The sound of organ music filtered out of the open door, and I glanced around nervously. I caught a few pairs of eyes but quickly turned my attention to the grass underfoot. Sad smiles, curious stares, hushed whispers. I didn’t like it at all. I didn’t fit in. I was a stranger, and it felt a great deal like them versus me.
“Skye, this is Father O’Donegal,” Robert said, dropping my arm. “He runs things here at St. Brigid’s.”
Turning my attention to the priest, I smiled politely. He was an older man with white hair, wrinkled skin, and watery eyes. His collar was done up tight, the little white bit at the front signaling his priestliness.
“It’s lovely to meet you, child,” he said taking my hand in both of his. “I’m sorry it has to be on such a sad occasion, but welcome to Derrydun. My door is always open.”
“Uh, thanks,” I muttered.
“Come. We’ve saved you a seat at the front right by your mother.”
I almost choked on my own spit as Father O’Donegal led me into the church, down the middle aisle, and directed me to sit front and center.
The fancy reddish brown coffin had been placed directly in front of the altar, and thankfully, it was closed tight. I suppose this was as close as Aileen and I were going to get on a physical scale.
“Goody,” I muttered, sliding my ass onto the hard wooden pew.
“It’s on this day, we’ve come together to farewell our beloved Aileen McKinney,” Father O’Donegal began, his voice droning at the one note. I bet this was his church voice. “She never came to church or followed the Catholic faith, but she was still a pillar of our community and requested we all gather here today to celebrate her time on this earth and wish her a fond farewell on the path to the next life.”
I slumped back against the pew and let my thoughts wander as he opened his Bible and began to read. The side door was open, letting in some fresh air and a ray of sunshine. I studied the light playing across the stone floor and noticed how it made the gold on the altar shine. I was never a church person. I’d never prayed, or gone to a service, or stepped inside one out of curiosity, so I didn’t know what any of it meant.
Glancing at the coffin, I suppressed a shudder. Aileen had died a month ago, and she was in there. What did she look like now? Not right now—that would be gross. What did she look like before she’d died? I only had pictures of her when she was young. Narrowing my eyes at the coffin, I shivered. The whole scene weirded me out.
I felt an unseen force burning into my back, and I covertly peered over my shoulder. A pair of dark eyes were staring right at me. Boone, aka the hot Irishman. When he noticed I’d caught him, he quickly turned his attention back to Father O’Donegal’s sleep-inducing sermon.
Settling back into the pew, I held onto the sigh that was trying to work its way out of my lungs. He’d caught me checking out his ass, and now he was staring at me in the presence of my estranged mother’s coffin. That wasn’t awkward at all.
Movement outside drew my attention, and I narrowed my eyes as a tabby cat wandered inside. Nobody moved except me. I glanced at Robert, but he was listening to Father O’Donegal’s sermon looking completely enraptured. The cat padded around the front of the coffin, disappeared for a moment, and then jumped up onto the altar.
I began to squirm, wondering why no one was shooing it away. The cat prowled across what I presumed was the sacred table of the Lord, sat at the far end, and began licking its front paw. I stared at it in subdued shock while Father O’Donegal continued reading from his bible like nothing was out of the ordinary. He didn’t even skip a beat, and none of the villagers in the church batted an eye.
When it was done with both front paws, it cocked a leg and started licking its balls. It’s big, tomcat balls.
I gasped, the sound echoing through the silent church. Everyone turned and stared at me, and I slapped my hand over my mouth. A cat was licking its balls center stage, and they were looking at me? Seriously?
Father O’Donegal snapped his Bible closed, and the cat leaped from the altar. Calling the pallbearers forward, the organ started playing again.
“There’s no eulogy or anything?” I whispered to Robert.
“Your mam wasn’t big on those kinds of things,” he replied. “I think her words were ‘Let the Father have his moment, and just drop me in the hole.’”
Scowling, I watched the six men she’d chosen come forward and pick up her coffin. The mysterious Boone was in front, and I couldn’t help my dirty look from becoming filthy. Who was he to Aileen? Why was he so special when I was nothing?
