Graham answered with a quick laugh. “You don’t really think Mary would let anyone, for a single second, put her reputation in jeopardy, do you? That woman lives for what comes out of those doors.”
He was right; Mary was in complete control. Helena thought back to the first day she had met Mary Margaret—the woman had made more than sure that Helena knew her role in the kitchens. Yet, once she’d proven herself, Mary had been kind. She had been Helena’s first true ally at the manor, and one of her closest friends, but they hadn’t seen much of each other since Helena had buried herself in work at the hospital.
The waitress came out holding two fry-ups. The eggs looked delicious—perfect yellow runniness with a firm white edge. Yet, as hungry as she should have been, Helena couldn’t do anything but push beans and bits of egg around her plate with her fork.
“It’s going to be okay, Helena,” Graham said. “Everything. We’ll get through this.”
“How? I feel more afraid than ever before.” She hated saying the word aloud. It made her sound weak and frail.
He pointed out the window. Across the street was the Boar’s Head Inn. It was the nicer of the two inns in town. Its front door was made of heavy hardwood, stained dark by centuries of visitor’s hands.
“The men from the stables—if they’re simply visiting the village, they’re probably staying there. If we don’t see them come out, we’ll go over there and talk to whoever is working the desk and see if we can find anything out.”
It was going to go just about as well as it had with the waitress. They had so little to work with. Graham had never seen the man’s face, and she’d barely seen him at all.
Graham was picking at his food just as she had been, giving his nervousness away. He must have known their chances as well, but maybe he was right to keep his feelings to himself.
She opened her mouth to speak, but there was a long creak as the front door to the shop opened. Looking up from her steadily cooling eggs, she watched in horror as her da stumbled in and collapsed on the wooden floor.
He looked at her. “Gra...” As the word tumbled from his lips, his knees gave out, and he slumped to the ground.
His blood pooled on the floor as a strangled scream tore from the depths of Helena’s soul.
Chapter Twelve
HELENA GROUNDED HER body, pushing the bad energy and fear out of her system and pulling in the rejuvenating energy of the world. She tried to breathe as electricity poured through her, filling her with what could only be described as the light of the earth—its heat burned and roiled inside of her. Yet, as she opened her eyes and looked down at Da, some of the energy seeped back into the ground.
“Da? Da? Wake up,” she begged.
He didn’t move.
Placing her fingers to his neck, she checked for a pulse. She found nothing.
“Da, stay with me. Please. Please.”
There was nothing else in the world; she was nowhere, and all that existed was Da as she begged for anything that resembled even a sluggish heartbeat.
She placed her hand on his chest, right over his heart, and closed her eyes. She had to heal him. She had to. He was all her family had. He was the only one who could keep what was left of them together.
The energy seeped from her fingers as she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on her da’s needs. There was a deep pain in his core, springing from his back and moving up to his heart.
What had happened to him?
Though she tried to focus on the pain, on wrapping her energy around the injuries in his chest, tears slipped from her eyes and splashed onto her hands.
He needed her. She had to be present. If he was going to have even a chance of surviving, she had to give this everything. She couldn’t let her emotions get in the way.
She gasped for air as she tried to control herself.
Graham stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. There was something comforting about his touch and the way his energy drifted into her, filling her with a new, stronger light. Her fingers warmed, almost as though her power had been amplified. The weakest point in the circuit was where her and Da’s bodies were touching.
She closed her eyes and pooled her energy around his still heart, massaging and pressing it as she tried to urge the muscle back into motion. At its bottom was a painful orb. Helena didn’t know what kind of injury it was, but she forced her energy there, and tried to use it to knit the flesh and cool the pain. Yet, as she worked, something in Da’s body seemed to reject the energy, pushing it back just as hard as she tried to push it to the point in his heart where the pain resided.
“Da...Da...please. I’ve got to...ya need me...” As she pleaded, her mind told her she was speaking to a dead man, yet her heart refused to let her believe there was nothing to be done.
“I need you, Da,” she sobbed, giving in to the emotions that boiled over.
For a split second, she felt his heart quiver inside the bubble of energy, but as quickly as it had come, it disappeared—and with its disappearance came a realization that broke her heart.
She had failed.
Da was gone.
*.*.*
It was a rare thing to watch a world be shattered, and Graham had no idea what to do. The police were working their way through the area, taking statements, and as Helena spoke to them, tears streamed down her face and splashed on the ever-spreading blot of wetness on her dress. Her hair was strewn across her forehead, stuck to her cheeks with Seamus’s blood.
Her aura pulsed dark red with agony and stress. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to hold her until the pain left her body. No matter how long it took—weeks, months, years—it didn’t matter; he would be there.
A police officer walked over to him. The man was as wide as the gelding from the stables and, by the look of the crooked scar across his cheek, probably just as unpredictable.
“How well did you know the victim?” the officer asked, letting his white shirt and badge introduce him. He offered no platitudes.
