Grave Stones

by Calinda B

  She started to head to the bedroom when the phone rang in the kitchen. On autopilot, she redirected her steps, heading for the wall phone. Then, she stopped, stone-stiff.

  “The phone doesn’t work. It hasn’t worked for years,” she whispered. “That’s what Liam said, anyway. It rang once for me.” She cautiously inched forward, as if it was a bomb on the wall. When she picked up the handset, she expected to hear a dial-tone. A pregnant silence met her ear. “Hello?” she said, her tone weird and shaky.

  A rough voice whispered from the other end. “Follow the stones.”

  And then the line went dead.

  Chapter 20

  Her legs jelly-like, ready to give way, Lassi repeated the words the voice had uttered through the phone. “Follow the stones. Should I head for the grave?”

  She didn’t want to. She longed to pay for a good house cleaner, find a new realtor and get the hell out of Ballynagaul. But, she’d never left a good challenge unfinished, no matter how terrified she was of dealing with it.

  Even though her fingers trembled like leaves in a hurricane, she managed to get dressed in warm clothes—jeans, jumper, and a long-sleeved undershirt. Figuring she’d need some light for the return journey, she grabbed Roberta’s old flashlight before making her way down to the beach. Even walking proved difficult, her limbs shook so hard, buffeted by fear. And, to add to the difficult but short journey, darkness—as dark as the sin on her soul for consorting with a priest—would soon strangle the landscape. Shadows stretched in long, taffy-like shapes, obscuring the trail.

  The wind seemed to scream at her. It battered her in short, angry bursts as she stumbled along the trail.

  When she arrived at the relentlessly pounding shore, Cillian, Conway, and Mary huddled around the gravesite.

  They stood around the vandalized hole, looking as morose as if the poor dear occupant had died last night.

  Strangely, the sky had cleared somewhat, and the clouds were tinged with crimson hues—a welcome contrast to their typical bloated gray.

  Lassi blinked a few times. When was the last time any color appeared in this bloody sky?

  “Okay, fun time is over.” Standing near the onlookers, she had to yell to be heard over the wind. “You’ve spooked me half to death. Is this some sort of Ballynagaul initiation practice to recruit a new villager? ‘Oh, let’s terrify the nurse and fill her head with nonsense so she can’t go home and do her job and be forced to stay here.’ Is that it?”

  She wrapped one arm tight around her chest and clutched her shoulder. The other grasped the flashlight. She flicked it off and on with her thumb, finally deciding to leave it on. She pointed it at them like a weapon. Her hand shook so hard, the light flickered like a strobe on their faces.

  Cillian regarded her with soft compassion—at least from what she could tell through the light show.

  “Lassi, love.” He stepped toward her and put his arm around her, pulling her into him.

  Fecking sexy bastard. Her posture grew rigid. What’s going on here? She cast a suspicious, narrow-eyed glance at Conway and Mary. No one seemed to be bothered by Cillian’s display of affection.

  “I’m fine,” she said to him through chattering teeth. “I don’t need consolation.”

  “Oh, you’re far more than fine, Lasairfhíona.” His amazing heat flowed through her body, unwinding the knots in her muscles and the tension in her limbs. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

  The kiss sent a wave of warmth cascading through her head and neck.

  She let out a long sigh.

  “You’d best tell her the truth before it’s too late to tell, lad,” Mary called, hugging herself tightly. “Nightfall is coming.” The wind blew her short hair around her head, lending her a Troll doll appearance. “We’ve only got an hour, at best, and, presently, we have no great plans.”

  Lassi could barely hear her over the screeching wind. “This isn’t the best place to tell me something, Cillian. This wind—it’s fecking awful.”

  “I’m going to take her back behind the stones there,” Cillian called to Mary. His voice sounded clear and calm, holding a tone Lassi hadn’t heard before. He seemed to radiate power, confidence and a potent sexuality—the kind she’d only glimpsed.

  “All right, man, but you’d better make it quick.” Conway looked in every direction. “She could return at any second.”

  A shiver shook Lassi’s bones. “Who could return? Penny? Siobhan? Is this a widow exacting revenge kind of thing?”