I hung back as the procession moved outside and lingered on the fringes as her coffin was lowered into the ground, shaking my head and smiling politely when people offered to stand aside so I could be nearer. The whole day had felt like I was going through the motions, almost as if I were completing something on a checklist of things to do. Witness mother’s funeral so I could claim my inheritance. Check. It wasn’t right, but there wasn’t anyone else.
When everyone started to disperse, chatting between one another, I backed away. I didn’t get far before Robert, my constant shadow, spied me lingering awkwardly on my own.
“Skye,” he said, forging a path through the crowd. “It was a nice service, don’t you think?”
“There was a tabby cat sitting on the altar the whole time,” I said with a scowl.
“Oh, that’s Father O’Donegal’s cat,” he said, waving his hand. “Pay him no mind.”
“Even when he licked his balls?”
“Welcome to Derrydun,” the lawyer said with a chuckle. “It’s a magical place.”
“It’s…eccentric.” Old men with dogs riding on donkeys, ball-licking cats in church, Goth girls in crystal shops, hot guys with a thousand and one jobs, crazy broom-wielding grandmas…the list went on.
Robert chuckled. “All the best places are.”
After that came the crushing wave of mourners. A blur of faces passed before me in a solo procession as Robert gave their names, and they gave their condolences, offering me stories about Aileen.
That man was Roy, whose farm bordered the village. That was the guy who owned the pub. That sweet little lady was Mary Donnelly from the teahouse. Those people were the Ashlyns who gave me that tasty casserole. Mairead and her parents swung by for a chat, telling me how excited they were that Irish Moon was staying open for the summer, which was news to me. Some other people made themselves known. More names were thrown in my face. More sweet stories about how lovely and caring Aileen had been and how much she’d given to Derrydun.
It hadn’t even been a week since I found out she’d died, and paired with traveling from the other side of the planet to be here, I felt the beginnings of a panic attack tearing at my frail patience. I excused myself and legged it around the side of the church, finding myself among the dead once more. At least they couldn’t talk. Dead men told no tales and all of that.
Leaning against a solid-looking headstone, I breathed in deeply. The air was so crisp here it hurt my lungs and made my head spin. There was something about this place that felt odd, and it had nothing to do with its eccentric population.
Footsteps crunching on gravel drew my gaze, and I found the hot Irishman walking toward me. His hands were shoved into his trouser pockets, and his tie was loose and skewed slightly to the side. I noticed he was wearing a pair of well-worn black boots, which were a stark contrast to all the shiny shoes the other men had donned. He wasn’t used to wearing a suit—that much was clear.
He approached somewhat nervously, his gaze raking over me with unmasked interest.
“I’m Boone,” he said, smiling lopsidedly. “You must be Skye.”
“What gave it away?” I replied with a sigh.
“The accent for starters.”
“I stick out like a sore thumb, huh?”
“I just wanted to offer me condolences… Aileen was like a mother to me.”
I scowled. “Well, at least she was to somebody.”
/> He stiffened and began to backpedal at an alarming rate. “I didn’t mean to offend you…”
“I…” I clamped my mouth shut and roared in frustration. Spying a path beside the graveyard, I made a break for it, leaving the mysterious Boone in my dust.
I strode down the path, my feet crunching on gravel, desperate for some space. Soon, trees gave way to an open lush field dotted with black and white sheep, bordered by a haphazard stone fence. I dragged myself up the incline, the power in my legs starting to wane.
Ahead were the ruins I’d spotted on the hill the day before. It looked like some kind of tower, all crumbled and covered in moss and vines. A tree was growing on the inside, its trunk splitting the ancient wall until they had become one. I wondered who’d lived there.
Coming to an abrupt halt, I stared up at the ruins, a weird tingling rushing up and down my spine. It was…nice here. Better.
Thinking about everything that had happened at the church, my irritableness began to simmer down. I suppose the hard part was done now. The funeral was over, and Aileen was buried, so now I could take a breath and pull myself together.
