by Lila Dubois
“I…can’t.” Tristan said, his voice filled with both horror and resignation.
Melissa had had enough. She wouldn’t let this go on any longer. Since Sorcha now seemed relatively normal, she went to Tristan. Taking his wrist in her right hand, she took his pulse—it was racing. Whatever he thought was going on, it was having a true physical effect on him. “All right, I believe you believe there’s something going on here.”
Tristan laughed, but it was a sad sound. “You don’t trust what you can’t see?”
“I’ve seen more dead bodies, graves and horrifying things than most people,” Melissa told him quietly. “Trust me, if there were ghosts, I’d know about it.”
It was time to end this. Leaving Tristan in the doorway, she went to her kit and pulled out a few things she always carried with her. “Ghosts, or memories, or whatever you want to call them, don’t exist, but people’s reactions are very real. That I can help with.” She took two road flares and an emergency horn out of the bottom of the kit.
“Most major religions have exorcism rituals,” she said. She’d found that explaining often helped people snap out of it. “They are called a variety of things. I’m not a cultural anthropologist, so I wouldn’t be able to tell you what the exact commonalities and differences are, but I know there are similar elements used in most. The first is fire.”
She popped the caps from the flares. There was a hiss and then red flame sputtered to life. She turned in a circle, moving slowly and solemnly. There was no mocking in what she did—her belief in the supernatural was non-existent. Her belief in the human mind and the need for ritual was ironclad.
“The second common element is sound.” Holding up the emergency beacon, she braced herself and pressed the button. The siren was so loud it was nearly physically painful. Sorcha and Séan both bolted from the room, hands clapped over their ears.
Melissa released the button. The sound stopped, the silence almost as deafening as the siren. She focused on Tristan.
“They’re gone,” he said. “That worked. The memories are gone.”
They were avoiding her.
Melissa couldn’t blame them, but it still hurt. It had been two days, and she was almost done with the bones. Ever since they’d suffered from a collective delusion, Tristan and Sorcha had given her a wide berth. They were friendly when she saw them—Sorcha in the lobby and Tristan in the parking lot when he was on his way out to the car and she was on her way in again after a trip to Dublin for supplies.
She’d left a message with the front desk, asking Sorcha if she’d supply Melissa with the documents she and Séan had found. The papers had been waiting for her at the door to her room a few hours later. She had a meeting in the morning with Seamus O’Muircheartaigh, the owner of Glenncailty, and Elizabeth Jefferies, the general manager.
She’d give them a verbal report on what she knew, provide them with a written report, a CD of the 3D rendering she’d made, as well as all the photos she’d taken. The bones were neatly boxed up. Jurisdiction over them was up to Detective Sergeant Oren, whom she’d called. He wasn’t able to be there for the meeting in the morning, but she’d agreed to forward him all of her findings.
Her back hurt from being bent over her computer, and her left forearm was aching from typing. The sun was just starting to set. Changing from slippers to socks and boots, she grabbed her jacket and headed out for a walk.
She took the exit at the end of the hall, following the path that led away from the castle deep into the gardens. They were expansive and a beautiful mix of manicured perfection and wild vegetation. Her purposeful walk slowed until she was simply wandering, occasionally touching the flowers she passed. The garden was banded on three sides by high stone walls, the fourth being the castle itself. Beyond the back wall of the castle there were several buildings, one of which she guessed was a church. When she ran across a gate in the wall, her curiosity got the better of her and she slipped through it. A pretty little church, its yard overgrown, was surrounded by tall grass. Beside it was a stone cottage with a low ironwork fence, the yard inside it neatly kept. There was a light on in the windows of the cottage.
Respecting the privacy of whoever lived there, she headed for the church. The wooden door was half-rotted, half-petrified. She poked her head in, looking at the cross that still hung on the wall. The wind picked up, cutting through the fabric of her pants. Melissa shivered and backed up, planning to return to the castle.
The ground beside the church caught her eye. Unlike the castle gardens, or even the area around the stone cottage, the land here was lumpy, the tall grass not enough to hide the tightly grouped mounds.
Melissa blew out a breath. Stepping carefully, she walked the area, drawing a topographical map in her mind. It was too uneven to be natural, especially in the floor of a valley. There was something under here.
One of her best friends and travel buddies was an archaeologist. She could scan a landscape and point out places where there was something under the soil—what to Melissa would look like a little hill or natural valley would, to her friend, scream out “dig me up!”
Melissa could do the same thing—with graveyards.
She picked the highest mound and started ripping up grass. It took her half an hour, and the light was nearly gone before she hit stone. Using her phone as a torch, Melissa looked at the small area she’d excavated. There was stone six inches under the soil—probably a gravestone that had been knocked over.
A forgotten graveyard wasn’t unheard of. The church beside it clearly wasn’t functioning anymore, meaning there was no one to care for or maintain the cemetery. Melissa touched the stone, running her fingers over it—part of it was smooth, the other part of it strangely rough. She brought her phone closer. There was a date, but it was so badly damaged she had trouble making it out. It looked like 1632, but she might be wrong. The space above that, where there should have been a name, had been hacked away.
