“May I see you a moment, Miss Coyle?” His voice was icy.
“Sure. Class, take another look at that passage, all right? Try to come up with an answer by the time I come back.” She hopped off the edge of the desk where she’d been perched and followed Alistair into the hall. She shut the classroom door behind her. He led her a little way down the long, polished corridor. “What’s this about, Alistair?”
“I think you should tell me what this is about.” He thrust a note under her nose.
Katie took the paper and scanned it. It was a request from the university library to return a book. A book that she, through Daphne, had just requested. “What’s your point, Alistair?”
“Are you going to deny that you’re behind this request?”
Thinking furiously, Katie said, “Why would you think it’s me?”
“All of a sudden a lot of requests have come into our library for books that have a direct bearing on my Clancy paper.”
“I still don’t see why you think it’s me, or if there’d be a problem if it were.”
“If I find out you’re behind this, Katherine Coyle, things will go very badly for you here.”
Katie drew herself up. “Are you threatening me, Alistair?”
His face was flushed and his eyes glittered dangerously. A vein throbbed in his forehead. “I don’t make threats,” he spat through clenched teeth. “I make promises.” He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving her both shaking and puzzled.
She stood for a long moment, listening to his footsteps fade down the steps at the end of the hall. She considered whether or not to report this incident to Terry Callahan. She didn’t want to seem like a goody-goody, she thought. But on the other hand, Alistair hadn’t seemed just angry or upset. He’d been enraged.
“Katie?” The hesitant voice of one of the students shattered her reverie. “I’m coming, Colin,” she replied. “Just tell everyone class is over for today. We’ll continue on Monday.”
“Sure thing.” He grinned and pushed the door further open.
She waited until the last of the students had left the room, most of them wishing her a good weekend as they passed. She gathered her things together slowly. The rain was even heavier now, and the sky was so dark, it looked several hours later than it actually was. She glanced at the clock above the door. Not quite four o’clock. She’d stop by Terry’s office and just see if he was there. If not, she’d forget the incident.
She made her way to the administrative wing of the building and paused in front of the heavy oak door. A discreet brass plate announced his name. Through the frosted glass pane she could see lights blazing. Oh, well, she thought. Maybe it’s just the secretary.
She pushed open the door and stepped from the polished linoleum floor onto a thick Oriental carpet. A woman with iron-gray hair and a pink cardigan around her shoulders glanced over the half glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “Yes? May I help you?”
“I’m Katie Coyle, one of the instructors in the English Department. Is—is Terry in?”
“Yes, he is. Would you like to speak to him?”
“If he has a minute, and it’s not too much trouble.”
“I’ll see.” The woman picked up the phone and spoke softly into the receiver. She looked back up at Katie with surprise. “He said to go right in.” She nodded at the door to the left of her desk.
Katie eased open the inner door. “Terry?”
“Come in, come in!” he said, rising to his feet as she entered. “I’m so glad you took me up on my invitation to stop by. Come sit down. Would you like some coffee? How about a cup of tea on a gray autumn day?”
“Tea would be great.” Katie looked around the large office. Despite its size, it still managed to have an air of coziness.
“Two Earl Greys,” Terry said into the phone. “Now tell me, how are things going?” He steepled his fingers just below his chin and peered at her with all the benign interest of an academic Santa.
“Well,” Katie said, trying to collect her thoughts, “things have been going pretty well—but something happened this afternoon, which I thought I should come and discuss with you.”
“Oh?” He leaned forward and then looked up as the door opened and the secretary entered carrying a tray laden with cups, a sugar bowl and a small pitcher. “Just put everything right there, Doris. Thanks.” He got up and picked up a mug. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Just a little milk, thanks.” He stirred two heaping teaspoons into his, then settled behind the desk. “Now. What’s on your mind?”
“Just this afternoon, during class, Alistair Proser stuck his head into the classroom—”
“While you were teaching?” Terry frowned.
