by Lila Dubois
Séan crossed his arms. “We’re not leaving. I want to, but Sorcha won’t abandon this sinking ship.”
“You can’t leave. We don’t know what’s going on.”
“That’s why I’m taking her to my house. And when she comes to work, I’ll be here with her.”
“Merde.” Tristan shut his eyes and dropped his arms.
Elizabeth still hadn’t appeared. After their missing general manager, Sorcha was the person responsible for day-to-day hotel functions. She lived in a cottage on the grounds and handled all the problems and crises. With her off-site—and Elizabeth nonexistent—Glenncailty was in very real trouble of falling apart.
“What about Seamus?” Tristan asked. “What did he say? Did he know about Elizabeth?”
“We couldn’t find him.”
“What?”
“We checked his house and every room in the castle. We even called hotels in Trim and Navan to see if he’d gone there.”
“Do you think… Is Seamus a ghost too?” Tristan was starting to feel as crazy as Melissa thought he was.
“Maybe, but the scientist could see him, couldn’t she?”
“Yes, Melissa could see him. I still don’t understand how none of us knew about Elizabeth.”
Séan shook his head. “This place is dangerous.”
“I’m starting to agree.”
“Did you talk to Melissa, ask her why she couldn’t see Elizabeth?”
“She doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
“That’s it? She doesn’t believe? But there must be other people who’ve come to Glenncailty and met Elizabeth who don’t believe.”
“I think she’s…she’s different. She’s protected.”
Séan had been watching Sorcha as she bustled around the registration desk. His gaze snapped to Tristan.
“And what’s that, then, ‘protected’?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Tristan, if there’s something I can do to protect Sorcha, you have to be telling me.” Séan’s already thick accent was nearly incomprehensible as emotion colored his words.
“If I knew more I would tell you, my friend.”
“You never explained to me how you knew so much about what was going on in that godforsaken room.”
“I assume it’s his dead brother’s ghost.” Melissa, wearing a disposable white jumpsuit, walked up. She pushed a set of clear goggles up onto her head and unzipped the front of the suit, peeling it off to the waist and tying the sleeves around herself.
“Brother?” Séan looked between Tristan and Melissa.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed he knew.” Melissa looked Séan up and down.
“Non. I had not told him.” Tristan couldn’t even work up the energy to be angry.
“I’m sorry, Tristan. But I think he will believe you.”
“The way you still don’t?”
“I believe these things are real for you.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts?” Séan peered at Melissa as if he wasn’t entirely sure she was real. “After what you saw yesterday?”
“That’s just it. I didn’t see anything.”
“You know we saw it.”
“I know you all think you saw something.”
Séan made a sound that was suspiciously like a growl. “I’m damned tired of people refusing to believe this place is dangerous.”
“Oh no, I think it’s dangerous. Something here is creating the conditions that allow for the sort of mass delusion that you’re all experiencing.”
“Mass delusion?” Sorcha walked up to their little group. “We need to move this conversation out of the foyer. We don’t want the guests overhearing.”
“You need to close the hotel, Sorcha.” Séan took the bag from her shoulder as they walked.
“I can’t do that without Seamus’ okay. I took the website offline so no one can register, and I’ve instructed the front desk staff to tell anyone who calls that we’re full. I can blame the website on a technical glitch.”
“I’ve told you before that this place is dangerous.”
“Séan, I know.” Sorcha ushered them into the sunlight-filled morning room under the stairs. It was staged like a drawing room with multiple seating arrangements. Primarily used for private events, it was usually closed, though when the hotel was full they opened it up in the afternoon and served tea. “I believe you, my love, but I’ve been thinking about it. Let’s say we cancel all the reservations and send the staff away. What will happen?”
“I’ll help everyone find jobs,” Séan said, rubbing Sorcha’s arm.
Sorcha shook her head, and Tristan realized the guest relations manager had been thinking the same thing he had.
“All we do if we close the hotel is lock the problem away,” Tristan said, picking up the thread Sorcha had started weaving.
“How is that a bad thing?” Séan asked.
“If Glenncailty hadn’t opened as a hotel, if you, Séan, hadn’t been possessed, would we have even looked in that room? Those souls would have been trapped forever. There is a feeling here, a feeling of…finality,” Tristan said. “As if we have to see this through.”
“Exactly.” Sorcha sighed in relief. “Thank you, Tristan. That’s what I’m feeling too. Whatever’s happening here needs to be dealt with, now.”
Séan crossed his arms, his jaw clenched. “I have no liking for this, but I also don’t want my great-grandchildren traipsing around this godforsaken building a hundred years from now after I’m dead and everyone has forgotten what we’ve locked inside.”
Sorcha flushed at the mention of great-grandchildren but nodded in agreement.
“If I may sum up?” Melissa had been watching and listening.
Tristan tried not to be offended by the fact that she treated them like subjects to be studied.
“Despite what, from all appearances, was a traumatic experience in the nursery, compounded by the apparent dissolution of your general manager during my presentation, you all are agreeing to remain here and continue your respective jobs, in order to fight and/or resolve the paranormal issues you perceive.”