What now?
“Skye!”
I turned at the sound of Boone’s voice and cursed under my breath. He’d followed me down the path and up the hill, and his presence made my blood pressure rise again. And here I was thinking a hot guy running after me would excite all my naughty bits and be completely romantic. All I was thinking about was smacking him with my right hook instead.
“I’m sorry,” he said, standing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t have to run after me,” I muttered. “I’m a big girl.”
He began wringing his hands together and glanced down at the village below. Silence opened up between us, the complete absence of noise freaking me out.
“I will never be able to understand what it was like for you, Skye. All I can tell you is what I know. Aileen loved you.”
My hands began to shake as anger rose hot and hard at his words. If she loved me, then where was she? If she couldn’t come home, then where were the letters, the birthday cards, and the phone calls? Where was she?
Glaring at Boone, I exploded. “Everyone down there is telling me what a wonderful woman she was, and all I can think about is how she abandoned me! I don’t know her, and she didn’t know me. She wasn’t there on my birthdays. She wasn’t there at Christmas or at stupid school plays. She especially wasn’t there when my dad died of brain cancer! But I was. I was there for it all. What a wonderful woman! I’m sorry for your loss!”
A sob burst from deep within my chest, and before I could stop myself, tears practically exploded out of my eyes Exorcist style. Boone reacted immediately, pulling me into his arms.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he crooned in a soft, soothing voice. “You’ll see.”
I allowed him to comfort me for a moment before pulling away with embarrassment. He was a stranger—a hot stranger—and I’d left a wet patch on his white shirt.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I mumbled, wiping at the stain. “You all expect me to be… I don’t know. Like her, I suppose.”
“For what it’s worth, I expected you to be like you.”
I couldn’t meet his gaze. The hot Irishman I’d only just met, ranted at like a lunatic, and bawled in front of all in the space of half an hour. I was really put together.
“That’s the thing about Derrydun,” he added. “If you need help, all you need to do is ask. Doesn’t matter who you are.”
Staring past him, I focused on a baby tree growing just off the edge of the field. It shuddered and leaned toward me in the most unnatural way, and I gasped. My reaction seemed to set it off, and it snapped back into place.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, stepping toward me. “Are you all right?”
“That tree,” I said, wiping at my tears. “It…”
Boone glanced to where I was pointing and smiled.
“That’s a hawthorn saplin’,” he said, not noticing how it had moved all by itself. Kneeling beside it, he ran his fingers over the leaves. “This is a good omen if you believe in those kinds of things.”
“How?”
“Hawthorns are full of magic. They guard the doorways into the realms of the fair folk among other things.”
“Fairies?” I snorted. “They’re just stories.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged and rose to his feet. “This land is old and full of wild stories. A new hawthorn is still good luck.”
I definitely needed some of that.
“Everyone’s goin’ to Molly McCreedy’s,” he said. “Will you come?”
“To who?” I asked with a frown.
“Molly McCreedy’s is the pub.” He waited, and when I didn’t reply, he added, “There’s good food, drink, nice people… I’ll go with you.”
“I… I don’t think…”
Boone smiled lopsidedly and held out his hand. “Don’t you want to see a bit of Irish craic?”
“Crack?” I asked, making a face.
“Craic. It means fun.”
Looking at his hand, I shrugged, stepped around him, and began walking back down the hill. There would be alcohol at the pub. Lots of alcohol.
CHAPTER 4
If there was one thing I learned about the place my mother called home, it was that Molly McCreedy’s was the heartbeat of Derrydun.
Stepping across the threshold, I glanced around with curious interest. I’d never seen anything like it.
The walls were full of framed photographs and paintings, the tables were all mismatched, the bar was made from a dark mahogany, and the golden beer taps glistened in the murky light. An open fireplace, covered with a wrought iron grate, was at one end, and over the mantle hung a painted portrait of a woman. The plaque set into the bottom of the gilded frame read ‘Molly McCreedy — 1655–1687.’
