by Calinda B
When she stepped across the threshold, he shook himself out of his deep freeze, slammed the phone in the cradle, and hurried toward her. “What are you doing? Why are you here?”
He put his hands on her shoulders and tried to turn her around to push her out the door.
She skirted his grasp, confused, and faced him. “I’m here to...” She shook her head and dropped her hands to her hips. “Honestly, why are you acting so weird? You seem to carry a lot of secrets, Father Ward. And I want answers. Like, why are you so fecking strange about that grave and the Garda? I returned from there and someone has dug it up some more. And a Banshee's wind is blowing out there like the place has become unglued.”
His palm flew to his forehead, heralded by lines of anguish.
Her eyebrows drew together. What’s going on?
“Look, Father, if you believe the crimes are linked, then you should tell the Garda. If you believe they’re not linked, you should still tell them because maybe some other freak is out there, desecrating graves.” Her hands gesticulated as she spoke.
“I’ve got it. Leave it to me.” He stepped toward her and once more put his hands on her shoulders, urging her around.
She pushed his hands off and took a step back. “Don’t manhandle me, Father. What’s going on?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with. Village superstition is all.” His face flushed.
Is he pissed at me? “Too late. I’m concerned.”
He took a step toward her.
She whirled out of reach and scurried in front of his desk. With her butt pressed against the old wooden structure, she said, “What’s going on? I demand answers. I can make your life bang-on wicked by telling the village you kissed me, you know.”
“You wouldn’t do that.” He strode toward her, his breath chuffing.
She drew back. “I might if you don’t tell me anything,” she snapped.
He muttered something in Gaelic, a language she hadn’t mastered. His voice sounded different...kind of hollow, like he spoke from a deep well.
Should I be scared? Her heartbeat fluttered in her chest.
He stood close to her, looming over her. More Gaelic flowed from his lips.
She caught something about “the past” and “erase memories,” but not much else. Her head began to swim with dizziness. “Speak in English,” she demanded. “You might be able to charm Mr. Meow but you can’t charm me.”
She gripped the edge of the desk and tried to arch away from him.
He continued speaking Gaelic. It echoed through the room, like he spoke from every corner. The heat rolling off him warmed her like a furnace.
“Cillian,” she whispered in a keening whisper. “What are you doing?” Her fingers white-knuckled the desk.
His entire body stiffened. He frowned. His neck corded with thick veins. “Leave off, woman! You need to learn to leave things alone that don’t concern you!”
His eyes were dark, nearly black.
“No!” she shouted, puffing up her chest. “I didn’t get this far in life by leaving things alone.”
For a second, they both stared at one another, breathing like bellowing beasts.
His eyes bore into her.
She refused to look away.
“Christ, woman. You have no idea what you’ve done.” His voice emerged husky and raw.
“Then, tell me so I know,” she said, her words barely audible.
He brought his scorching hands to her cheeks and inclined his lips to hers.
The kiss was so sudden, so blindingly fantastic, she couldn’t catch her breath.
He lifted her onto the desk and spread her legs. He shoved his massive erection against her core.
She moaned. Her hands fell to his buckle. She fumbled with the belt clasp.
He seized her hands and placed them on his hips. Then, he ground against her, rolling his hips in slow, insistent circles.
“Lassi, you’ll be the death of me,” he murmured into her lips. His fingers found her waistband and he unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans. He slid his hand beneath her knickers and extended his middle finger between her legs. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered as he slid through her sweet silk.
“Oh, God,” she cried. “Get these off me.” She wriggled and pushed her jeans to the floor. “You’d better finish me this time, Cillian.”
“Or, what?” he said with a chuckle.
She yanked away his priestly collar and flung it across the room, not needing a visual reminder of her sins. Then, she quickly unbuttoned his shirt.
“Fecking hell,” she said, as she stared at his chest. You’re ripped. She ran her hands across his muscular chest, belly, and waist. The man was solid muscle and literally burning with heat.
