by Calinda B
“Is that what I am? An obsessed man?” He shoved away from the table and rose to stand. Then, he picked up his coffee cup, stepped to the white porcelain sink, and poured the dregs down the drain.
“No,” she said, gentler this time. She sunk into her chair. “I only meant…well, to willingly expose yourself to horrible people and ideas…that sets you up for Satan’s mischief.”
“That’s not the way I think, Anne.” He turned and leaned against the white-tiled counter. “I can’t put my finger on it…but something about this Bluebeard fellow is unsettling in a close to the bone kind of way.”
“Right.” Anne scoffed. “He murdered one of our most beloved staff members.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and risked eye contact with her.
She didn’t look away like she usually did. Instead, she met his gaze with unflinching blue-diamond eyes.
Encouraged, he continued. “Look, I know it won’t bring Helen back. I know better than anyone. My, uh…” His gaze flicked away, then back to Anne. “My father was killed by a serial killer.”
Anne gasped. Her expression melted into something horrifying, but sympathetic and compassionate. Her eyes grew moist. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Paul. I had no idea.”
He turned away from her. “It’s not something I go around shouting out to people, you know? The only people who know about it, besides my mum and dad, are William Ward and his family.” And that’s because no one needs to know the kind of supernatural crazy that hangs out in Ballynagaul.
“I always thought Bres was your real dad.” Anne placed her smooth-skinned hands in her lap.
“He is my real dad, in more ways than I can count. He helped my ma through her grief and stepped into the shoes my father could never fill.” Paul’s lip curled into a sneer. “My bio dad had an affair before he died. He doubled my ma’s heartbreak.”
“Oh, Paul. I’m so sorry. For both you and your mother.”
He turned to face her again and shrugged. “But, that’s the past. In the now, I’d love to understand what makes a serial killer tick.”
Anne’s mouth pressed shut as if thinking before she spoke. She sighed, straightened her shoulders, and said, “Be careful of how deep you peer into the abyss, Paul.”
He chuckled. “Are you afraid the abyss will be looking back at me, considering ways of drawing me in deeper?”
Her eyes widened. “No! To be honest, I’m afraid it might be an abyss of regret, with no bottom, and if you fall in…” Her slender shoulders hunched around her ears. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “You’ll never find your way back.”
Paul’s eyebrows stitched together. “How is that different from the abyss drawing me in deeper?”
Her shoulders fell away from her face. “It isn’t. But let’s speak of other things.” Her face brightened, and she sat up tall. “I’ve been invited to become a novitiate.” Her eyes took on a sheen. “I’ll get a new name, and I’ll be on my way to becoming a sister of the Lord. I’m moving out of my discernment phase.” The effect of her brilliant smile touched every corner of the room.
“Huh,” he said flatly, all his hopes and dreams twirling down his inner drain. He hesitated before speaking further. “Is that really what you want to do with your life? Isn’t the convent an abyss of your own choosing? Aren’t you hiding from your own life?”
Her lips pressed tight. Her eyes blazed with a look he had never witnessed—and didn’t think he would like to see again.
“You know nothing of the abyss I’m running from. Nothing! I might not be alive were it not for the sisters of mercy here who took me under their wings.” She bolted from the chair and started for the door.
“Anne, wait.” Paul pushed away from the counter. “I’m sorry.”
Anne shook her head. “Don’t be. Just mind your own business.” She threw open the door and stomped through it. “Oh, sorry, Father.”
Father Gillespie stepped into the break room, sharp lines of disapproval evident on his round face. “Mr. Riordan, a word, please.”
Paul collapsed slightly, falling back against the counter. “Yes, Father?”
“I overheard you asking Anne to reconsider her vows to the church. It’s neither your choice nor your place to question. She’s being guided by our heavenly Father.” Father Gillespie moved close enough so that Paul could smell his old man’s sweat and see the tarnish in the corners of his cross, left behind by feeble fingers. “Anne is a special young woman. Her service will be of tremendous value to the church, and its teachings.” He smiled his horrible dry-toast smile.
An arrow of guilt shot through Paul. How dare he try to drag her away from her chosen vocation with thoughts of summers in Greece and a winter cottage in the French Alps? He mumbled an apology, shuffled toward his tablet, and gathered all his supplies. As he stepped out of the break room, he shook his head. He’d grown up around Father Gillespie. He’d never known a more lackadaisical curate. Not that he knew many curates, not by a long shot. But Father Gillespie always struck him as the most boring man on the planet.
Since when did he fiercely advocate for nuns? Everything had Paul in a paranoid state of mind. He wanted to kick himself to the moon. He needed to get a grip on his mind before he lost it entirely. He needed to find a way to get his head clear. The only place he could think of was listening to Uncle Ward in church this coming Sunday. Maybe he’d find answers there.
