Eternal

by V. K. Forrest

  “No blood in the alley behind the building, I suppose?” she asked.

  “Nope. No blood anywhere. No tire tracks, neither.” He glanced at the other agent, who was just standing there. “We were thinking, Glen and I. It’s after eight. Maybe go grab a wee bite at the pub?”

  So Special Agent Duncan and Uncle Sean were buddies now, were they, on a first name basis? And his name was Glen. “What about fingerprints you collected so far in the post office?”

  “Didn’t get much. A lot of people go in and out of that post office, they do, Fee.”

  “But not in and out the back door.”

  Sean shook his head, folding up his handkerchief. “Couldn’t recover any but Bobby’s.” He hesitated. “So what ye say, eh? Let this go until morning. Get an early start? Go get a bite, now?”

  She stood and began to shuffle the photos together. She couldn’t imagine eating, but she knew it wasn’t food her uncle was thinking of. It was his evening pint. “I didn’t know if you just wanted to grab something to go, Special Agent Duncan,” she said without looking up. “Go to the hotel. Maybe review a few things. Peggy, the station’s administrator, made us reservations at the Lighthouse before she took off for the day.”

  “I don’t know.” Glen shrugged. “I could use something to eat. Maybe a beer. Been a hell of a day.”

  He pulled his suit jacket off the back of a chair and slipped into it. It was warm in the station, even with the air conditioners in the windows running full blast. Fia had taken her jacket off earlier, but she suddenly felt self-conscious. She grabbed her jacket and pulled it on over her thin silk T-shirt. Glen was watching her. She couldn’t tell what he was looking at, maybe her boobs, but she didn’t think so.

  He met her gaze across the desk. “Maybe talk to a few people,” he went on. “See if anyone saw anything. Heard anything.”

  His eyes were green. Of course they were.

  This was going to be tricky, trying to solve Bobby’s murder with a human hanging around, breathing down her neck, especially one as sharp as he was.

  She looked down at the photos in her hand and reached for the manila envelope they had come from. It was smart to go to the pub tonight. See what the locals were saying. Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been good investigative work. Of course, there was no way for him to know that Kahills didn’t talk to strangers. Oh, sure, they would give him the appearance of being open and cooperative, just as Sean and his patrolmen were doing. But she knew from past experience that the town would dance a merry jig around him when it came to giving up anything of any real consequence. The federal government might have sent someone to work the case, but the citizens of Clare Point would solve the murder on their own.

  “All right,” she said slowly, tucking the photos and a growing pile of notes into a file folder. “Easiest thing is to just leave the cars at the hotel and walk over to the pub. Not a lot of parking. It’s faster to walk most places in town, anyway.” She strode toward the front door, the evidence under her arm. “We’ll see you at the Hill, Chief?”

  Sean was headed toward the back where his small office was located next to the dispatcher’s. He gave a wave over his head as he walked away.

  “He’s pretty shook up,” Glen observed, holding the door open for her. Because she was as tall as he was, he had to reach around her and his sleeve brushed her shoulder.

  It took all she had not to flinch. Like most Kahills, she was more sensitive than a human. Her sense of smell, her hearing, her eyesight, even her sense of touch was keener. Some said vampires felt more deeply than humans. More pleasure. More pain.

  Fia chastised herself for not beating Glen to the door. She didn’t like any special treatment from men, especially other agents. Especially men who looked like her Ian. The lying, murdering bastard.

  “Clare Point has never had a murder, not since the town’s founding,” she said, keeping her voice flat, unemotional, matter-of-fact. “This place isn’t Baltimore and it sure isn’t Philly.”

  He halted at the bottom of the steps, raising both hands as if in surrender. “Hey, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

  It was almost dark and the security lamp, mounted high on a corner of the building, was just beginning to glow, casting a yellow, vaporous light over the sidewalk and the now-gray grass. In the fading light, the familiar objects in front of the station—the lilac bushes, the flag pole, the tiger lilies blooming in the flower bed next to the steps—seemed somehow altered, almost surreal. Maybe it was just the sight of Ian standing there in a Brooks Brothers suit in twenty-first century America, or maybe Clare Point really had been changed forever with Bobby’s murder.