Sorcha smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I can understand how that might seem strange to you, Dr. Heavey, but yes, that is essentially correct. If you’ve completed the work with the bones, then I don’t believe your services are needed anymore.”
That was the politest “fuck off” Tristan had ever heard. Séan looked impressed. Tristan was a little impressed too, though he had to suppress an urge to jump to Melissa’s defense. The best thing for all of them would be for Melissa to leave. Having her there doubting everything that was happening wasn’t helpful.
But he didn’t want her to go.
Melissa tipped her head to the side. “It’s impressive that you’re able to maintain that facial expression while angry.”
Tristan snorted, pressing his fist over his mouth to cover the laugh.
Melissa crossed her arms over her waist, and Tristan noticed that she cradled her left arm with her right. “First of all, it’s clear that there’s something wrong here. We just disagree as to the source of these problems. I have a rule that I do not run away from difficult situations, whatever the cause. Second, there’s the matter of the desecrated graveyard.”
“What?” Sorcha asked.
“I didn’t get a chance to talk about it in my presentation. There’s a graveyard next to the church behind the garden wall.”
“There shouldn’t be,” Séan said. “That would have been a Church of Ireland church, or maybe even Anglican. From what I always heard, the English who died here took their dead back to England rather than be buried in Ireland.”
“I assure you there are graves there. A lost graveyard isn’t exactly notable, but I suspect that it wasn’t accidentally lost. It looks like at least one of the gravestones was purposefully knocked down and defaced.”
“That might explain what happened to Caera,” Sorcha said.
“Who’s that?” Melissa
asked.
“Our special events manager. She had a ghost encounter that…well, it almost killed her. She was near the back wall when it happened, and she said that it was the ghost of a girl who hanged herself in the church.”
“We saw something out there,” Tristan said. He caught sight of Melissa’s exasperated expression and bit down on his anger. “I mean, I saw something.”
“What?” Sorcha asked.
“Darkness. Just darkness.”
Sorcha leaned into Séan, who wrapped one arm around her. “I don’t think we can deal with anything else right now,” Sorcha said. “Melissa, the graveyard will have to wait.”
“I’m sorry, but it can’t. I already called the National Museum.”
“Why?”
“Depending on the age of the graves this may be of major historical significance. I also told them about the bones and what we were able to piece together. The museum was very interested. The historical records don’t mention anything going on in this region during the times we’re talking about. Historical records will have to be updated to reflect what we’ve learned. Because of that, the museum has arranged for a preliminary excavation.”
Tristan blew out a breath and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Merde.”
“What?” Melissa asked.
“The last thing we need are more people here digging around and poking at bones,” Séan growled.
“Well, the National Museum doesn’t exactly have the resources to send someone out here right now. They asked a well-respected professor from Trinity to do the preliminary work and report back. They’ll send an archaeological team if needed.”
“Does that mean you’re leaving?” Tristan asked, at the same time Séan said, “Who is the professor?”
Melissa met Tristan’s gaze and said, “Me.”
* * * *
“You’re a professor at Trinity too?” Tristan put his boot on the lip of the shovel and pushed it into the topsoil.
“I hold appointments with several universities.” Melissa stood on a ladder just outside the string boundary of the excavation area. “I was actually thinking about staying in Dublin for a bit, once I was healed.”
“You like Ireland?”
“I do. I spent most summers here when I was growing up, then three years at UCD.”
“You sound English.” Séan dumped a shovelful of soil into a marked bucket.
“Well, I am. My father still has his Irish accent, but I spent very little time with children my age when in Ireland. People assume that vocal inflection and speech patterns, commonly referred to as an accent, comes from the parents. That’s incorrect. It actually comes from peers.”
“C’est vrai?” Tristan took his bandana from his pocket and tied it around his forehead. The air was cool, but with the sun beating down he was sweating. “Interesting.”
Melissa didn’t respond. He looked up and caught her staring at him, her tongue between her teeth. Tristan drove the shovel deep into the soil, making sure his back and shoulders flexed. His sweaty T-shirt was sticking to him, and it seemed that Melissa was enjoying the show.
“Did you…ah, say something?”
“Just that you know interesting things.”
“Jaysus.” Séan was resting one arm on the shovel, looking between them and shaking his head.
“Problem?” Tristan asked.
“I have better things to be doing today then digging holes and watching you flirt.”
“You’re one to talk.” Tristan raised one brow. “I had to watch you pining for Sorcha for years.”
“I wasn’t…it was…feck off.”
Tristan laughed, then went back to clearing topsoil from one of the square areas Melissa had marked off. It was Monday, and the restaurant was closed. He’d spent the morning in the kitchen making sure they were set up to handle the pub menu, and also that the catering order for a small luncheon the next day was prepped. Once that was done, he’d come out to serve as a laborer in Melissa’s excavation.