“He was an employee of the manor and my...” What did he call Helena now? She was more than an employee and definitely more than just a friend. “He was my girlfriend’s father.”
The man’s eyes widened with poorly disguised curiosity. “Would you say you had an antagonistic relationship with your girlfriend’s father? Did you ever have any disagreements?”
Was the man really questioning him? How could he think he was responsible for Seamus’s death?
“Of course not. Seamus was my friend.”
Then he remembered the fight he and Seamus had once had, but that had been months ago. He held back from telling the officer. Only Graham, Helena, and Seamus really knew about their disagreement, and he didn’t want the officer to spend time coming after him when the real killer was on the loose somewhere—a killer who might or might not be involved with the HG.
“Is it true that Mr. O’Driscoll was part of the Traveller community?” the officer asked. His face was pinched with disgust, as though even speaking of the Pavee community left a sour taste on his tongue.
Graham couldn’t allow the man’s hatred to get in the way. He couldn’t allow Seamus’s death to go uninvestigated, like so many other Travellers’ deaths had before.
“Mr. O’Driscoll was first and foremost a good man. A man who didn’t deserve to die. A man whose death deserves to be understood. The culprit must be brought to justice. I’m sure it is in your best interest to keep anything else like this from happening. Am I correct, sir?”
The man suddenly had a need to look at the toes of his shoes. “In cases like these, with Travellers at the center, we find that our resources can often be better spent elsewhere.”
“Better spent?” He hated nothing more than a bigot—especially one who was supposed to stand for a higher moral standard than the general public. “This has nothing to do with his cultural background. This has to do with the fact that an innocent man was killed in a normally peaceful and quiet town—a to
wn that is currently being overrun by a notorious group of racists.”
“I didn’t see it written anywhere that he was killed by anyone involved in...what group did you say was staying in the village?”
Was the officer really unaware of the criminal elements that currently resided in the town—in the hotel across the street, even?
“The HG. The Humanity Group.”
The man nodded, but he didn’t seem at all surprised. The bastard was playing some kind of stupid game. Graham wasn’t in the mood, not as he looked over to where the coroner was making notes and another officer was taking pictures of the body. Helena was sitting in the same spot she’d been in when Seamus had appeared in the shop, but now her shoulders were shaking as she sobbed.
Seeing her in so much pain only angered him more.
“They killed him,” he said bluntly.
“Who is they?” the officer asked, looking back at Seamus’s body with an unemotional nod of the head, like the man was just another in the long list of dead he’d seen.
No matter what happened, no matter how much death Graham had seen, he promised himself then and there that he would never become that man—totally devoid of emotion in the face of someone else’s tragedy.
“They. The HG. The leaders. They hate Travellers. When you investigate who did this, that’s where you should start, and I think you damned well know it, but your bigotry is blinding you to the truth.”
The officer crossed his arms over his chest as though shielding himself from Graham’s judgment. “Who’s the real bigot here, Mr. Kelly? From where I’m standing, you’re the one who is filled with hate. Not the men and women of the HG. I’ve not heard a single thing from their camp that has called for a criminal act—in fact, their rally has been far easier to handle than any Traveller event I’ve worked.”
Graham snorted. “They talk freely about how all Travellers and others—” he said the word aware that the officer probably knew nothing of his kind “—should be killed or deported from this country. How is that not hate?”
“I’ve never heard them talk about killing anyone.”
“Then you haven’t been listening hard enough.”
The man laughed, the sound hard and cynical. “If anyone needs to readjust their thinking here, it’s you. Have you ever stopped to consider the fact that since you hired gypsies at your manor you have been involved, in no small way, in two suspicious deaths? Don’t you think that’s a larger red flag than the words of a group that wants to promote social change?”
“I had nothing to do with Chester’s death. And nothing to do with Seamus’s.”
The man answered with a flippant shrug. “I would look at your friends before you start judging others.” The man turned, not waiting for a response, and he made his way over to the waitress who had served them their breakfast.
Graham had never wanted to punch an officer of the law before, but there was a first time for everything.
One thing was for sure—they were going to be on their own in trying to find out who was behind Seamus’s death.
On the other hand, with Neill’s death, the last thing they needed was the cops meddling in their business. They weren’t guilty, but if the police learned about the mysterious death...it would mean their necks would be on the line. The law would take no pity on them, not after the officer had made his real feelings known. They didn’t need any more trouble.
A thought struck him. If he and Helena knew about the lack of police interest, the HG had to have known as well. And if they knew that the police wouldn’t follow up on any wrongdoings, they could kill Travellers and the like at their leisure, without fear of prosecution—or even an investigation. They could kill and run. They could use murder as a diversion. While he and Helena were focused on Seamus’s death, they could do as they pleased without fear of anyone interfering—particularly at the hospital.
If he was right, the supernaturals there were in danger—dozens lay in those hospital beds, innocent and unaware of the danger coming for them.
The HG could kill, unimpeded by him, unimpeded by the law.