  Fia kept walking, heading up the sidewalk toward Main Street.

  “You want a ride to your car?”

  “Nah,” she threw back.

  “Special Agent Kahill?”

  She couldn’t ignore him, though she considered pretending she didn’t hear him.

  “Agent Kahill,” he repeated.

  She halted, half turning to look at him.

  “You weren’t intending on going into the post office again tonight, were you?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Because I don’t think we should. We need to go back together tomorrow. Have a fresh look at the scene. Together.”

  “I’ll see you at the hotel in ten,” she called, crossing the street.

  Damn, she thought, jingling the post office key in her pocket that she’d snitched. He’s good.

  She just hoped not too good.

  By the time they walked into the pub together, Uncle Sean was already at the bar and on his second pint. At least. A small chalkboard inside the door informed patrons that the bar mistress was serving her Houndstooth Stout tonight. It was an excellent, heavy brown ale. Fia knew it well. Uncle Sean liked his stout.

  Music played from an old jukebox in the far corner of the public room; a rollicking tune from the seventies. An image of Tom Cruise sliding across hardwood floors in his tighty-whities flashed through her head.

  The Hill, as it was known in town, was the second oldest continuously operated bar in the United States, right after the White Horse up in Newport. If it hadn’t been for the eighteenth-century hurricanes, it would have been the oldest. Originally built down near the water on top of a sand dune by one of Fia’s aunts, they had finally surrendered to the elements and rebuilt inland on higher ground. The town had sprung up helter-skelter around the pub, and year round, the public room was the heart of the Kahill sept. No one fought, no one made love, no one bought a new or used truck without word going around inside the Hill.

  There wasn’t a sign outside announcing the pub’s presence on the street and the interior of the Hill wasn’t much to look at. Tavia kept it that way to discourage tourists from visiting. There was a proper Disney World-style pub on the other side of town called O’Cahall’s that had been built just for them. Still, there were a few humans here tonight. Two couples, and a middle-aged widower who came, each year, with his grown children, all of whom spent August in the town and liked to fool themselves into thinking they were locals.

  The walls of the pub were dark wood wainscoting, stained by years of spilled ale and smoke. The floor was planked hardwood, once washed regularly with sand and seawater, now with some pine product that always smelled just slightly like toilet bowl cleaner to Fia. There were heavy wooden booths along two walls, and a few scattered tables and chairs in the middle. The bar that ran the length of one wall was built of wood from the ship that had carried the Kahills to Clare Point. Stained by salt water, scarred by years of abuse, and with more than a few wormholes, the bar was as much a part of the sept as its individual members. The long, etched and gilded mirror reflected the faces of those Fia had known for centuries. Some she loved, some she hated, but she was absolutely loyal to every one of them.

  “Why don’t we grab a table, Special Agent Duncan,” she suggested, steering him away from the bar and her Uncle Sean and his brother Mu
ngo.

  She could feel Sean trying to speak to her, but she ignored him, turning him off in her head.

  Duncan followed her toward a table. “This is silly. Call me Ian.”

  As the words sank in, she stopped abruptly, spinning around. “What did you say?”

  Confusion showed on his face. “I said, this is silly. Call me Glen.”

  “Oh.” Where the hell did that come from? God, she was tired.

  Luckily, Shannon bounced up to them at that instant, all boobs and lashes and Pam Anderson hair. In her mid-twenties, she worked nights for Tavia when the tourist season petered out. In the summer, she cooked and served at a large B and B down the street. She wasn’t as tall as most women in the town, but was every bit as beautiful, almost in an exotic way. She always wore tight, low-cut T-shirts and blue jeans that looked painted on. Like all vampire women, she exuded a sensuality that even human men could smell in the air.

  Shannon ignored Fia, lifting a feathery eyebrow with interest in Duncan. She already knew perfectly well who he was. Shannon was just expressing her pleasure at having gotten a look at his handsome face.

  Shannon hadn’t known Ian. Had no idea of the resemblance between the two men. But it was just like Shannon to get under Fia’s skin, right off the bat. It was the relationship they’d been sharing for years.

