she took towards it, beating an anxious rhythm against her ribs. The intensity of her longing to find Aaron—to know that he and she could still meet, that she hadn’t been snatched out of her world by the banshees and their godforsaken silver comb—was greater than the intensity of the driving rain. And the rain was intense indeed. Falling in great sheets, it beat the earth, sending globules of mud flying up from its surface like drops of blood spraying from a man’s back as he was flayed. Strangely, though, it didn’t dampen Caitlin. She could feel individual drops striking her, and the resulting beads of water streaked quickly over her skin, but they were gone almost as soon as they touched her, and she was left dry. Her dress was the same, its ragged white material perpetually dry. Every few minutes she pressed a hand against an arm or shoulder or cheek, as if expecting to find the illusion shattered and her flesh wet and chilled with rainwater. Each time, she was surprised again, and plunged deeper into denial, into a refusal to contemplate what this strange new reality might mean.
When the O’Brien manse was close enough that she could make out the windowpanes, she began to run, the hem of her white dress attempting to flap behind her but being beaten down against her calves by the falling rain. She charged on and on, bounding over sodden tufts of wild grasses, a white and silver blur in the moonlit downpour. To her mild surprise, she did not grow tired, but rather moved more quickly, her urgency to find Aaron so great that she thought she might burst if she didn’t reach his home and finally lay eyes upon him again. At last, she climbed the great house’s front steps, and stood at the door.
Her fingers trembling with nervousness, she reached for the handle. A sinking sensation of dread in the pit of her stomach told her that her touch would pass right through its wooden surface; that she might dissolve into nothingness upon touching it. Still, she reached out—there was no thought that could have stopped her, no fear that would have given her pause. If she couldn’t reach Aaron—if she truly had been removed from the world she’d shared with him—then she might as well disappear. When her fingers met the solid oaken surface of the door, she was almost surprised. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the handle and pushed it open.
No one acknowledged her entrance. She stood on the tiled parlour floor, remembering, with a sharp twist of the heart, how she and Aaron had stood there together, dripping. But she was alone now, and strangely dry, despite her storm-bound journey. Eager to rectify her unwelcome solitude, she walked forward, casting searching glances from side to side as she neared the staircase between the kitchen and sitting rooms. The murmur of voices was her first brush with human presence since she’d touched the comb, and she hurried towards the sound, discovering a chattering party in one of the lounges. None of them looked up when she entered, but perhaps that was because they hadn’t heard her over the sound of their conversation.
She opened her mouth to speak. “Hello, I… I’m looking for Aaron.”
Nothing. They continued to talk, though not to her.
She strode into the centre of the room and spoke again. “Please, is Aaron here?”
Not a single eye flickered in her direction. She wanted to feel annoyed, but a sick, worrisome feeling churned inside her instead.
“Hello!” she cried. “I’m here! Can’t any of you hear me?”
Apparently, they couldn’t. Caitlin seized great handfuls of her skirts and began to wring them as the realisation crushed her. This was like something out of a bad dream… Perhaps she would wake, and blink this all away to the back of her mind, where it would soon be forgotten. She pressed her eyes shut and opened them again after a few hopeful moments, only to find herself still in the sitting room.
“Aaron!” she shouted. “I’m looking for Aaron!”
“You’ll find him upstairs, in his bedroom,” said a deep voice, whose owner made no attempt at dulling his melodic Irish accent.
Caitlin whirled, her lips parting, ready to utter a grateful response as she turned, her heart light with the knowledge that her small audience’s obliviousness had seemingly been a joke, or some sort of mistake…
“You!” she gasped. Her heart, which had so recently been delivered from the purgatory of apparent invisibility, leapt into her throat.
The startlingly familiar man she faced did not answer out loud, but rather assumed an expression of grim acknowledgement, tipping his head towards her in the slightest of nods. When she’d last seen him, it had been from a distance, but there was no denying his identity. Intuition twisted her stomach, confirming what her eyes suspected.
“Cormac O’Brien.”
She knew she must sound shocked—disbelieving, even—yet she could scarcely help it. The man who stood before her did bear a resemblance to the ghost she’d seen during her first night in the manse, the one Aaron had identified as his great-great-grandfather. And yet, he was decidedly different now—more solid and strangely vivid, as if the ghostly outline she’d seen
last time had been filled in.
She didn’t want to entertain possible explanations for her newfound ability to see ghosts clearly.
No! I’m not one of them—I can feel my heart beating!