She’d talked about bringing in archaeology grad students from Trinity or UCD, but neither Tristan nor Séan had wanted that. After a heated negotiation, they’d agreed to do the digging themselves. The first order of business was to mow down the grass, which Séan had done. Now they were digging away the topsoil.
“I have to go.” Séan finished scraping the soil flat in the square he’d been clearing.
“I thought you were going to help dig.” Melissa came down the ladder.
“I have a farm to run. If I don’t start killing off sheep for mutton that one—” he jerked his thumb at Tristan, “—will keep bitching.”
“If you Irish didn’t enjoy things like stew so much, I wouldn’t need mutton.”
“Some spuds and meat isn’t too much to ask.”
“I pity Sorcha, a lifetime of cooking spuds and meat for you…” Tristan shook his head in mock sadness.
“That sounds like a pretty good life to me.” Sorcha picked her way through the still-standing grass between the garden wall and the graveyard. She smiled at Séan, and for a moment there was such pure happiness on her face that Tristan had to look away.
“I don’t expect you to cook for me,” Séan said, setting aside his shovel. He reached for her, then looked at his dirty hands and instead shoved them in his pockets. Sorcha was pressed and professional in a tailored maroon dress, her nametag shiny in the daylight. The only incongruous note was her rubber Wellington boots.
Tristan looked from the happy couple to Melissa. She was looking at them with an odd expression on her face. Their gazes met and she turned away, scribbling on the clipboard she held.
“You need to go. I just came out to remind you,” Sorcha said.
“I’m ready.” Séan waved, then followed Sorcha back toward the castle.
“How long have they been together?” Melissa asked when they were gone.
“Not long—days. The situation at the castle forced them to deal with each other.”
“Did they have a past?”
“I don’t know for sure. But ever since I started, I’ve watched him watch her. It killed him every time she looked at someone else.”
“And he didn’t do anything about it?”
“That is not the Irish way.”
“There’s an Irish way?”
“Long-suffering and pining.”
Melissa laughed. “She must have been quite surprised when she realized he had feelings for her.”
“Ah, no, she’s Irish too. I think she knew, but she didn’t want to risk being with him.”
Melissa knelt and started photographing the topography. Once the grass had been cut down, it had been obvious what she was talking about—the mounds of the graves were easily discernible.
“What about you?” Tristan asked, watching the way the light played over her hair. She wore tan pants with pockets and zippers all over them, a tank top that dipped low enough to show off her cleavage and a large button-up shirt worn open over the top like a jacket. Now that he knew what had happened to her arm he couldn’t help but notice the way she favored her right side.
“What about me?”
“Have you ever been surprised to find out someone had feelings for you?”
“I expected better of you.” Jacques was sitting on top of the ladder, his elbow propped on his knee.
Tristan bared his teeth at his brother’s ghost. He didn’t need an audience for this conversation.
“No. If someone had secret feelings for me, I never found out about it.”
“Your lovers have been direct?”
“My lovers?” Melissa sat back and looked at him.
“You’re a disgrace to all French men.”
“Am I inappropriate?”
“No. Chatting will pass the time.” She fiddled with her camera. “I just never really thought about them as my ‘lovers’.”
“What term do you prefer? Boyfriend, like the Americans?”
“No. I guess that I’ve had an odd ex
perience. I didn’t really have a relationship in secondary school or at university.”
“I find it hard to believe that the men of both England and Ireland are so foolish as to have ignored someone so beautiful.”
“Better, but not good. Stop pretending and playing games. Tell her she is the most beautiful woman in the world and that you want to make love to her.”
“I doubt you would have thought I was beautiful. I was chubby when I was in school. I studied at this little cafe near campus, and I would reward myself with biscuits and tea whenever I completed an assignment.”
“You would still be beautiful no matter what you weighed.”
“It’s funny, normally when I come home from an overseas project I spend two months eating all my favorite foods. I gain two stone and then as soon as I leave for the next mission, I lose it again.”
“You say that normally you weigh twenty pounds less?” Tristan assessed her. “You do not have that to lose.”
“Ah, no. This time when I came home was different. This time…” She shook her head.
“Tell me.”
“The pain.” She tipped her face up to the sun and took a deep breath. “I’ve been in pain for a long time. It’s hard to sleep, hard to eat.” She smiled at him. “I guess the silver lining is that I stayed skinny.”
Tristan threw down his shovel and hopped over the string markers.
“You are still in pain?”
“Sometimes.” She bit her lip and looked away, blinking.
“You do not deserve to suffer. You are good. In a world of horror and evil, you are good.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I try. But it’s hard. Sometimes…I get so angry at what happened to me.”
A tear slid down her cheek. Tristan’s heart broke. He gathered her into his arms, stroking her back. She shuddered, and felt so frail in his arms that a wave of fear swept over him. Melissa was damaged—she was, as they said, walking wounded. He understood Séan’s desire to take Sorcha away from this place, to protect her even if it meant damning the whole rest of the world.
“I will protect you,” he whispered against her hair in French, hoping she wouldn’t hear.