“This isn’t forgotten,” she whispered into the wind. “It was desecrated.”
Shivering not with the cold but with horror at the realization, she stood. Beyond the wall the main and east wings of the castle were bright with light. A hidden room with bodies, a graveyard that had been desecrated and forgotten.
There was something black in the history of this place.
Chapter Five
Tristan looked at the clock on the wall of the kitchen.
He wasn’t going. He’d decided last night.
Cutting the dough into long strips, he then quickly sectioned off triangles and rolled the croissants. He wasn’t a baker, but there was something soothing about the focus and attention it took to bake, especially something as temperamental as croissants.
He put the croissants into the oven, nodding to the baker, who, at eight a.m., was nearly done making the bread, rolls and pastries for the day. Normally Tristan didn’t come in until after she was done, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. Setting a timer for the croissants, he cleaned up his workspace.
“Tristan, are you coming?”
Tristan looked up to see Sorcha leaning in the main kitchen door. She was smiling and seemed to be nearly glowing with happiness. After the horror of the other night, she and Séan were spending every non-working moment together.
While Tristan was still haunted by what had happened in the nursery, Sorcha and Séan seemed well recovered. Tristan was sure that the sex they were having helped. He, unfortunately, was celibate as a monk. The only woman he’d met lately who interested him was Dr. Heavey—who thought he was a delusional idiot.
“No, I’m not going.”
“Tristan, you should. You were there.” Sorcha checked her watch.
“I have work to do. I cannot attend a meeting that has nothing to do with the kitchen.”
From what he’d heard, Melissa was planning to explain to Seamus what she’d learned from examining the remains.
“Are you well?” Sorcha released the door, stepping fully into the kitchen.
“I’m busy.”
“I know you are, we all are, but this is important.”
“You do not need me there.” Tristan folded his arms, ignoring both Sorcha’s frown and Jacques’ glare.
“Have you talked to her?” Sorcha asked quietly.
Tristan didn’t need to ask who she was talking about. “No.”
“Neither have I. With the party and everything else—” Sorcha’s lips twitched in a little smile, “—I haven’t had the chance.”
Sorcha’s reasons were sound and logical—Tristan’s were not. He was embarrassed and angry. Embarrassed that he’d been nearly overcome with the presence of the horrifying ghost memories and angry at Melissa for being so unaffected. He felt like a fool, and he was sure she thought he was one, or worse.
She was maddening, strange, bossy and gorgeous—he didn’t want to see those pretty green eyes looking at him with pity or disappointment.
The exterior door opened and Séan tromped in, carrying the cooler of meat for the day. Tristan hustled over, but Séan held on to the box.
“I’m putting this in the fridge,” he said. “You can have it after the meeting. Sorcha texted me that you aren’t going.”
“Non. I need to prepare.” Tristan glared at Sorcha.
“It only takes you five minutes to cook a steak.” Séan shoved the whole cooler into the room-sized refrigerator.
“It should only take five minutes to cook a steak. What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’ve got it, Chef.” Jim said as he came in. The fry chef put his wallet, jacket and hat in his basket and tied on an apron. He took the cooler out and started unpacking it.
Séan folded his arms. “I don’t want to do this either, but we have to.”
Tristan was aware they had an audience—the kitchen staff were arriving for the day, and though they were all pretending they were too busy doing something else, he knew they were hanging on every word.
Sorcha stood beside him and whispered, “If you really don’t want to go, we’ll leave you be. I understand that you don’t want to be reminded of what you saw.”
Tristan stood in the middle of his kitchen—it was his domain, the place where he was totally in control, and yet he felt powerless. At this point it would be strange if he continued to insist that he wouldn’t go. Sorcha’s assumption, that he couldn’t face a reminder of what they’d seen, made sense. For most people that experience would be debilitating. Sorcha and Séan had each other to mute the horror of what they’d been through. He didn’t have anyone, but what he’d seen in the nursery was nothing compared to what he’d seen in the past.
“You need to be there, brother,” Jacques said.
Giving in, Tristan took off his bandana and apron, dropping them into the laundry on the way out the door.
Melissa was fiddling with the settings on the projector when they walked in. They were in a still-under-construction room on the second floor of the mews. The first floor had a lovely indoor pool and sauna, while the upper rooms were destined to be a spa. This area would be the main waiting room, though at the moment it was only bare plastered walls. Eight chairs were set up in two neat rows of four, and a table at the front had a stack of reports as well at the laptop and projector.
Tristan hung back, making sure Sorcha and Séan were the first ones into the room.
Melissa looked up. Her hair was loose, shining in the morning light that spilled in through the windows. She wore tailored black slacks with a lovely long tunic on top. The tunic was done in shades of black, silver and gray. She was a mix of professional and bohemian, though Tristan suspected that her look came from a wardrobe purchased in exotic locations rather than from trendy boutiques selling expensive ethnic-style garments.
Melissa looked at each of them in turn. When her gaze passed to him, Tristan glanced away, examining the walls.
“You’re an idiot,” his brother said. “Talk to her.”
Tristan ignored him.
“You are scared of a little English girl?” Jacques shook his head. He was opaque at the moment, looking as real as he had when he was alive.