He kept circling her clit with his finger, driving her crazy with lust.
Intense, almost unbearable sensations, built inside. She fell back against the desk, her head landing with a thud.
“Good Christ, I’m going to come so hard, Cillian.” She panted, thrusting against his touch.
A satisfied smile curved along his lips. And, as he studied her face, his eyes—those beautiful eyes, reminding her of sea and sun and mystery—split apart her soul.
“You’re beautiful, Lassi. Pure and unadulterated beauty.” He increased the pressure with his fingertips.
She slapped the desk with her palms. “Oh, God, Cillian. I can’t stop this.”
“Don’t stop, my love. Let go.” His fingers rolled around her clit with uncanny expertise. He rocked his rigid cock against the desk.
Her hips bucked against his hand. “That’s it. Right there. Right there.”
The words fell away into an ecstatic moan as she orgasmed, hard and sweet.
Cillian fell forward on top of her, pressing his forehead into hers. His hands supported him on either side of her face. The ginormous bulge between his legs pulsed against her throbbing core.
She closed her eyes and melted into the desk, his body, his hard-on, everything pressed into her. For a few seconds, she melted into bliss and breath.
Cillian stiffened, breaking the spell. He stayed in place but grew rigid against her.
Guilt whipped against her as strong as the ocean wind. She squeezed her eyes, not wanting him to see her or her to see him. She kept them closed, trying to make sense out of what happened. Only when her body began to cool, already missing him, did she spare a glance.
He stood with his broad back to her, buttoning his shirt. He tugged at his pants, presumably making room for whatever he was rocking in his down below.
She sat up, straightened her shirt, and smoothed her coat. Then, she hopped from the desk and retrieved her pants.
His hands propped on his hips, and he faced the open door. “I’ll walk you home,” he said. “It’s too dark for you to be out.”
“Fine,” she said, too embarrassed to protest. Once she’d buttoned her jeans, she said, “I’m ready.”
“Fine,” he said, not looking at her. “Me, too.” He gestured toward the office door. “After you.”
She slid past him, staring at the floor.
They walked silently through the shadowed nave, their footsteps echoing. When they reached the massive doors, he reached past her and easily pushed it open, holding it for her to exit.
Her brow furrowed slightly. Are you strong, or what? And, you certainly know what to do with your fingers. This isn’t your first rodeo, is it?
She brushed against him as she exited, a sizzle swirling through her from the contact.
They made their way through the town without talking.
When they got to her door, she said, softly, staring at the worn wood, “What are you going to do about the grave?”
“I’ll think about what you said. I need to think, pray, and sleep on it. Perhaps I’ll have a clearer head in the morning and can make a good decision about it.”
She turned, sliding against his solid body, coming face to face with him.
He lowered his head slightly
, with parted lips, as if about to kiss her good night.
With her back against the door, words flew from her mouth. “About Ailis. That’s something. She was in the same place as Dylan. Waterford City. What are the odds? What do you make of it? Does that seem like a coincidence to you? Not to me. No, sir. I’ll bet she’s involved somehow. Dylan invited her to dinner, my ass. He loved Siobhan.”
Cillian seized her shoulders and kissed her hard, shutting her up.
She resisted the kiss of all of two seconds before matching the intensity.
He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
Held secure in his grip, she melted into the kiss.
They stayed lip-locked for several soul-searing minutes. Lassi had never, not in her wildest musings or passionate explorations, experienced a kiss this intense.
Abruptly, he took her by the shoulders and urged her away.
The look on his face was so intense her knees quivered.
In a deep growl, he said, “Go inside, lock the doors, and lock the windows.”
“Okay,” she said, her eyebrows drawing together.
“Lock everything you can think of. Promise me,” he said urgently.
“I promise,” she said, her words sounding small and shaky. “You’re scaring me, Cillian.”
“I don’t mean to. I mean for you to be safe.” His fingers clutched her shoulders. “Will you do that?”
