by Lena Loneson
It had been over twenty years since she’d been snatched from him, mere kilometers from the shores of Donegal County where they’d been celebrating their honeymoon at Castle Tullamore. The article he’d turned in before her drowning, praising the hotel and playing up its supernatural side, had begun his career. Tales of werewolves, sirens and ghosts that roamed the forest, lough and cliffs surrounding the castle had won him a following as a freelancer and he’d begun to specialize in the stranger side of tourism.
But he was tired of wandering endlessly from place to place, from publication to publication. The Antitourist had offered him a well-salaried position as features editor and writer that he could do from anywhere in the world—his new home of Newfoundland, Canada, if he wished. They’d asked for one major story to market his first issue with—a return to Ireland. Another writer could have handled Tullamore if he preferred, each of them covering half the country, but now he was stranded.
And so he was back.
Áiné handed him a key card and told him the room number. “Join me for supper in the main dining room.”
“Another time? I grabbed some stew on the road and I’m a bit tired to be good company.”
“Best you get checked in and relax, then. I’ve put you in a room right by the old lift. It’s a mite unpredictable, but I know you like local color for your articles.” She nodded briskly as if coming to a decision. Then her smile turned sympathetic. “And if you want to pay your respects to the sea, it won’t be light out much longer.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“You’ll have to see it sooner or later, unless you hide in your room for a week.”
The pit of his stomach turned cold. “But not yet.”
Her strong hand gripped his shoulder. Eamon stared at the ground until she pulled his chin up with equally strong fingers. “It’ll be worse the longer you wait.”
He shook his head.
“It’s just water, Eamon. If it’s ghosts you’re afraid of, they aren’t bound by the sea. They’ll follow you to the ends of the Earth.”
She was right. Not about literal ghosts, of course—no matter what he wrote about, Eamon had never had any paranormal encounters himself. But there were times when his grief for Keelin felt as fresh and wrenching as on the day of her death. He couldn’t escape it. Perhaps instead of avoiding the sea, he should get it over with.
Handing his duffel to a bellhop, he promised to catch up with Áiné later in his visit. Eamon twirled his key card through his fingers and followed the man to his room. After that, it would be time to confront his ghosts.
Chapter Three
Eamon took a winding path through the gardens down to the beach rather than walk along the seaside cliffs. Keelin’s body had never been found and he didn’t like to think of her dashed against the jagged rocks after she’d been thrown overboard.
A sunset cruise had presented itself as a delightful idea for a honeymoon celebration. What an idiot he’d been. Having grown up in Ireland, not too far from Donegal County, Eamon knew as well as anyone how quickly the sea could change its mind.
Because of that one decision, he’d lost her forever.
No. He wouldn’t start down that road of self-loathing again. Tonight was for remembering the good moments and for saying goodbye. He glanced back at Tullamore. Although the sun had completely set now, the shadows of the castle didn’t seem as threatening. Áiné’s warm welcome had felt like a sigh of relief, at least until she’ll bullied him down to the shoreline.
Best to keep moving.
When he emerged from the garden and onto the beach, the wind caught him full in the face. Eamon stumbled and pushed forward. The wind whistled around him.
He hadn’t changed after his long trip behind the wheel, so he still wore jeans and driving loafers. His shoes sank into the sand. It was tough to walk. In the darkness, with only pale moonlight to illuminate it, the sand was cold and gray. The waves in front of him were as sharp as carved ice.
He stopped and watched the sea for a long time before he spoke. His lips suctioned together as if he hadn’t said a word in weeks. When he got his mouth to move, his voice came out in a raspy whisper. “Keelin.”
What could he say to her? His head was empty of words. He should have written a speech. Lord knew he’d had twenty years of grief to figure it out. And he’d wasted those words on travel articles. Puff pieces for tourist magazines, useless little bits of treacle that rarely captured the true spirit of a locale, since that wasn’t really what the readers wanted. Writing for The Antitourist would change that, he hoped.
Could words ever capture the beauty of any place? Could they pinpoint the way the moonlight cut the waves like a knife’s edge? How could he use mere words to describe the way the shore outside Tullamore seemed to forbid his approach and beckon him at the same time? The way the wind tore at his clothing and reminded him he was alive. How could words share grief, or loneliness or how much he missed her?
Eamon shivered. He untied the sweater from around his waist and, with cold fingers, fumbled to put it on. The sweater flapped in the wind like a tattered flag. The whistling of the wind grew even louder.
No, that wasn’t just the wind.
The faint flutelike sound grew stronger. The wind turned it eerie as he listened. It could have been a siren’s song, luring him to his death in the waves, or a woman’s cry as she was ripped from his arms.
The melody stirred the back of his consciousness, waking memories from their sleep.
He remembered Keelin singing. God, she’d loved music, and he’d loved to watch her, blonde hair flying free as she danced and sang, so young and vibrant. And his wife had favored the saddest songs most, in the way youth is often attracted to tragedy it has not yet experienced.
He knew that tune.
He hummed along, singing a few of the lines that he remembered.