Chapter 6
Friday evening – Marie
In the cool mist of evening, the sun painted the sky with brilliant colors. Marie paced in the yard outside her home, choking her mobile phone in her hand. Ever since she’d found the disturbed grave of that fucking vampire and a guy that looked like her brother sneaking away, she’d wanted to call her brother and grill him. She’d resisted because how shitty was it to accuse your twin of releasing evil in his hometown?
Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. She held the device before her face and tapped William’s number.
“What?” he said, after the first ring.
“No, hello, Marie, so happy to hear your voice?” she countered.
“I’m busy. What?” he said again.
“Where were you Tuesday evening?”
A pause met her ears. After tapping the speaker icon, she moved the phone in front of her eyes and stared at it. “Did you hear me?”
“Sure I heard you. I’m wondering why you want to know.” He huffed a sigh into the phone.
“Just tell me where you were.” Her belly grew tight. To say things had been tense between her and her brother lately was an understatement.
“I was out.”
“Out where? Bally? Dungarvan? Dublin? Where?”
“In and out.” He snorted.
“In and out where, William?”
“Why the fuck do you need to know so bad?” William snapped.
“I just do. Tell me.”
“It was one of those in and out kinds of things. You know, my cock pumping in and out between the legs of Caroline or Candace or whatever the fuck her name was. Or maybe it was my tongue. Or, both. There. Are you happy?”
“You’re lying.”
“What the fuck is this? I get this kind of inquisition enough from Mum. I don’t need it from you.”
The little green connect button disappeared from the screen.
“You little shit, William.” She stabbed the connect button. The call went to voicemail. She gritted her teeth and let out an exasperated groan. “Asshole!”
Angry, frustrated, scared or maybe all three, she pocketed the mobile phone inside the pocket of her running pants and took off.
Ahead lay a crumbling stone fence. Marshaling her determination and focus, she aimed for the fence, then hurdled over it with ease. When she landed, she startled a herd of sheep to the side.
The pink-butt sheep took off in all directions. As they bolted up the hill, they looked like a firework display, framed by the setting sun.
As she ran, her muscles grew fatigue
d. Yesterday, she’d engaged in a brutal interval training session. Today, she should have taken it easy. Clearly, she needed some rest. On impulse, she veered in the direction of Ryan’s cottage.
The sight of the white cottage with the bright blue door always calmed her. Ever since she could remember, she’d sought Ryan out when times were tough, and she needed a caring ear. She slowed her pace to a jog. The jog became a rapid walk. She strode up the pathway through his neat-as-a-pin yard. Before ringing the doorbell, she took a few minutes to lean over her knees and catch her breath. Then, she straightened and pressed the softly-lit button next to the door-frame.
Ryan answered the door a few seconds later.
Her breath caught at the sight of him in his jeans and snug t-shirt, wrapped around all that muscle.
“Hey, Lion,” she said, grinning.
She’d given him the nickname as a child when her brother had knocked out her two front baby teeth during a spontaneous transformation. As a youth, William never had control over his tentacles. And, with no front teeth and a puffy, bruised lip, Lion was easier to say than Ryan.
“Hey…kiddo,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. A teasing smirk curved his lips upward.
Marie blushed. “Well played, good sir. Hey, I’m sorry I was an asshole at the pub the other day. Giving you a hard time about calling me kiddo.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m a big boy.”
She swallowed. You certainly are.
He opened the door wider. “Come in. What’s troubling you this evening?”
“Why do you think something’s troubling me?” she said, stepping over the threshold.
“Because I’m right in the middle of dinner. You always interrupt me with troubles when I sit down to eat.” He smiled.
“Is that a problem?” she asked, stopping in the foyer to face him.
“It’s never been one. Except for that time you interrupted me on a date.”
“Oh, right. I remember that. Jonny Coyne had just broken up with me. I was a mess, all weepy and wailing like Mum gets. I barged right in and made myself at home. And later you told me it didn’t work out with you and whatever her name was. I always felt responsible.” She shifted side to side on her feet.
“You didn’t have anything to do with it. I’d cooked pork chops and potatoes for the girl. Turns out she was a vegetarian. I didn’t have a problem with that, but she had a problem with me being a carnivore…a big beastly lion.” He let out a low, rumbling growl and playfully lunged in her direction, hands curled into claws.
She giggled like a stupid teenager and stepped backward. The sudden surge of pleasure that rocked through her core, followed by shy embarrassment, surprised her. Stop it, he’s my godfather. She grew quiet and focused on her running shoes.
“What did I do?” Ryan said.
