by Kate Sweeney
“It’s getting chilly,” she said quietly.
They turned and headed back to the monastery in silence until Grayson couldn’t take it anymore. “If there was ever anything you’d like to talk to me about, I’ll listen.”
“A confession?”
Grayson stopped and looked at her. “If that’s what you’d like to label it.”
She smiled and continued through the courtyard. “I will keep that in mind, my child.”
Grayson nodded and watched her walk away. She scratched her head in an irritable fashion and headed back to the office where she found Corky sitting behind the desk. He looked up and smiled. “Had a nice talk?”
“Yes. Hey, what did you do with that file you were supposed to leave for me?” Grayson asked.
Corky gave her a curious look and held up the file. “I left it for ya.”
“No, you didn’t. I checked all over and it wasn’t there.” Grayson stood in front of the desk. “Was it here when you returned?”
“Yes. It was just where I left it.”
“Where?”
Corky raised the folder to eye level and dropped it on the desk. “Right there.”
“Corky, I’m telling you it was not on this desk. I searched the desk, looked up, and saw Sister Gabriel floating by,” she said and got a chuckle from Corky. “And then I walked out into the hall, saw another nun, then Sister Michael scared the crap out of me. We went for a walk. I wanted to ask her about Sister Gabriel, then I came back here to you.”
“When I came in about five minutes ago, it was sitting just where I left it. Right on top of my mess so you’d see it. I thought you read through it already. Do you think someone took it?”
“That’s exactly what I think. That file was not there and now it is. Whoever it was had it slipped it back here while I was out with Sister Michael and before you came back.”
“Who would want to take it?”
“What’s in it?” Grayson took the file, leafing through it. “Looks like Gaelic.”
“It’s an ancient dialect that I’m having a hard time deciphering, and with you now able to read and understand it, I took a picture of the page from my book so you could read it.” He scratched his head. “Well, it was useless to them.”
Grayson looked up at Corky. “Why?”
“It’s an ancient dialect. I doubt any nun here would know it. I don’t even know most of it.” He saw Grayson smile then. “What are you thinking?”
“Remember when we first met Sister Gabriel, and she understood the poem I recited in the ancient dialect?”
“Why would she care? And why take the folder? I would have let her read it.”
“Not if she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s interested.” Grayson thought of Rose and the tea leaves; she thought of liar’s moon.
“Grayson, you have to be careful here.”
“About what?”
“You must tread lightly. We’re here only because of His Eminence’s good grace.”
Grayson rolled her eyes. “You mean the bishop who wanted Sister Daniel carted off to parts unknown? Who probably thinks Ma was a heathen and not worthy of heaven.”
“I agree with you, but if you go off and start accusing nuns, especially the newly appointed Mother Abbess by the bishop—”
Grayson held her hand up. “Okay, I get it. I’ll tread lightly.”
“Are you thinking Sister Gabriel took the folder, read the pages, and put them back? Again, why?”
Neither said a word for a long moment until Corky looked at Grayson. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
Grayson watched him curiously. “I don’t know. What are you thinking?”
“Who’s the only one who wants this book and to understand all that’s in it because he probably doesn’t know the ancient dialect?”
“And Sister Gabriel knows the ancient dialect.”
“And it would be just like Phelan to use a Catholic nun to do his bidding. If that’s what we’re thinking.” Corky gave Grayson a wary glance. “Is that what we’re thinking?”
“I am now.” Grayson sighed and slumped back into the chair.
Chapter 7
As Grayson started to decipher Corky’s notes, she looked up when the door opened.
“There’s an Inspector Megan Gaffney here to see you, Grayson,” the nun said.
Grayson winced but nodded. “Thank you.” She stood when the inspector entered the room. “Inspector Gaffney.” Grayson held out her hand to the detective, who took the offering with a thin smile.
“Ms. MacCarthaigh,” she said.