“Yes. I was very surprised, but even more so when I went out to talk to him and he just about threatened me about a library book request.”
“Threatened you? How?”
“It wasn’t very specific—he just said I’d be sorry. The thing is, we’re both applying for the same grant. I guess it’s just academic rivalry. But—”
“Still, to imply that you’d be sorry in some way is pretty strong. Did he threaten you physically?”
“No, not at all.” Katie took a sip of tea. “Maybe I was hasty in coming to you—”
“No, no, my dear. You did absolutely right.” Terry sat back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. “The question is, however, how to deal with it.”
Katie said nothing.
Finally Terry raised his head. “I know you’ve had a tough time of it with Reg Proser. But let me fill you in on a little secret. Reg is retiring in June. But that still doesn’t address what to do about his son.”
“No, it doesn’t. Listen, there really isn’t anything he can do to me.”
“That’s not the point, Katie. There’re some things that can be tolerated in the name of academic rivalry, and some things that can’t.” He paused, and gave her a long measuring look. “Frankly, I was surprised to see you go off with him on Friday. He didn’t seem to be your—ah—type.”
Katie shrugged. “He’s not. But I didn’t see any harm—”
“Did you…hm…how shall I put this delicately…reject him in any way?”
“Well, I made it clear that the only dessert he was getting was what was on the menu, if that’s what you mean.”
Terry chuckled, then looked serious. “Let me give this matter some thought. In the meantime, come to me immediately if you have any other encounters with Mr. ah-Professor Proser.”
They chatted a few more minutes, then Katie finished her tea and took her leave, explaining that she needed to visit the library before going home. Terry shook her hand and wagged a finger at her solemnly as he opened his office door. “And remember,” he said, “come to me at once if there’s any repeat of that episode.”
“I promise, Terry. Thanks for the tea.” With a smile and a nod to Doris, Katie stepped into the main corridor. She felt much better, although something made her look both ways before heading out the door. She remembered what Derry had called Alistair—an idiotic popinjay.
Somehow she thought Terry Callahan was more than a match for him.
Lightning flickered across the sky, and thunder rattled the panes in the windows. Katie looked up from her reading as the lights dimmed momentarily. She got up with a sigh and hunted in the kitchen for matches. It seemed like a good idea to be prepared in case the electricity went out.
She settled back on the couch and scanned the text. So far she’d found nothing that might present her with a lead. She scanned the notes of her conversations with Derry. There must have been something she’d missed, something she’d overlooked. The fact that she was not as familiar with this period wasn’t helping, either.
She rested her head against the back of the couch. If only she could speak to Derry. But she had the feeling that the last time she’d dreamed of him had been his final good-bye. She closed her eyes and spoke aloud. “Derry, I know you don’t want to see me any more.
And I know you feel that’s for the best for both of us. But I need your help if I’m going to keep Alistair from painting you as a traitor. You’ve got to help me one more time. There has to be something I didn’t ask you or something I’ve forgotten—or something more you can tell me. Please, Derry, if you’re anywhere you can hear me, just give me one more name. One more clue.”
Thunder crashed, and a crack of lightning split the night sky. Katie jumped. The thunder reverberated and her heart pounded, and she nearly missed the soft whisper. Reynolds. Magan. Fitzgerald.
She started, staring around the room. “Derry, is that you?” She thought she caught the barest trace of bay rum. She got up and went to the window, pulling her afghan around her shoulders. The lights flickered several times, and another flash of lightning forked above the trees. She backed away, remembering her father’s admonishments to stay away from windows during thunderstorms. She looked around the room as she retreated back to the couch. She grabbed a pencil and wrote the names as quickly as she could. She looked longingly at her computer, but knew if she tried to send an E-mail in this weather, she could very well ruin the modem. Not only could she not afford to be without her computer, she relied too heavily on E-mail to keep in touch with Patrick. She picked up the receiver, but instead of a dial tone, all she heard was a static buzz. Well, that’s just great, she thought as she settled on the couch once more. She grabbed a book and her notebook. She might as well see what she could find out about these names as long as there was nothing more to do.