  Bring us two pints and quit your ogling, Fia shot in Shannon’s direction. As an afterthought, realizing she’d not spoken aloud, she showed two fingers.

  Both of Shannon’s brows shot up this time. Look at us. Talking like a proper Kahill tonight, she taunted, tucking an empty tray under her arm.

  Fia glared. The girl wasn’t as old as most of the others in the sept, but her mental telepathy was good, better than Fia’s. She always came through loud and clear. Fia figured Shannon had plenty of time to practice since all she had ever done was bake soda bread, cook lamb stews, wash dishes, and fornicate for the last two hundred and sixty years or so. Shannon sashayed off to the bar.

  Glen beat Fia to the table and pulled out a chair for her.

  She sat down reluctantly, arms crossed over her chest as she surveyed the room. “It’s Fia.”

  “I know. Pretty name. Unusual.”

  He’d left his suit jacket behind at the hotel and rolled up the sleeves of his pressed white button-down oxford.

  She was still wearing her suit jacket. He looked relaxed, approachable. She looked uptight.

  “I ordered you a pint of stout. Around here, we drink whatever Tavia’s tapped. She brews on site,” Fia said, looking across the table at Glen. “I hope you like heavy brown ale because that’s all we have here. You have to go up to O’Cahall’s if you want Coors Light.”

  “I like stout.” He looked around the table. “Any menus?”

  She pointed to another black chalkboard, this one larger than the brew board and hanging on a chain from a wooden peg on the far end of the bar. Lamb Stew had been handwritten and crossed off. Below it read Fish & Chips with a small cartoon of a fish drawn beside it, its eye an X. Shannon’s idea of being cute, no doubt. “Guess I’ll have the fish and chips,” he said with a half smile.

  She leaned back in her chair, not returning the smile. “Guess you will.”

  When she had first walked in, she’d purposely put up a mental wall to prevent all the jumbled thoughts of the pub’s patrons from slipping into her head. Really, it was more of a curtain than a wall. Even without listening, she’d been able to hear the low and high rumbles of the voices the minute she walked through the door. Seeing no need to chitchat with the man across the table from her, she now eased back the curtain. At once, she felt as if she were being bombarded by heavy artillery. Everyone in the room except for Shannon and the sour old Englishman, Victor, was thinking in Gaelic, but because it had been her first language, she didn’t have to translate the words. The problem was that everyone’s thoughts hit her like storm waves, approaching from a thousand directions.

  Poor Bobby.

  Poor Mary.

  Poor, dear Mary.

  Both his wife and his current lover were called Mary, so Fia didn’t know who was thinking of which woman.

  How did this happen, eh?

  I knew this was bound to happen.

  What are we going to do?

  What are we going to do?

  What are we going to do?

  And then there was an undercurrent of conversation concerning Special Agent Duncan. Everyone in the room except for the tourists, Shannon, and Victor had known Ian Duncan. For many, he remained the very icon of evil.

  How is it possible, he looks so much like him?

  It can’t be a good sign.

  Why has herself brought him here?

  What are we going to do?

  What are we going to do?

  What are we going to do?

  Overwhelmed by the bombardment, Fia had to fight the urge to cover her ears with her hands. Telepathy carried not just words, but the depth of the emotion behind the words. She didn’t so much hear them as feel them, and the intensity was overwhelming. She was already tired, and the anger, the confusion, and the very real fear were exhausting her. They were all so afraid…

  And frightened Kahills were doubly dangerous Kahills.

  “Here you go, Sugar.”

  Shannon drew Fia’s attention and the voices faded in her head until they were again a low rumble.

  Shannon set Fia’s glass on the table, just out of reach. Glen’s, however, was personally delivered into his hand with a sway of shapely hips, and pursed red lips. “Dining with us, are you Special Agent Duncan?”

  If Glen was surprised the chippie knew his name, he didn’t act like it. Closing his hand around the bock pint glass, he smiled up at her. “I’m thinking the fish and chips.” His voice was teasing, with the slightest hint of flirtation.