Surely ghosts didn’t have beating hearts. Hers was fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, a nerve-racking yet welcome sensation that she cherished like a talisman against her mind’s morbid suggestion that she might be a mere spirit herself.
“Aye,” Cormac said finally.
“You… You’re…dead,” she whispered.
“Very astute, Bean Sidhe. Tell me, have you come for me? Am I granted another chance?” His voice held just a hint of hope, as if he didn’t dare to let on how he really felt.
Caitlin shook her head, her silver hair flying about her shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She didn’t want to know what he was talking about. She wanted to talk to the living, breathing people in the room, not the spectre. Most of all, she wanted to speak with Aaron, to feel his arms around her again. A large part of her heart was holding on to a hope that he would be able to make her feel alive, even if no one else could.
Cormac compressed his lips into a fine line and nodded grimly. “I thought not, but a part of me had hoped.”
“I—I came here to find Aaron,” she repeated. Not even her conversation with a man who’d died decades ago could distract her from her purpose, and she couldn’t wait any longer to lay eyes on the man her heart ached for.
Cormac tipped his head towards the doorway, and the staircase that stretched beyond, his mouth still compressed into a narrow slit.
Caitlin cast a last look over her shoulder at him as she exited, discomfort brewing in her middle. He had called her Bean Sidhe—the accusation still rang in her ears. She wore the white dress, had the silver hair…but did that make her one of them—a banshee? The possibility and its implications plagued her as she climbed the first staircase, then the next, arriving finally on the third floor. Aaron’s door lay at the end of the hall and the sight of it caused her heart to leap. She rushed towards it, breathing a sigh of relief when she found the knob solid beneath her hand and twisted it, stepping inside.
Chapter Five
Aaron was there. At the sight of him her heartbeat changed, falling into an excited but steady rhythm that seemed to send the words thank God, thank God, thank God echoing through her chest cavity, each beat a tiny prayer of furiously palpitating thanks.
His hair lay in an unruly spray of red over his pillow, framing a pale face. His eyes were closed and the sheets rose and fell to the rhythm of his breathing, accompanied by a slight crackling sound. The beginnings of panic rose up in Caitlin as she stared and listened, alarm warring with the sweet relief that had filled her upon first sighting that glorious flash of red, a sure indicator that she’d found him.
“Aaron?”
She started towards his bed, noting a tray left on the night table, laden with a single burning candle and a tray holding a glass of red wine and a small bowl of what smelt like beef tea. Both were untouched. She quickly dismissed them as she lowered herself onto the bed, perching on its edge. Aaron didn’t stir. The hem of her dress brushed one of his hands, and it frightened her to see that his skin was nearly as white as the fabric. God, what was wrong with him? He didn’t sound right, didn’t look right—why was he sleeping while everyone else in the house was awake? She reached out and took his hand in hers, the heartbeat that rushed in her ears seeming to declare oh no, oh no, oh no now that fresh alarm had replaced her original joy.
Several seconds passed before she realised that she was touching him—actually touching him! Her hand hadn’t passed through his, nor had it stopped short of meeting his flesh. It did feel strange, though, almost as if there were something almost imperceptibly thin between their hands. Perhaps the same layer, whatever it was, that kept the rain from soaking her? The thought was unsettling, but she was glad, nevertheless, for this, which was at worst a very close semblance of human touch. She stroked his hand, absently massaging the hollow between his thumb and first finger. She thought he felt hot, but was unsure whether or not it was simply an illusion caused by her own chilliness—she felt as cool as the rain that was pounding outside.
Aaron stirred, shifting his head slightly on his pillow, a forelock of ruddy hair falling over his right eye. Caitlin pushed it out of the way, smiling in satisfaction as she tucked it behind his ear.
Maybe she wasn’t Bean Sidhe. Maybe what had happened downstairs had been some sort of strange coincidence—no more strange, she thought, than sleeping for a week and waking in an unknown place because she’d plucked a silver comb from among a bed of wild violets. After all, could a banshee touch a person so? She’d never heard of such a thing in any of the legends. If only Aaron would wake, if he would just meet her eyes or take her hand in his. Then she would know.
“Aaron,” she whispered, bending so that her lips nearly touched his ear.
He didn’t respond. She waited for several moments before preparing to speak again.
Someone beat her to it, speaking his name tentatively as they swung open the door. “Aaron?” It was Molly. “Are ye awake?”
He was as unresponsive to Molly as he had been to Caitlin. That comforted Caitlin, although the fact that Molly seemed to be looking straight through her certainly didn’t.