She nodded.
“Good girl. Don’t let anyone or anything into your house tonight, got it?”
“I...I... I’ve got it. I hear you. Locked tight, no one enters.”
“You promise me.” His fingers dug into her skin.
“I said I promised,” she snapped.
“Good girl,” he said again. He kissed the top of her head and gave her one last furtive look before turning to head up the hill.
Only when she was inside, every entrance or opening locked tight, boxes shoved against the doors, did the force of his words hit her.
“Did he say don’t let anything in? Not anybody, but anything?”
Her throat felt parched. She hurried to the kitchen, poured water into a glass without electrocuting herself, and inspected it. The water seemed clear enough. She took a couple of timid sips. Satisfied, she scurried down the hall, heading for her bedroom. Once inside, she slammed the door, placed the water on the floor, and then leaped on the bed, pulling the coverings around her. There would be no sleep for her tonight—not if she could help it. She didn’t want to find out what kind of thing Cillian meant. The only thing she could picture was a vampire—and those did not exist.
Chapter 13
After yet another shitty, restless night—surprise, surprise—the smell of smoke jolted Lassi out of her dreams the next morning. Lying on her belly, she rose to her forearms and turned her head this way and that. Blackish brown smoke coiled from the mattress. My sheets! My sheets are on fire! She rolled out of bed, seizing the glass of water she’d left by the side of the bed. Okay. No flames, but definitely smoke.
She threw back the covers, flung the water on the mattress, and doused her burnt sheets. She stared, aghast, her heart nearly running for its life. There, as clear as if she’d sketched it herself, was her scorched outline burned into the sheets like the Shroud of Turin.
“Gah!” Hurriedly, she pulled the covers over the outline. She beat against her temples with her fists and scrunched up her face. “What’s happening to me?” she whimpered. “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get back to Dublin.” Her dreams last night had all been bizarre fuck-fests where she rode lightning bolts like a rodeo queen or held light bulbs, channeling electricity to them with her bare hands so others could see. Maybe they weren’t dreams. She stared at the burnt outline, utterly speechless. Finally, she blew out a rush of breath and said, “Tea. I need tea.”
After yanking on her robe and jamming her feet into her slippers, she flicked the wall switch to check for power, grateful the overhead lights came on.
“Unless, of course, I’m the power source.” She scoffed. Stumbling down the hall, she made her way to the kitchen.
She filled the electric water kettle, happy the metal faucet handle didn’t spark. No red rust colored water spewed out the faucet. Strange. Maybe I hallucinated the foul water yesterday. Maybe even being here is one huge hallucination. I had been feeling poorly before I came to Bally.
Mr. Meow came slinking into the room. He rubbed against her legs, as if to say, “I’m a good kitty, aren’t I?”
“What did Cillian do to you, you raggedy old cat?” Her mind became possessed by thoughts of the rugged-looking, ripped-as-hell priest. And that orgasm. I didn’t know I could come that quick or that hard. She leaned over and scratched the kitty’s head.
He backed away and hissed, swiping at her with his sharp claws.
She yanked her hand away. “Go on. Get.” She nudged him out of the way with her slipper. “It figures Great-Aunt Roberta would have a bipolar cat.”
As she waited for the tea water to boil, she stared out the window at the ceaseless dark clouds and ever-present wind. “This place is awful. I can’t wait to get out of here. A good night’s rest, a night at the pub with my friends, and I’ll be good as gold again.”
The kettle dinged, indicating the water was the perfect temp.
She retrieved a tea bag from the pantry and rinsed a mug out in the tap. Once again, nothing sparked. I’d think I was merely raging with the fever were it not for the scorched sheets. Before preparing her tea, she took a tentative sip of water. It tasted fine, same as last night. She strode toward the kettle, hung the bag of fragrant tea in the mug, and poured the hot water.
The scent of steeping Black Irish tea instantly soothed her. She eyed the darkening liquid as the leaves released their essence. When it was the perfect caramel color, she raised it to her lips and took a welcome sip.