• • •
“Reynolds? Magan?” Patrick’s voice crackled alarmingly over the shaky connection. Although the sun was shining and the sky was a brilliant shade of autumn blue, the telephone still seemed as though it was suffering some effect from the storm of the previous night. “They were both informers. Reynolds, especially, was a close friend of Lord Edward Fitzgerald—he was one of the organizers of the rebellion, you know. I’ll check and see what’s available on him. He was a colonel in the United Irishmen’s army.”
“I think there might be some connection to Kilmartin, too,” Katie said, speaking as slowly and distinctly as she could.
“He was very well-connected to the whole organization,” Patrick agreed. “I’ll get right on it and let you know as soon as I can if I find anything. All right?”
“Sounds great.” Katie glanced at the clock as she hung up. She had just a couple of hours to review her notes before class. She’d stop at the library, too. They were very close, she knew it. She glanced out the window across the ponds. In the early-morning light, the surface of the water was as smooth as polished glass. Thank you, she said silently as she settled down to work.
• • •
A million stars peppered the sky like grains of sand scattered across black velvet, and the dark water pounded the pale beach with a relentless roar. The white-robed women stood in a circle, hands clasped, and the tall, dark-haired woman who was their leader raised her hands and began a low, keening chant. The orange flames of the bonfire in the center of the circle leapt higher as the wind blew harder and swept the woman’s hood off her head. Her long, dark hair whipped around her head and her black eyes glittered in her pale face.
Hovering above the gathering in an invisible mist, Derry watched, fascinated as the women began to weave in a complicated dance, two steps clockwise, three steps back, their hands linked tightly. Mary stood opposite the dark-haired woman, Catherine. The other eleven were hidden from him, for the most part, by their hoods and long robes. The circle tightened as the chant grew louder.
Imperceptibly at first, then gradually more distinctly, Derry felt the change in the flow of the energy that swept over and through him. He felt the relentless tide lessen, the iron hold of the force that had kept him imprisoned for nearly two hundred years relax. His essence seemed to shift, to float more freely, and beneath him, the women shifted and moaned, their chant dissolving into a long, keening wail, the words lost within the chorus of voices that blended into one, unified sound.
Catherine raised her arms once more, and Derry felt the tremendous power that coursed through the woman. It was as if she had somehow reached into the very depths of the earth itself and had somehow drawn the energy up and into her very self. The orange light glowed with weird intensity and her voice broke through the monotone chant of the others. “Diarmuid O’Riordan!” she cried, and Derry felt himself jerked by the summons in her tone. “Diarmuid O’Riordan. The way is clear! The time is come! Your path is free to leave this plane! Seek your soul’s release! Go in peace and find your rest! Your path is free—so mote it be!”
“So mote it be!” moaned the other women.
Drawn as he was to the call in the voice, Derry at first fought the pull, and then relaxed as she repeated the words.
Above him the stars blazed hotter as though each one were a tiny bonfire on a black beach, and the waves reared higher as though they would engulf the women. But Derry felt nothing more. His body floated, ever more weightless, as Catherine screamed her incantation once more. “Your path is free—so mote it be!”
“So mote it be!” the other women echoed, their steps beginning to falter.
“So mote it be!” cried Catherine once again.
Derry felt the shift once more, as the circle began to weaken. The women stumbled in the sand, their clasping hands pulling free of each other. The tremendous tide of energy was breaking the circle apart.
Derry coalesced within the circle, as Catherine screamed once more, this time in frustration, “So mote it be!” She opened her eyes and looked at him.
The other women halted and sagged against each other, their faces covered in sweat. Mary gave a sound that sounded like a moan. “Derry?”