Behind the bar were shelves packed full of bottles, most of them whiskey, and below were modern fridges full of craft beers and cans of larger. Beyond was a door that led through to the kitchen, which was in full swing given the assembled crowd.
The scent of wood smoke, stale beer, and cooking filled the entire place along with the riotous sound of a sing-a-long. Someone had brought a guitar and a tambourine, and it seemed cause for celebration. Whatever song it was, everyone knew the words and were shouting in unison, having the times of their lives.
Everyone clapped at the right moments during the chorus—four, two, then shouted hey!—and sung along with something close to reckless abandon. Nobody gave two hoots what they looked like. This must be the craic Boone was telling me about.
“Do you know this song, Skye?” a man I recognized from the funeral asked.
I shook my head.
“It’s called Whiskey in the Jar,” he explained. “It’s about a man who steals some money from a ship’s captain and is betrayed by a woman.”
“Stop tryin’ to talk her up, Sean,” Boone declared behind me. “Give the girl a moment to catch her breath.”
“I was only bein’ friendly,” the man named Sean grumbled.
The entire way here, Boone had followed me, keeping his distance. I wasn’t sure what was more creepy—him following me up the hill in the first place or lurking behind me all the way down.
Ignoring the two men, I weaved through the packed room and found the bar. The moment I slid onto a free stool, a woman appeared before me. The first thing I noticed about her was her chestnut-colored ringlet curls and freckled nose. She would have to be around the same age I was, mid to late twenties. I wondered what she was doing here because the more people I met in this village, the more I realized the ratio of young to old in Derrydun swung a great deal more in one direction than the other.
“You must be the famous Skye,” she said, leaning against the bar.
“Uh, that’s me, but I’m not famous or anything.”
“I didn’t get a chance to offer me condolences t
oday,” she said. “I’m Maggie Ashlyn. Me da owns the next farm over from Roy’s farm.”
“Oh,” I said, straightening up. “Someone told me about your dad. I think. Honestly, I can’t keep up with all the names and places. Then there’s the accent.” I moaned dramatically.
“Tell me about it. Me da moved here from the UK when he married me mam. So I’m half and half, though I grew up here in County Sligo. People tell me my accent slips into one or the other from time to time. Just to confuse you.” She winked. “Anyway, I’m sorry about your mam passin’. She was a lovely lady.”
“So I hear.” Jealousy was becoming my default setting the longer I was in Derrydun.
“Can I get you anythin’ to eat or drink?”
“No, I don’t really have much of an appetite.”
Maggie smiled, then held up a finger. Turning, she selected a bottle from the shelf behind her and flipped a glass over in her hand. Pouring a few fingers of the brown liquid, she slapped the glass down in front of me. “Here, have a dram of whiskey. It’ll warm you right up.”
Knowing I was a complete lightweight, I sipped tentatively as the strong woody scent burned my nostrils. The alcohol went down my throat in much the same way as fire blazed along a line of gasoline. Coughing, I set the glass down and waved a hand at my watering eyes.
“Bloody hell,” I cursed, then sipped again.
Maggie leaned against the bar with a smirk. “I see you came with Boone.”
I glanced over my shoulder. He was standing with a group of men, laughing, his entire face lighting up. I was beginning to suspect he was the epitome of the Irish. Cheeky as hell.
“He followed me,” I said. “I found my own way.”
“I can see why he’s interested in you,” Maggie said. “He was very close with Aileen.”
“So I hear.” I straightened up. “Hey, what’s his story, anyway? I was talking to Mairead at the shop, and she said he just turned up one day.”
“That’s about the gist of it.” Maggie shrugged. “You can usually tell where someone is from due to their accent, and I hear a lot of them workin’ behind this bar. Not just from the tourists who come through, either,” she said. “At first, I thought he was from Galway. Then, the next day, his accent changed, and I thought he might be from Cork instead. Then he took on Sligo with a little bit of Dublin. So, no, I don’t know where he’s from. It seems our Boone is from everywhere.”
Crescent Calling (The Crescent Witch Chronicles Book 1) Page 3