“Molly,” she said, “I…” She stopped. There was no need to explain herself—it was plain Molly neither saw nor heard her.
Bean Sidhe.
Cormac’s words rang in her ears, making her head spin. Would they hear her if she wailed? Was that what she had to do? She very nearly felt like it. And, yet, she didn’t dare. If banshees really did plant silver combs as a means to draw unsuspecting humans into the spirit world, then perhaps their cries really did herald death. She wasn’t about to take the chance, especially not with Aaron seeming so unwell. She clamped her mouth firmly shut, resisting even the urge to call Molly’s name again.
Molly peered at the tray on the bedside table and frowned down at the full cup and bowl.
“Aaron,” she said, leaning over the bed so that her curls nearly brushed Caitlin’s face, leaving her curious as to what would happen if they did, yet unwilling to extend a hand to touch her. Looking at Aaron lying so deeply asleep—startlingly dark circles clearly visible beneath his eyes now that she’d brushed his hair away—and hearing the ominous crackle in his breathing, she wanted nothing more than for Molly to leave her alone with him. Then she could see whether her touch might rouse him, and perhaps drive him to speak her name, affirming her existence in his world.
“Aaron, wake up and have some beef tea,” Molly urged, peering down at his closed eyes, where his lids ended in fiery lashes that stood out brightly against the purpled flesh below.
Caitlin nearly jumped when Aaron’s lashes fluttered, his eyes opening halfway, into slits that revealed just a hint of blue iris. While she was glad to see him awake, the realisation that Molly had been able to wake him while she hadn’t caused her gut to twist and her pulse to speed. Molly seized the tray, appearing heartened by Aaron’s wakefulness. Caitlin simply stared, her lips parted in awe. The sight of his blue eyes, no matter how red-rimmed or sleep-hazed, struck a chord somewhere deep in her heart, sending a tremble throughout her body that reached all the way to her fingertips.
For a moment she thought his gaze flickered towards her, but then it focused on Molly, hardening into a half-hearted look of defiance.
“No,” he breathed, an ominous crackling sounding from somewhere deep in his chest as he spoke.
Caitlin clutched her skirts and wrung them. Could the crackling be pneumonia? Her mind had presented that particular theory to her several times already, though she’d been trying not to entertain it. Now, it seemed too likely to ignore any longer. The crackling sound was supposed to be a sure sign.
“But ye must,” Molly pleaded, even as his eyelids drooped. “It’s what the doctor ordered.�
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Aaron’s only reply was a subtle shift in position and a slight crackling.
Molly fretted by his bedside for several moments before finally whisking away with the tray of untouched remedies, pulling the door softly shut behind her.
Alone again with Aaron at last, Caitlin breathed a sigh of relief.
“Aaron?” she said softly. “Aaron?”
He slept on in silence, one pale shoulder rising above the blankets, exposed by his recent movement. She reached up to cover him with the quilt, unable to resist stroking a stray lock of his hair. It felt silky, even beneath the strange barrier that seemed to almost separate them. She buried a hand in his hair, relishing the comforting warmth and solidity of his head beneath her hand. He parted his lips and exhaled slowly, his breath clearing a few stray strands of his own hair from the surface of his pillow. Caitlin’s own lips parted as she watched him hopefully. That breath had been almost a sigh… Did he feel her touch? Her heart leapt with hope. She wanted—needed so desperately—to believe that he had. She placed her other hand in his hair and began to move her fingertips in a massaging pattern above each ear, imagining herself rubbing away the pain that surely lay behind those circled eyes. His shoulder appeared to relax a little beneath the sheet, and her heart leapt. She rubbed harder. His hair shimmered red, gold and several shades in between in the candlelight, and he rolled onto his back.
The movement had shifted his left arm so that his fingers brushed Caitlin’s thigh. Suddenly, the dress the banshees had clothed her in seemed very thin indeed. His heat reached her skin, burning right through the pale fabric, launching her into recollections of their embrace in the wildflower field, when Aaron’s hands had reduced the dress she wore then to a similar state of seeming insubstantiality. His change of position had also caused her palms to slide down to his shoulders, which had been bared again, and she gripped them now, remembering. They were pale and relaxed in sleep, but they were still as handsomely broad as ever. She’d admired them—the lines and bulges they created under his shirt—since the first time she’d laid eyes on him. Now here they were, with nothing to hide them. She traced a collarbone with her fingertips, letting them drift across the long length of bone and over the curve of his upper arm. Just as her fingers touched the pillow, something stirred against her leg.