At once he turned to her, and caught her as she nearly fell against him. “Mary, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she gasped. “We’ll all be fine in a minute. It’s just—”
“It’s just it didn’t work,” snapped Catherine.
Derry slowly straightened. “Why not?”
Catherine paused. In the flickering light of the flames, he could see that she was a good-looking woman—large, ample-bosomed; her long, dark hair falling in thick waves about her full, pale face. She was about Mary’s age, he knew, but the firelight was kind, erasing all the tiny signs of age around her eyes and mouth. Only her stance, aggressive as no maid’s could be, told him that she was a woman to be reckoned with. Her hands were on her hips as she glared at him, her eyes on the same level with his. If there ever were a goddess, thought Derry, surely she’d looked a great deal like Catherine Armstrong did at this moment.
“Why didn’t it work?”
The other women were collapsing on the sand and were passing flasks among themselves, murmuring to each other.
“I’m not sure,” she answered, more thoughtfully than Derry expected. She alone stood her ground, her eyes ranging around the circle.
“I could feel the energy change,” said one woman, looking up at Catherine.
“So did I,” chimed in another.
“Oh, we managed to hold the energy back,” said Catherine. She gazed out into the ocean, then turned to give Derry an appraising stare. She ran her eyes up and down his body, as boldly as he might over a maid’s. To his consternation, he felt himself blush. “Maybe it’s just not your time.”
“What are you talking about, Cat?” asked Mary from her place in the sand. “He’s been dead nearly two hundred years.”
To his utter horror, Catherine reached out and pinched his cheek. “He doesn’t feel dead to me.” She threw her head back and laughed as the other women echoed with soft guffaws. Then she stopped abruptly, and took another step closer, so that she stood nearly toe-to-toe with Derry. “Maybe it’s just not your time.”
“What do you mean?” asked Derry, holding his ground. This woman was used to intimidating men with her voracious, overwhelming sexuality. He could feel it smoldering in her, like a banked fire.
&nb
sp; “I mean maybe you have things left to do. And maybe you have to do them in this body…” She raised her hand once more and squeezed his upper arm, her fingers digging into the flesh in a hard caress. “Mmm.” She smiled into his eyes. Mary had risen to her feet and was standing next to him. “Like what, Catherine? What could he possibly have left to do? He hasn’t been able to get off this beach in two hundred years.”
“How should I know that?” retorted Catherine. “I’m a witch, not a prophet. But I know one thing—you should be gone. And you, my dear Mr. Riordan, are anything but.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mary. We can try it again next year, goddess willing.”
Mary turned to Derry, confusion in her eyes. “I don’t understand it.”
He took her hand. “I don’t either, Mary. Maybe your friend is right. Maybe there’s something left here for me to do after all.” He raised his head and gazed in the direction of Pond House, where he could feel Katie lying fast asleep, curled beneath her covers. “Or maybe there’s someone keeping me here.” He dropped Mary’s hand and bowed. “Ladies. I appreciate your help. My eternal thanks.”
“Wait!” cried Catherine. “Are you leaving us?”
“I have an appointment of most pressing urgency, ma’am. I beg your indulgence.” He gave them his most courtly bow, and disappeared in the midst of girlish giggles.
Formless, timeless, Katie floated, drifting aimlessly through a soft, gray mist. And then, without warning, he was there, bending over her, scooping her up in his arms, and the mist dissolved in a hot, piercing burst of light, which glowed and shimmered. “Derry?” she breathed, puzzled by his presence. “Have you come to say good-bye?”
“Never, my beloved, never. I will not leave you—I cannot leave you. I’m here with you forever.”
“Forever?” she echoed, but he was kissing her, his mouth hard and hot and demanding, and waves of sensation swept through her, pulsing through her blood. She felt herself melting into him, dissolving into the urgency of his need, and she twined her fingers in his thick, dark hair and smiled as she gave herself utterly to his desire.
The Ghost and Katie Coyle Page 18