  Cillian regarded her with a dark, somber expression. “No, love. Not Penny or Siobhan. The one who lives in this grave. She’s the one exacting revenge. And, Ryan’s right. We don’t have much time.”

  He flicked his gaze at the ball of light behind the clouds as it plummeted toward the horizon.

  Her knees turned to jelly. “Oh, my God.” The phrase emerged like a pleading moan. “You’re scaring me again, Cillian. I’m so fecking freaked out right now I can barely stand.”

  “You might be even more freaked by what I’m about to tell you, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped at this point.” He guided her toward the standing stones.

  She huddled into him. “You’re not exactly soothing me, Cillian.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be scaring you. But I hope you’ll understand why I didn’t want to tell you, as well as why it’s now time to share.” He took her hand and led her through an opening in the rocks.

  Lassi’s gaze swept the small enclosure. “I never thought to look in here. Who must have built this?”

  The stones pressed tightly together, forming a circle. No roof stood over their heads allowing the waning light to illuminate the space.

  She and Cillian had barely enough room between them, but at least the wind didn’t howl.

  “I did. I spend a lot of time here and the wind is horrid company.”

  “Right. Somehow I don’t believe you.” Her face crumpled in a frown. “These stones are huge.”

  His expression became unreadable.

  She pursed her lips, considering. “Okay, so talk to me.”

  With his back to one of the stones, he tipped her chin up toward him. “I need to taste you. You might not want me after you hear my story. At least grant me one last kiss.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he plundered her lips, as if he was a dying man.

  Whatever protests she might have had evaporated as she yielded to the kiss. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. This thing between them—whatever it was—simply couldn’t be denied.

  His hand wrapped around the back of her neck, while his other snaked around her ass, grinding her into his fat, throbbing cock.

  When he pulled away, the only thing she could think to say was, “Cillian.”

  “Yes, love?” His eyes were darkly shadowed.

  “I don’t want to hear anything. I don’t want to know what you want to tell me. I’d rather head home in ignorance, than deal with the fact you’re a murderer.”

  He stroked her cheek with his fingers. “Oh, Lassi. You’ve got to stay open. Can you do that for me?”

  His sea-green gaze searched her face.

  She met his eyes. Then she took a long, deep breath. “I’ll try. I don’t know what you’re going to tell me but I’ll at least try.”

  He nodded. Then, he slid down the stone to sit, tugging her to do the same.

  Once she’d landed in the sand, her only option in the small space was to drape her legs over his thighs until she nearly straddled him. Her back rested against one of the stones.

  His expression grew guarded. His eyes appeared hooded and mysterious. “All right. Here goes.” He cast his gaze up as if seeking guidance. When he brought his attention back to her face, he seemed resolved. “I’m...I’m older than you think.”

  She chuckled. “What? You’re in your thirties instead of your twenties?”

  He shook his head. “I’m two-hundred and fifty years old.”

  Her chu
ckle turned into a laugh. “Good one.”

  His focused, steady gaze made her stop laughing.

  “What do you mean you’re two-hundred and fifty? That’s a joke or a metaphor, right?”

  “It’s no joke, Lassi, love. I’m no longer human. At least some of the times I’m not.”

  Her skin iced over with fear. She wanted to back away but there was no place to go. “Oh, no. You’re not going to tell me you’re some sort of vampire and the Dearg-Due is your lover, are you?”

  “No. But I’m responsible for keeping her grave stacked with stones to prevent her from exiting and doing what she does.”

  She began to pant in quick bursts of air. “What are you saying? What, exactly, is a dead person capable of doing?’

  “She murders. I’m certain she’s responsible for all the recent deaths. Mutilation is her calling card.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said in a high-pitched voice.

  He nodded somberly. “It’s true. And, she’s methodical. Calculating. Her love was destroyed eons ago. She was forced to marry an ass. He abused her. Perhaps he killed her. Perhaps she took her own life. But ever since—she’s the mistress of revenge. No doubt she ripped out Dylan’s tongue because he was lying to himself and to his wife. He wanted Ailis. When Siobhan told me ‘vows in a marriage are to be taken seriously’ I had no doubt she felt deeply betrayed by her husband. Poor thing. And, in a similar fashion, the Dearg-Due undoubtedly tore the lips from Ailis’s face since she kissed Dylan.”