“I would swim over the deepest ocean
“The deepest ocean for my love to find
“But the sea is wide and I cannot swim over
“And neither have I wings to fly…”
The mystery musician was playing his wife’s favorite song.
He had to know who it was.
He turned slowly in place, trying to locate the music. The wind howled. It was hard to separate the wind from the flute. It pressed against his body and for a moment it seemed as if the music itself would push him to the ground. He stumbled in the sand, waving his arms in the air to regain his balance.
Right. One foot in front of the other, then.
He walked along the beach, into the wind. Sand whipped at him. Good thing he’d worn these heavy jeans—they worked as protection. His feet sank into the sand, left foot, then right foot. The sand was a creature that snatched at him, trying to pull him down. The beach was dark gray before him and he couldn’t see past the dune in front of him—could barely see the dune was there, in the darkness, with only the moon overhead, the castle lights glowing far behind. He picked up his pace, following the melody.
The haunting sound cut off. Eamon strained his ears but heard only the discordant whistling of the wind. He moved faster, not wanting to lose his chance to find its source.
Stories swirled through his mind, tales he’d written about creatures out of Irish myth and the mysterious happenings at Tullamore over the years. Witches and werewolves. Jewel thieves and kings. Surely they weren’t true. A bump in the night could be another patron knocking over a table. A missing person who showed up again a year later with stories of time travel was more likely just daft.
The tales were merely atmosphere to sell rooms. Weren’t they?
So why did it feel as if this were his last chance to experience something magical?
Keelin had believed in magic.
As Eamon crossed over the top of the next dune, the beach lay flat in front of him, stretching out with no hills for what seemed like kilometers. There were no trees or huts to hide behind, only the lon
g stretch of sand.
Where had the musician gone?
He’d heard the song quite clearly, but there was no player before him. There was nowhere for her to hide. Unless she really was a ghost. Had it been Keelin singing from beyond the grave, welcoming him back to Tullamore?
Now he was being ridiculous.
The beach was bare. Where else could the musician have gone? Vanished into thin air? Now that was ridiculous. But how could he explain it? It was either a ghost, or some foolish flute-player had decided to go for a swim in the stormy, churning waters.
That old Conan Doyle line about eliminating the impossible came to mind.
Shit.
Eamon turned his attention to the water, scanning the coast. Was someone out there? The tide was too strong for a moonlight swim. The twinkling of metal caught his eye and he started toward it at a sprint. If someone was out there, he had to find them fast. Good thing he was still in shape at the age of forty-three. The metal gleamed right at the water’s edge.
It was a pennywhistle, stuck in the sand, tip facing up. The instrument he’d heard. And women’s shoes, kicked off haphazardly, lying on the beach next to it, told him where the musician had gone. Who would swim at this time of night, with no partner and in this weather? Was she suicidal?
He scanned the ocean before him. The water churned. Where was she?
No one knew better than he how quickly life could be lost on a night like tonight. How quickly tragedy could sneak up.
Moonlight reflected off an object about ten meters out. Clothing, as white as the moon. Pale skin gleamed in the subtle sheen of light. Her limbs flailed.
The woman wasn’t swimming. She was drowning.
Eamon kicked off his shoes and pulled off his sweater. Without another thought, he took a running head start until the sand dropped off beneath his socked feet, and he dived in the water after her.
Fuck, but that was cold. His teeth shook hard enough to jolt his brain loose. This was an incredibly foolish plan. But for now, it was the only plan he had. His skin numbed. He had to get swimming, now, before he completely lost control of his body.
He had to use the water as his ally. No matter that it was cold as ice. Float to the top. Head to the surface. Shaking water from his eyes, he saw the pale woman in the distance.
With strong arms, he churned through the water, scooping it with his hands, propelling himself forward. His thin button-up shirt provided no insulation from the cold. The jeans on his legs weighed him down. He kicked his legs, working hard. The muscles screamed. The water roared around him. It was utter chaos.
A wave crashed over his head, pulling him under.
When he resurfaced, another wave hit him.
He shook his head. He could barely see, the saltwater filling and stinging his eyes.
He was getting nowhere. Where was the woman? The waves pushed him back to the shore and along the coast. They were too strong. He couldn’t outswim them here on the surface.
Before the next wave came, he dived, sliding right beneath the water. There. Use the sea—don’t fight it. Days as a boy swimming off the coast of Ireland came back to him. It was quiet under there. Peaceful. He could think.
He kicked his legs dolphin-style, swimming to where the woman had been.
The faint sound of a pennywhistle echoed in his ears again, muffled by the water. The woman couldn’t be playing, so where was the sound coming from? Was it his imagination? The spirits of Tullamore, perhaps? He’d dismissed them as myth and rumor, back in the day, but it was Keelin’s favorite song. He knew it too well to deny it.
He swam toward the music. The sound twisted, becoming as clear as a woman’s voice. Everything was black, until it wasn’t—until he saw someone in front of him, through the salt-sting, her pale limbs fighting. The music halted.
Eamon surfaced, coughing up water. And there she was in front of him. The woman was caught in her own clothing, the white cotton of her dress tangling in her legs and pulling her down.