Grayson held her hand for a moment longer than necessary. If Inspector Gaffney realized this, she showed no sign. Grayson watched the inspector with interest. She had come from Dublin to question Grayson, Neala, and Corky after Maeve’s death. Though she seemed to believe the coroner’s findings that Maeve MacCarthaigh was indeed attacked by some animal, perhaps a wolf or rabid dog, Grayson knew Megan Gaffney was no fool and took the coroner’s report with skepticism. Grayson knew she’d be back.
And here she was.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Grayson asked.
“I know this may be hard for you to talk about, Ms. MacCarthaigh, but I’m curious.” She sat in the chair Grayson offered. Grayson sat opposite her on the couch; she waited for the inspector to continue. “I’m aware you were a detective back in America. I suppose I’m wondering if you would believe a wolf attacked and killed your mother.”
Grayson raised an eyebrow and sat forward. “Well, you saw the wounds left on my mother’s neck.” She felt the anger rising, not from the inspector’s questioning, but from the memory of Phelan Tynan and what her mother went through in the final minutes of her life—the life she gave up for Grayson.
“As I said, I’m sorry to bring it up again.”
Grayson continued to watch as the inspector ran her fingers through her dark hair. She looked tired; the dark circles under her eyes told Grayson she had not slept. Grayson knew the feeling. How many days did Grayson go without sleep trying to find the murderer back in Chicago, only to find she was involved along with her mother and Neala? She wondered how this policewoman would take it if Grayson came out with the whole truth.
“It’s all right, Inspector. I know what you’re thinking, and I must admit, I’d think the same.” She stopped when she saw the hopeful look and quickly continued, “But you can’t deny the facts as they are. Those wounds were not man-made.”
Inspector Gaffney looked Grayson in the eyes. Grayson was struck by how deep blue her eyes were and how penetrating. “It’s just that we don’t have many wolves in Ireland.”
“Perhaps one.”
“They travel in packs,” Inspector Gaffney said, studying Grayson.
“You got me there.” Grayson sat back. “I’m not sure what else I can tell you.”
“I was reading the paper this morning. Seems Dr. Rourke is in the headlines. Some artifact missing from the National Museum in Dublin.”
Grayson hoped her surprise was not evident on her face. Neala tried to keep it out of the paper. “Bummer.”
The inspector cocked her head in confusion and Grayson chuckled. “Sorry. I mean that’s a shame.”
“Yes. It is.” Megan Gaffney rose along with Grayson. “Well, thank you for your time, Ms. MacCarthaigh. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.” She handed Grayson her card. “I’ll see myself out.”
Grayson took the card and watched as the inspector walked out of the library. Through the light rain that pelted the window, Grayson watched further as the inspector walked to her car, pulling the collar of her coat around her neck against the rain.
“Something tells me, Inspector Gaffney, you are not going to leave this alone.” Grayson turned back to the desk and concentrated once more on Corky’s pages. But she couldn’t get Inspector Gaffney out of her mind.
How would Grayson ever be able to explain all this to someone? Would she have to carr
y this around and avoid the police for the rest of her life? Inwardly, she laughed at the idea of avoiding the police. It would be like avoiding herself, she thought. At some point, this will all come out. Phelan will keep a low profile, but his arrogance won’t keep him in the back row for long. Sooner or later, he’ll step into the limelight and once again ingratiate himself to those in power. With his wealth, he’ll snake his way into the public eye. He’ll get himself on a board of directors at some big company, and it will be as if he’ll be taunting me. “Come and get me.” She could almost hear him laughing.
But it would be true. Grayson knew this would happen—at some point they would be thrown together again. Though Grayson had survived her battle with Phelan and started off on her destiny as the true descendant, she knew she would need to be stronger each time Phelan would come after her. Perhaps this was why they sent Elinora to help her. Grayson looked down at her left palm and traced the crescent-shaped birthmark that bisected her palm. She then smiled when she looked at the three rings on her finger, remembering how they appeared there after the vision of her mother and Vic. She would never take them off. It was a constant reminder of their sacrifice, of how they fulfilled their destiny to help Grayson realize hers.