  Spikes of horror pounded through Lassi’s brain. She shoved against Cillian’s chest. It proved as effective as striking the massive stones around her. “Are you insane? How can you be speaking in such a manner? We live on a civilized planet. We don’t have zombies and vampires and several hundred-year-old men patrolling the planet.”

  He took her hands in his and kissed her fingertips. “In Ballynagaul we do. Well...no zombies as far as I know.” He gave her a clear, direct gaze indicating he was either a convincing psychopath liar, or...possessed over two-hundred years of wisdom.

  She refused to even entertain the latter possibility. He’s got to be a psychopath. One of my patients was married to a psychopath. He could tell you to your face your name wasn’t your name and you’d believe him. Her eyes narrowed. Play this carefully, Lassi, girl. You don’t know what Cillian is capable of yet. She drew from her nursing training, calming her beating heart.

  “I see,” she said, putting her most-composed nurse face on. You’ve got to let him think you believe him. “So, this vampire girl comes up out of her grave and murders one or more people, using her own moral compass to do nasty things to the bodies.”

  “Yes!” He seemed pleased she understood him.

  “How many does she kill before she gets her fill?”

  “She’ll go on and on until I stack stones on her grave. That’s my job.” His expression transformed into boyish delight.

  “I see. How can you lift such heavy stones?” She cast her gaze at the ginormous slabs of granite surrounding her.

  “I get them from the bottom of the sea.”

  She nodded. “So, you’re a super swimmer, is that it? The water’s deep out there. How do you manage? I’d think you’d burst a lung when you surfaced. Wait. Are you a scuba diver? Or, do you have one of those cool little ROVs that can patrol the sea floor?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t use scuba or an ROV. I swim.”

  “To the bottom of the ocean.”

  This guy’s a fecking lunatic. Maybe all of them are. Maybe Ballynagaul is a place where the crazy reside.

  He nodded vigorously.

  “You do seem rather ripped. That makes sense.”

  “Ripped?” His eyebrows drew together.

  “Muscular.” She reached out and squeezed his huge biceps.

  He glanced at her hand. “Oh, that. I used to be a blacksmith.”

  Lassi’s brow furrowed. “Right. In the 1700s.”

  “1796 to be exact. I was a blacksmith’s apprentice.” He chuckled. “Back then, I was a ladies’ man. They said I ‘cleaned up damn well and sported a clean cravat and linen shirt in a way that made women flip their petticoats in less than two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’”

  Oh, I could so see that. Amusement pushed its way through Lassi’s brain. She could almost picture him as a ladies’ man blacksmith. Stop it! Stop believing his lies.

  “But no lass would ever ankle shackle me, no sir.”

  She pasted on a smile. “Go on. No one could tie Cillian Ward down.”

  “Not until I met Rosalie Burns. I wanted her badly.” His expression grew sorrowful. “But, she was the first lass to ever say no to me. There might have been one other, but I had been eight and she seven at the time, and I may have bopped her over the head with my lunch pail when she burst into tears when I tried to kiss her. It’s not an incident I like to remember.”

  Lassi held back a giggle. This is the stuff of fiction. I never dreamed he had such a fanciful imagination.

  “Anyway, Rosalie Burns was so unlike anyone else. Beautiful, with black hair and flashing black eyes, red lips, pink cheeks, and the loveliest set of peaches ever to be hidden under a fichu.”

  “Fichu?”

  “Sorry, it’s a woman’s shawl.” Cillian flashed a small smile. “But, more than that, she was quiet and kind without any falsity or wearisome righteousness. In fact, Rosalie was extremely clever and possessed a wicked sense of humor, much as yourself. If ever there was a prize to be won, it was Rosalie Burns...until she stopped being a prize and started being the only one I wanted...for the rest of my life. I knew in my soul she was the one.”

  Cillian sounded so convincing as he wove this tale, pitchforks of jealousy stabbed at her insides. Stop it! He’s making up utter nonsense. Don’t fall for his fuckery. Still, the sharp prongs of jealous rage continued to lance her heart.