That was it. They were using this. They were using Seamus to hurt and control them.
Those bastards.
He moved to Helena and put his hand on her lower back. “Helena, are you okay?” he asked, not wanting to alarm her.
Maybe he had this all wrong, but he had a sickening feeling he was right.
She looked up at him and threw herself into his arms. She wept on his shoulder, her body rattling with deep, hysterical sobs.
“I loved him too. I’m so sorry, Helena.” He ran his hand over her hair.
Instead of making her feel better, it was as if his words threw her over the edge, and she made a strange wheezing sound. Her shaking stopped and she leaned back. Her body went rigid and she fell back.
“Home. Take me home.” Her eyes rolled up into her head.
“Helena, no...don’t. Not here. Not now. They can’t see. Don’t leave me,” he pleaded, watching her fall back into the coma they had fought to pull her from not so very long ago. She couldn’t leave him again. Not now. He needed her. They needed each other.
“I need you,” he continued to plead. “You’re the strong one; if you go, I don’t know what I’ll do. Please...”
The officer he had been talking to looked at him, brows furrowed.
If the man saw Helena, she would be sent to a regular hospital. They would tuck her away. She wouldn’t get the right help. She would be lost to the darkness forever.
“No. Helena. No. Angel, Liam, Gavin—they won’t make it out of here without you and your father. Please,” he whispered.
He couldn’t let them win, and neither could Helena.
Lifting her into his arms, he pressed her face against his neck. “She needs to get out of here. She’s exhausted. You can direct your questions to Adare Manor’s lawyer.”
The officer stood dumbstruck and staring. His mouth opened, but before he could say anything, Graham turned and walked out of the cafe and to his car.
Helena shuddered in his arms. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and her body started to convulse in a seizure. Gently, he pulled her closer, and prayed for her to be okay. He should have laid her on the ground and kept her from biting her tongue, but he couldn’t let their enemies see her in this state. They would take advantage of it; word would spread to the HG that they had taken down not only Seamus, but his daughter as well.
Chapter Thirteen
SHE STOOD STUCK IN that moment in time. Da was lying on the floor, blood pooling around him, and the world spun and darkened, moving out of focus like an old movie. Her field of vision shrank, and her reality was taken over.
Helena tried to push away the gray when she heard Graham pleading for her not to leave. Yet no matter how hard she struggled, the clouds grew thicker, pulling her deeper into the vision. Instead of a moment in the future, the vision centered on Da—the way the blood spread, soaking his salt-and-pepper hair. The wetness was a contrast to his dry skin, the way it cracked at the corners of his lips. Lips that would no longer open and tell her everything would be all right.
Nothing was ever going to be the same.
She had thought life had been hard since coming to the manor, but now everything seemed to come into focus. She had everything she had ever wanted—a wonderful home, family members who supported her, a man who had seemed to love her, and a father who would have done everything in his power to make her dreams come true.
And yet she’d spent her time thinking about what was wrong with her present and what had been right about her past. She had been living in her memories and, for so long, in a world built on the expectations of others. She had been trying to make everyone happy and do the right thing, but she had constantly found herself falling short—and ultimately feeling disappointed.
She should have concentrated on the good things in life. She should have been grateful. More than that, she should have held onto the ones she loved�
�her da, her sister, and Graham. Yet over the last few months, she had pushed all of them away.
As she stood in the silence of the gray mist, she was met with the sound of hooves and the whinny of a horse in the distance. There was the clatter of what vaguely sounded like bells, but drier, more hollow and wooden. She blinked, the action slow and deliberate, as she tried to recall exactly where she had heard that sound before.
The wooden sound of the bells grew nearer, and with them came a pungent, earthy smell—the scent of death and decay. The Dullahan.
The coach-a-bower pulled to a stop next to her da’s body. The phantom driver sat high in the driver’s seat with a whip made of a human spine beside him. The driver’s rotting head was tucked tightly under his arm. His beady black eyes glanced in her direction, and his putrid mouth opened as if to speak.
In a panic, she searched the ground for anything made of gold—anything that would keep the phantom of death at bay and make it impossible for him to steal their souls. She searched the cafe’s tables, but there was nothing.
“No!” she screamed. “No!”
She tried to run to Da, to throw her body atop his and keep them both in this world. Yet, even as she tried, it was as if someone were gluing her feet to the floor with Da’s blood. She pulled, and as she moved, she could feel something pressing against her arms...
Fingers. Looking down to where she could sense the touch, though, she saw nothing.
The sensation was strange—otherworldly.
“Ah...” the phantom said. His voice was hollow and as off-putting as his head.
The black horses pulling the coach lifted their heads. Their eyes were bloody, and the liquid dripped down their faces and splattered to the ground, mixing with her father’s blood. The horse nearest her stomped, pawing at the ground with nervous energy. The skin on the beast’s leg was torn back, flapping downward and covering the hoof with mangled flesh.
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