She angrily ran her fingers through her hair, remembering how Vic died that day, saving her and the other policemen. And how Maeve died at Phelan’s hands to fulfill the ancient prophecy. Fuck him, she thought, feeling the growing rage deep inside. She clenched her left fist, looking at the rings, trying to calm the anger within her.
“Too much displaced emotion.”
Grayson’s eyes flew open to see Elinora sitting in the high-back chair, one leg lazily hanging over the arm of the chair, one arm draped over the back. She looked bored.
“Where have you been?” Grayson asked when her heart rate returned to normal.
“I’ve been observing you and your townspeople. You are truly loved here whether or not you believe it. Your family is well remembered. Did you know one villager, very old, remembers his father talking with your great-grandmother about his crops and how she helped him save the very farm he is living on today?”
“No, I didn’t know that.” Grayson sighed and put her head back.
“There is a great deal you must accept. These people have very long memories and are extremely loyal. I must admit, I have never experienced anything like this in all my travels.” She smiled then. “And I’ve had many.”
“I’m sure.”
Elinora laughed. “I will enjoy our time together, Grayson MacCarthaigh. Now let us begin.”
Grayson lifted her head. “Now?”
“And why not?”
“I have no idea. Okay, where to?”
“Right here in this place your mother loved.”
Grayson said nothing as Elinora continued. “She loved this monastery, no?”
“Yes, she did. We spent a lot of time here when I was little before we moved to America.”
“Yes. And you enjoyed this time with your mother and Sister Daniel and the villagers. Do you remember how they took care of you? Do you remember the festivals of Samhain, the end of the summer, the bonfires?”
Grayson nodded; she watched Elinora’s smiling face, lulled by her soft voice.
“Then close your eyes, come with me and remember,” Elinora whispered.
Grayson’s eyelids fluttered and closed; she put her head back, suddenly feeling as if she were weightless.
“Come with me,” Elinora whispered in her ear. “Listen to them.”
Grayson saw the bonfire, the villagers standing in a circle around the fire. She saw Mrs. Barry walk up to her, but Grayson was a small girl now, the way she was all those years ago.
“Grayson Fianna, here, take this now, as your mother did and as her mother before.” Mrs. Barry handed Grayson the thin piece of oak from the tree. “Light it now, girl, and keep us safe for the winter.”
Grayson turned to see her mother standing there with Sister Daniel. Maeve smiled and winked. “Go on, honey.”
She took the piece of wood and held it to the fire. As the end burned, the villagers each came to her and lit their torches from Grayson’s. Unsure of what to do, Grayson held the burning wood to each one that approached her. She watched as they took their torches and walked to their homes. Grayson knew they would use the flame to start the peat fires in their cottages.
It was the ritual of Samhain; the beginning of the Celtic New Year and the beginning of the “dark half” of the year. The fire taken from the bonfire would keep them warm and safe during the dark, cold winter months.
The old women touched Grayson’s cheek. “God bless you, child,” they would whisper to her.
When they had finished and the villagers had gone, Maeve, Sister Daniel, and Grayson walked home and lit the fire in their fireplace. Grayson sat by the fire, mesmerized by the glowing flames. Sister Daniel and her mother were in the kitchen, drinking tea; Grayson could hear her mother’s soft lilting voice laughing along with her old friend. Grayson felt safe, loved, and warm. She closed her eyes and felt her mother’s arms around her and leaned into her. She felt the warm tears flow down her cheeks. “I love you, Ma.”
“I love you, too, sweetie,” Maeve whispered and kissed her head.
Grayson wept silently. When she opened her eyes, she was in Elinora’s arms, gently rocking back and forth. Grayson sobbed uncontrollably as if she would never stop. She clung to Elinora, the ache in her heart to see her mother once more. But the time was gone, the time she would never have again. She pulled back and quickly wiped the tears from her face.
“Why did you show me that?” she asked almost angrily. “Fuck you for showing me this all over again and remembering.” Grayson tried to focus through the tears flooding her eyes. “What are you—the fucking ghost of Christmas past?”