  “Fate is a funny thing.” He shook his head. “When I stopped chasing her, she gently and sweetly came to me and invited me to meet her at her father’s stables at midnight. Her family manor was at the edge of town. There was a pretty little meadow at the foot of a hill near the stables, and it would be lovely in the moonlight...” He lifted his head to meet her gaze. “I couldn’t believe my luck. It never occurred to me to refuse or to wait for the sanctity of marriage. I was a man who took what I wanted and thought it stupid to refuse anything offered in this hard-scrabble life of mine.”

  Lassi found herself sucked into the story. “So, you agreed to meet her and fuck her.”

  His head jerked and his gaze darkened. “I wanted to bed her, not fuck her.”

  “Excuse me. You wanted to make love to her, am I right?”

  He shook his head. “Not even that. I know it sounds quaint and provincial but that’s what it was like back then. I didn’t use the word ‘fuck’ often.”

  “Plow?” Lassi snorted.

  What could only be pure delight softened Cillian’s face. “Oh, sweet, Lassi. I wanted to stroke my fiddle bow into her Venus’s honeypot. Or slip the cat’s meat into her cock-trap. Or, plug my sugar stick into her crinkum crankum. Much as I’d like to do with you now.”

  “Crinkum crankum?” Lassi let out a guffaw. Her face grew hot. She drew back her hands and folded them —only it turned out to be sort of a tangle of her fingers directed toward her vajim-jam with her forefingers pointing straight at Cillian’s “sugar stick.” She placed her palms on her thighs and tried to clear her mind of lusty thoughts, remembering what Cillian’s sugar stick felt like in her mouth. “Get back to the story.”

  “I’d much rather thrust my bayonet into your mossy treasure.” He bore an expression of mischief.

  She’d never seen him so playful. “Stop,” she said, grinning, while batting his chest. “The story, remember?”

  He nodded and his face grew grim. “At eleven o’clock, I chickened out. I couldn’t defile her. I only wanted to treat her with respect, not sully her reputation. To cool my lust, I accepted the advances o
f Bree O’Connor, despite the fact her fanny had been hammered more times than a smithy’s anvil.” His eyebrows drew together, pulling his face into shadows. “I was an idiot back then. When I arrived at the stables at two o’clock in the morning, rehearsing the various excuses and apologies I would make, I found...nothing, except a gold ring. No Rosalie. The horses, though, were whinnying uneasily and there was something in the darkness that made my flesh crawl.”

  Lassi shuddered and pulled her coat tight. A memory popped into her brain. “Wait a minute. Gold ring? You’ve got a gold ring embedded in a man-made waterfall in the yard of the rectory. Is that...was that hers?” Her fingers itched remembering the sparks she’d experienced when touching it.

  “Yes. And the waterfall...well—we’ll get to the water part.” He balled his hands into fists before continuing. “I was consumed with worry and remorse. I called out for Rosalie, but no one answered. The horses became more agitated, and I began to search the stables, hoping she had perhaps simply fallen asleep. When I found her in the hayloft, lying on her side with her back to me and nestled against the prickly piles, I tried to feel relieved. But, the unnatural angle of her neck told me what I didn’t want to acknowledge.” He swallowed hard. When he resumed speaking, his voice cracked with pain. “I took a step toward her, but my boot didn’t make the straw crackle and snap. I stopped and lowered my lantern to the ground. Blood. Everywhere. Soaking the straw. Staining my boots. It was...” He wiped his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “It was Rosalie’s blood...or what was left of it.

  “Rosalie had been attacked by the Dearg-Due, her throat nearly ripped out from the ferocity of the feeding on her blood. But, the worst horror was yet to come. Numb with shock, I raised my lantern to look around, as if the creature was still hiding in the loft and could answer for its crimes. Instead, resting on the hay bale above Rosalie’s body were two eyeballs. Rosalie’s flashing black eyes had been ripped from her head and were staring at me—not with accusation, because that would mean she was alive to accuse. But with...nothing. Simply blank, emotionless dead orbs. Dead.”