Bang, bang, bang.
She jerked at the fecking rapping on the door.
Bang, bang, bang.
She threw back her head and groaned. She slammed her tea mug onto the counter, splashing it everywhere. Only...
Her eyelids pulled at the edges of her eyes, as if they couldn’t open wide enough. The tea wasn’t landing on the floor like proper water droplets should do. Instead, the drops quivered, mid-air. She fell back into the counter, knocking the mug from the surface.
The tea cup dropped in a slow-motion arc to the floor. She reached to grab it, her hand meeting with scalding water. The cup shattered. The remaining tea hung in a weird stasis, floating like clouds. Her hand bore no marks or sensation of burning. She began to pant, like some hysterical birthing mother.
Bang, bang, bang. Whoever was pounding the door was going to shatter it if she didn’t get to it in time.
She backed out of the room and scurried down the hall. Wrenching the antique door knob, she flung the door open wide. “Liam?”
He stood, eyes wide, an expression of absolute shock or terror or maybe both on his face. His clothes hung dripping wet and wrinkled like he’d rolled in the rain.
“What the feck? You look like shite that’s been out in the rain for three days.”
“She’s...she’s dead.”
Her hand clutched the glass knob. “Who’s dead? Siobhan? Penny?”
“No, it’s...it’s...” He lowered his chin, his face dropping to his hands. “It’s Ailis,” he said into his palms.
Lassi chuffed out her breath. “Well, there’s her alibi.”
Liam’s head popped up. “What did you say?”
“And why the hell didn’t you use the telephone? The darn thing still works,” she snapped, ignoring his question. She made a sharp circle in the air. “You all come to my cottage to inform me of the goings on in your town like I might give a flying feck about who’s doing who or who’s dead.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. She closed her eyes briefly. I need to be able to finish my cuppa in the morning for once. When she opened them, Liam stared at her, ope
n-mouthed.
“The phone?” he said, clearly dumbfounded.
“Right. We no longer send carrier pigeons or whatever the feck they used to do to communicate.” She started to close the door in his face.
“Roberta might have had a phone in the house, but it hasn’t worked for the last thirty-five years since she decided to stop paying the bill.”
“She what?”
“The phone,” Liam said, wringing his hands together. “They raised the rates by two-pence, which was bloody larceny as far as she was concerned. So, she stopped paying.”
“Right,” she said, her hands beginning to tremble. Then who called while Cillian was attempting to make me come?
“You’re an out-of-towner,” he said, giving her a wan smile. “How would you know?”
“Right,” she said again, hoping she didn’t appear as pale and shaken as she felt.
“So,” he said. “Ailis. She’s been murdered.” He said this polite and civilized this time, like he’d had a chance to get his wits about him.
“That’s awful,” Lassi said, responding appropriately this time. “How did it happen?”
“I don’t know. But Inspectors Brown and Conway would like to ask you a few questions. I came to fetch you.”
“Bloody hell. I can’t even catch my breath let alone deal with these fecking murders,” she mumbled. “Let me get dressed. Come on in and make yourself some tea. At least one of us should enjoy a cuppa.” She stepped aside to allow him to enter.
He did so, after wiping his boots off on the welcome mat.
“You know where the kitchen is.” She waved her hand in the air. “I’ll head to my bedroom and join you in one hot second.” She turned and strode down the hallway.
Liam shuffled behind her, his footfalls sounding like those of a soldier after a long battle.
When she got to the bedroom, she froze. You bloody idiot! There are drops of water hanging in the air! She whirled and scurried toward the kitchen expecting to find Liam in a dead faint.
When she stood in the doorway, the tea lay in a puddle on the floor like normal spilled tea. The cat lapped the liquid.
Liam crouched around the broken bits of cup. He swept them into a dust pan she didn’t know she had, using the brisk, precise movements of a man who has spent his life cleaning up broken glass behind the bar.