“You must never forget,” Elinora said softly. “You will have much to deal with from now on in your immortal life, but you must never forget where you came from and how much you were loved. Your mother wants you to know this. So does your woman, Vic.”
“It felt like she was holding me,” Grayson whispered. “I felt like I was ten years old again.”
“And so you were,” Elinora said. “I am sorry if this causes you pain. But you must accept what you are now. You are both woman and goddess, mortal and immortal. You are a child of the Tuatha De Danann, a child of magic. Many have lived and died for this moment to come to fruition. Do you understand?”
Grayson took a deep quivering breath and nodded. “Okay, so now what?”
“Now we eat.”
Grayson hung her head, then started to laugh. “Figures I get stuck with a hungry goddess.”
“I am no goddess but a mere immortal.” She walked up behind Grayson and placed her hands on Grayson’s shoulders. “Now let us eat.”
Chapter 8
“What is this called?” Elinora asked with a mouthful.
Grayson took a long drink from the pint of Guinness. “Colcannon.”
“It is heavenly,” Elinora exclaimed, taking another forkful. “Do they always eat this well?”
“Elinora,” Grayson said. “It’s just mashed potatoes and cabbage. Not lobster.”
“Do not be so cross. What are you drinking?”
“Guinness.”
“Ale?”
“No, much better. Here.” Grayson offered Elinora her glass.
“Thank you,” Elinora said happily and took a drink. She licked the foam from her upper lip and grinned. “I have been gone from this isle too long.”
Grayson hailed the waitress.
As Elinora feasted on colcannon and Guinness, an elderly gentleman walked up to their table. “Excuse me, I hate to interrupt your meal,” he said in a low voice.
Elinora waved her fork in the air. “Not at all, sir. Have you eaten? This is marvelous.”
Grayson tried to hide in her pint glass.
“Thank you, no.” He looked at Grayson and held out his hand.
Grayson took the weathered, calloused hand in a firm handshake. The old man smiled. “I knew your grandmother. Deirdre was a lovely woman. It’s your mother you’re named after, they tell me. I think I remember you as a young girl, but that was so long ago, and my mind isn’t what it used to be.”
“Whose is?” Grayson raised her glass with great sarcasm and received a glare from her immortal friend. She gently cleared her throat. “Sit down, please.”
“Oh, no, no. It wouldn’t be right. I wanted to pay my respects is all and bid you welcome home.”
“What’s your name, sir?” Grayson was struck by his sincerity and immediately felt bad for being sarcastic.
“Ah, that’s not important to ya.”
“Yes, it is,” Grayson said. “If you knew my mother and my grandmother, I’d like to know you.”
He smiled. “Fair enough. Jerry Roche. My family has been in Ireland for six generations and lived in this village. Can I get anything for ya? Are you going to stay in the cottage? My grandson can give it a good thatching if ever ya need it.”
Grayson heard the pride in his voice. “Thank you, Mr. Roche. I’ll keep that in mind. I appreciate it.”
“Not at all. You’re Deirdre’s blood. It’s only right. Good day to ya.” He nodded to Grayson and Elinora, who was still eating.
“A lovely human,” Elinora said, drinking her stout.
And with that, Corky walked into the restaurant.
“Another lovely human,” Elinora said without looking up. “You are blessed, Grayson.”
Grayson wasn’t sure what she meant by that as she watched Corky. He saw Grayson and waved as he made his way over to them.
“Grayson, here you are. I just talked to Neala. She’s on her way—” He stopped when he saw Elinora and grinned.
Elinora looked up. “Timothy ‘Corky’ Kerrigan, please join us.”
“Thank you,” Corky said, never taking his gaze off her as he sat. He immediately ran his fingers through his unruly red hair and straightened his jacket.
Grayson rolled her eyes and hailed the waitress once again. “Three pints, please.”
“You must be Elinora,” Corky said. “Grayson was right, you are beautiful.”