Her hair was long and dark. It snaked across her pale skin like seaweed. He’d been expecting a lighter color, as blonde as Keelin’s had been.
He wrapped an arm around her. Her eyes met his, flashing blue in the moonlight, then rolled up into her head, only the whites visible. She kicked at him. Her legs were colder than the ocean. Her body shook. There was no sense in her eyes—did she even know where she was? Could she tell he was there?
“Keep still,” he yelled against the roaring waves. “Can you hear me? Keep still.”
She either heard him or finally ran out of energy. She stopped kicking and went limp in his arms. She was a tiny thing, thank God. Couldn’t have been more than eight stone. He grasped her firmly beneath one arm and used the other to direct them. Now the waves would work in their favor, driving them toward shore. The wind would send them home. He used his feet to kick and keep them afloat and his free arm for direction, and let them float on the waves toward the beach. He hadn’t seen rocks near the shore and the wind seemed calmer. As long as they were out of the rip current, they would be fine.
He gave in to the waves. The music had stopped. The water buoyed them. He couldn’t wait to get his jeans off. They were so cold against his legs.
The woman wasn’t struggling. She wasn’t even shivering much anymore. Did she know what was happening? Were there any thoughts left in her head? Would she be okay?
She had to be.
The last wave hurled them against the beach, faster than he’d anticipated. Eamon found himself and the woman smashed into the sand. His body bruised, he pulled the woman in the tattered white dress onto shore, dragged her through the sand to rest several meters from the waves. The last thing he needed was a stray wave pulling her back out again.
He pulled himself onto his knees. Who was his drowning companion?
She was younger than he’d realized. Barely more than twenty. Tiny, as he’d noticed already. Her white dress was in tatters. He should avert his eyes from the pale skin exposed beneath it, but he didn’t. Her body was so delicate. Bony. Long black hair dripped in waves around her face. She seemed painted entirely in monochrome beneath the moonlight, with no color in her cheeks or lips.
She didn’t move.
He leaned forward, placing a trembling hand to her chest. It wasn’t moving. He could feel no breath coming from her nose.
“No,” he said. “No—I didn’t go after you just for you to die on the beach. I will not have another woman die on me.”
He pulled her head back and gently opened her mouth. Her face was ice-cold. Every part of her that he touched was ice-cold. He covered her nose, leaned in and breathed the breath of life into her mouth. Once. Twice. Again. Under the moonlight, beneath the wind that had died down to a mere breeze. He pounded on her chest. Warmth running down his cheeks caught him by surprise. Tears.
She coughed up saltwater, choking and gasping.
He caught a glimpse of blue eyes beneath her flickering eyelids before she passed out cold again in the sand. Her chest moved slowly. She was breathing, at least. Relief filled Eamon’s body with warmth even as he shivered. It wouldn’t last—he needed to get them both warm, and fast.
She was so tiny, curled up in the sand. The beach stretched out like a desert beyond her frail body. The wind rushed around them and the waves still roiled. Even the moon had slipped beneath a cloud. They had no friends in nature tonight.
“Oh, little one, what were you doing out there on a night like this?” Remembering someone lost, like him? Or had she intended to kill herself with that ill-timed swim? “And what will we do with you now?”
He’d left his cell back at the hotel, not wanting to be disturbed by more requests from his publisher. Faster to take her with him than call for help. The nearest hospital had to be at least an hour away. Perhaps he could find a village doctor, but first he had to get her warm.
His knees creaked as he rose to a crouch. The cold had seeped into his joints. He wiggled numb toes in soggy wool sock
s. Where were his shoes? The waves must have taken them some way from where he’d jumped into the water. He couldn’t even see Tullamore in the distance, and it should be shining like a beacon while the moon was hidden. No time to find his shoes, then.
He reached for the woman. Her skin was icy beneath his frozen fingers. Eamon hoisted the slight woman into his arms, grateful for her small size. His legs wobbled, rubbery after their battle with the sea. Sand stuck to his socks. It would be a long walk back to Tullamore.
He leaned forward as he walked, shielding the woman’s body from the wind and pulling her as close as possible to his own skin. He was rewarded with a quiet, murmured stirring. He stopped for a moment, catching his breath and hoping to hear her again. She was quiet—too quiet—though her chest still moved.
God, she was as pale as a corpse.
He picked up the pace. With each step, the weight of the small woman pressed him farther into the sand. Only Tullamore’s lights in the distance kept him moving over the sand dunes, through the gardens. The small pebbles on the garden path stung like needles beneath his socked feet.
The stumble back to Tullamore couldn’t have taken him more than fifteen minutes, but if questioned, he’d have sworn it had been an hour.
Eamon remembered walking back to the castle the night Keelin had drowned. Lights in the windows of Tullamore had seemed to be watching him, judging him for his failure to save his wife. Now the window lights were old friends, welcoming him home. They promised warmth.
This girl wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t let her.
Eamon let himself in the back entrance closest to the shore where he’d found her. The hallway lights nearly blinded him and he stood there, blind as a new kitten, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the indoor lighting. The carpet of the empty hallway stretched out before him.