  Glen Duncan could be charming when he wanted to be, Fia would give him that. But Ian had been the same way.

  She had been such a loodar fool.

  Fia leaned forward and grabbed her glass. One couldn’t help but admire the cream-colored head on the ale. “Married man, Shannon. Move along.” And human. You know better.

  Shannon smiled, not in the least bit dispirited. “Fish and chips, comin’ right up.” She smiled at him again and sidled away.

  “I’m not, you know.” Glen raised the glass, almost in toast, and then drank. “Damned decent.”

  Fia sipped the dark ale, breathing in the heady scent. Tavia’s ales didn’t smell so much like traditional beer as sweet oak. She’d only have one. She only drank ale, and usually only in this room. “You’re not what?” she asked.

  “Married.”

  “No? You?” She set the glass down and slid it forward on the scarred table. Rather than look at him, she watched foam slosh up the sides of her glass. “I just assumed…” She lifted one shoulder.

  “She’s cute. What’s her name?”

  “Shannon. Shannon Trouble. You want no part of that.”

  He chuckled. “I’m not interested. Not my type.” He took another sip. “And…I’m engaged.”

  She nodded, but didn’t respond. She really didn’t want him sharing his life with her. She certainly had no intentions of telling him anything personal about herself.

  Glad you came, I am, Fee. Uncle Sean’s thoughts drifted across the room. We need ye. The family needs ye.

  Of course I came, she thought.

  Sorry about him. Double sorry, I am. What are the chances the FBI could have sent a man who looked so much like—

  Uncle Sean, don’t worry about it. We’ll talk tomorrow. Try to enjoy your pint.

  Enjoy his pint? How can anyone enjoy a pint after something like this? It was Sean’s brother, Mungo, sitting on the barstool next to him.

  Ordinarily, it was considered rude to listen in on thoughts not directed toward you, but in these circumstances it was understandable. From Mungo, she caught a flash of memory of the bloody scene that night back in Ireland. The scream
s of the horses, the terror of the women as they scattered into dark fields outside the village. The blood and flames that stained the grass black.

  “Her name is Stacy. She’s a dental hygienist.”

  Fia was jerked back into the present. “I’m sorry?” She glanced up at Glen and then back at her pint as she reached for it.

  “My fiancée.” He sipped his beer, watching her carefully. “You?”

  She shook her head. Against her better judgment, half smiling. “No. Never been married.” Fifteen hundred years. An old maid by any standard.

  “Two fish and chips,” Shannon declared cheerfully, swaying in the direction of their table, both hands high in the air, balancing two small plastic trays. “For you.” She plopped a tray down in front of Fia so hard that it rattled. “And you, Sugar.”

  Each tray held a cone-shaped roll of old-fashioned checkerboard butcher paper, overflowing with battered whitefish and finger-sized russet potatoes deep-fried to a golden brown. Glen smiled up at her as she slid his tray squarely in front of him, brushing her bare forearm against his. “Malt vinegar,” Shannon sang as she plucked a bottle from her tiny apron. “Another Houndstooth?”

  “Please.”

  She glanced disdainfully at Fia and turned on the balls of her feet. She knew better than to ask. Fia never drank more than one a night. “Be right back.”

  “Don’t bother asking for ketchup, cocktail sauce or tartar sauce. You can have it ‘old style’—plain—or ‘new style’—with vinegar,” Fia instructed.

  Glen shrugged, dribbled vinegar over everything. He slid the bottle towards her, but she shook her head. “You want to talk about the case?” he asked. Just then, his phone, attached to his belt, vibrated. He unclipped it, looked at the screen, and set it on the table, face down.

  She stuffed a chip in her mouth. Tavia always made them herself, from real potatoes, never served the frozen kind from a plastic bag. They were the best she’d ever eaten, anywhere, any time. “Maybe we should let the details stew. Not discuss anything until tomorrow.”

  He nodded, chewing thoughtfully, and a silence fell between them. Fia wasn’t particularly hungry, but she ate anyway, knowing she should. Shannon brought Glen another beer, flirted for a minute beside the table, and then headed off to the kitchen from where Tavia’s impatient voice could be heard, beckoning her.