“Shut up,” Tristan muttered, taking a seat in the rear row of chairs, beside Séan and Sorcha.
They were whispering to each other, seemingly oblivious to everything. Tristan wanted nothing more than to run from this room and back to the kitchen, but that seemed foolish. When he’d examined the walls, floor and ceiling—looking everywhere but at Melissa—he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone, playing a game without really looking at it. He knew the exact moment that Melissa’s gaze swung back to him—he could feel her stare.
The door opened.
“Please forgive us for being late.” Seamus walked in, Elizabeth at his side and his wolfhounds trailing behind them. At a gesture from Seamus, they went and lay in a corner, their shaggy gray coats blending with the stone floor.
“I’m Dr. Melissa Heavey.” Melissa held out her hand to Seamus.
“I’m Seamus.”
“And I’m Elizabeth Jefferies.” Elizabeth, like Melissa, was blonde in a classically English way. Unlike Melissa, her hair was up in a structured twist and she wore a blue pantsuit and black heels. Her face was perfectly made up.
Melissa ignored Elizabeth and turned back to the computer. “Shall we get started?” she asked.
Elizabeth looked at Seamus, her expression unreadable. He shrugged and they took a seat in the front row of chairs. Tristan frowned. Melissa was abrupt and straightforward, but ignoring someone like that was just rude.
“Is everyone able to see?” Melissa turned on the projector and an image of the ransacked nursery flashed up onto one of the most shadowed of the bare white walls.
“It’s fine, thank you,” Seamus said.
“Here you are.” She passed around packets of papers. Tristan put his down on the empty chair beside him. Elizabeth didn’t take one.
“First of all, I’d like to thank Mr. O’Muircheartaigh for inviting me to do the examination. It was an interesting mix of anthropology and archaeology, which I don’t often get to work with anymore. Secondly, I’d like to thank Séan and Sorcha for passing on the documents and information they found. I included copies of the relevant pages in your packets.”
Melissa picked up a pair of glasses from the table and slipped them on. Tristan sucked in a breath. Desire flooded him, so acute that he had to cross his legs to keep his cock under control. She was adorable and seriously fuckable with her glasses on. Apparently he had a fetish for women in glasses—or at least this woman in glasses.
“What I’d like to do is take you through the reconstructed timeline, then address the remains that I examined. Mr. O’Muircheartaigh, since we weren’t able to meet before this, I wasn’t able to add any family history elements as they relate to you in particular.”
“That’s not what I’m concerned about.”
Melissa’s eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her glasses. “Perhaps after this I could do a model of your face to check for skull point similarities.”
“Perhaps not, but thank you.” There was a hint of amusement in Seamus’ voice.
“Very well.” Melissa tapped the computer and the image of a yellowed book, open to show faded text, appeared.
“The most easily identified remains are the children. Traditionally, this is not the case, but Sorcha and Séan’s discovery of these parish and school records allow us to make an educated guess as to their identity and from there extrapolate something about who the adult female’s remains were.
“I did some additional research, and in 1850 Lord Richard was Viscount Dover. His younger son John held the title of the Lord of Glenncailty. In 1865, both the Viscount and his heir die and John, who seems to have been spending most of his time in Ireland, inherits.”
Another click and another slide—this one a list of names.
“In 1866, it appears that some portion of Glenncailty’s residents rose up against their English landl
ord. Though this area of the country was not in the center of the Fenian rising, this small-scale revolt was probably spurred by that. The result is listed here—these are the names of those who were killed during the uprising.
“One family in particular seems to have been the focus of the violence—the Mac Gearailts. There were three brothers: Thomas, who was 18; Ronan, who was 20; and Carrig, who was 24 at the time of his death. Carrig was married and had children—his wife, Carroll, and two male juveniles named Ruari and Orin, who were six and four, are also listed among the deceased. Now what’s interesting is, if you look at the list, there’s a third boy—age eleven years—under Carroll’s name, but unlike the others, there’s no last name, and, more tellingly, his first name is Charles.”
Tristan sat forward, caught up in the mystery she was slowly unraveling. Melissa was a gifted storyteller, her voice reflecting her puzzlement, interest and sadness.
“We can also find Charles-with-no-last-name in the school records. In those same records there are two other boys with no last names. Henry, who was last listed as nine years old, and George, who was five.
“Once again, with thanks to Sorcha and Séan for putting the idea forward, we can see this in one of two ways. The first, and most likely, is that these boy’s surnames were deliberately left off because they were the illegitimate offspring of the Lord of Glenncailty. Before John inherited, it seems he spent most of his time here, though it’s worth noting that he married in 1859. Assuming he was in semi-permanent residence, it makes it plausible that he had a mistress or series of mistresses in Glenncailty.”
“The poor babies,” Sorcha said quietly. “That would have been a hard life.”
Melissa nodded. “I want to go back to the Mac Gearailt family, in particular the oldest brother’s wife. Carroll’s maiden name was O’Donnabhain.”
Another slide, another family tree. Tristan was sitting directly behind Seamus, and the more Melissa spoke the tenser both Seamus and Elizabeth became. He could see the tightening of their shoulders, the straightening of their backs.