She lifted her gaze to his. She’d always liked his eyes. They even reminded her of a lion, all warm and golden brown. Only now, confusion by the effect those eyes had on her threatened to destroy their awesome connection.
“It’s nothing.” She lifted her hand and waved it about. “It’s me. You’re right, I’m troubled about something. Can we talk?”
She turned and entered his front room.
“Mind if I finish my supper? I can listen better with food in my mouth,” he said, gently closing the front door.
“Oh! Of course. What’s wrong with me?” She pivoted, swished past him, and stepped down the hall.
Pictures of Ryan and his mother, Mary, another victim of that wretched banshee, lined the walls.
Ryan had always been close to his mother, or so her mum often told her in her “stories of the past you need to know” talks. Ryan and his mother had an exceptional relationship. Her untimely death had crushed him.
And, Mum had apparently adored Mary Conway. Mary had been her mother’s mentor in magic. Mum had given Marie her name, in honor of Mary. And she said Marie and Ryan had been close from day one. According to Mum, he even wept when baby Marie was placed in his arms for the first time. After that, he babysat when he could, balancing her in his arms when he cleaned his house or, as she grew, placing her in a carrier on his back while he cooked or built things in his workshop behind his house.
Marie took Mum’s word about the baby part but vividly remembered being a three-year-old in the toddler backpack. She’d loved watching Ryan from her perch on his shoulders and patting his hair or jumping up and down by pressing her toes into his back. She had supposedly done more to heal Ryan’s grief than anyone around. After he’d let go of the pain of losing his mother, they were thick as thieves. But now? She didn’t know what they were. More like I don’t know who I want him to be.
Ryan sat in front of his half-eaten plate of food. A nearly empty bottle of ale sat next to the plate. He picked up his knife and carved a piece of his barely cooked steak.
“Lion’s food, I see,” Marie said, settling next to him.
“Rawr,” he said. “Every lion needs his sustenance.” He opened his mouth wide, popped the steak bit into his mouth, and chewed. The light from the huge chandelier overhead marked the veins in his neck in sharp relief.
“Right,” she said. She averted her gaze from his strong jaw and powerful neck. “So,” she said, placing her palms on the table. “You know my brother’s always getting into trouble.”
Ryan nodded, finished swallowing, and placed his knife and fork down. He let out a sigh. “Now what?”
“Before today’s run, I called him, asking him his whereabouts on Tuesday night.” She ran her palms back and forth on the polished surface.
“What’s the punchline?” He picked up his fork again, cut a slice of steak, and shoved it in his mouth.
“I told him how important it was for him to tell me his whereabouts.” Marie lifted her hand to her hair and twirled a lock around her fingertip.
“Still waiting for the punchline,” Ryan said. He forked the remainder of his baked potato and closed his mouth around it, chewing.
“Well,” Marie said. She put her hands back on the table. “You know how he gets all cheeky and sassy. You can ask him the most innocuous question, and, depending on his mood, the answer might be ‘none of your damn business,’ ‘go fuck yourself,’ or ‘who wants to know and why?’”
“Yes, the boy has a smart mouth more often than not.” Ryan pushed his plate away. Then, he turned his chair to face her. He slid his palm beneath her hand and placed his other hand on top.
He’d done this a thousand times before. But, this time, the gesture felt so intimate, she blushed. A sudden case of tongue-tied syndrome locked her jaw in place.
Ryan must have mistaken her silence for hesitancy. “You know you can tell me anything,” he said, in a low, dreamy voice that nearly wrecked her restraint.
She wanted nothing more than to lean over and taste his succulent lips.
“I’ve never betrayed your trust in me, ever,” he said, eying her intently.
She took a long, calming breath and slid her hand from his, faking an itch that needed scratching on her shoulder. “Anyway, I asked where he’d been. Bally? Dungarvan? Dublin? Kilkenny? Galway? And he got all cagey and said he was out…that’s it. ‘I was out, sis.’ I couldn’t get any more details than that. Finally, I demanded that he tell me what ‘out’ meant. Then, he replied, ‘If you must know, it was more of an in and out kind of thing. In and out, and in and out.’ And, you know my brother. He indicated…well…” Her blush returned. “You know what William enjoys the most.” She rolled her eyes.
“He’s got a way with the ladies,” Ryan said. He leaned back in his chair, balancing on the two back legs. “I still don’t get where the problem is. Even if you don’t like your brother being a man-whore, or a bad-boy, or whatever, that’s nothing new. He’s been like that ever since his hormones kicked in.”
Marie gulped a mouthful of air and blew it out of pursed lips. “Ryan, this is bad.”
Ryan let his chair fall forward, landing on the front legs w
ith a thump. “What’s bad?”
“On Tuesday, I ran down to the beach. The Dearg-Due’s grave was desecrated. And William was out there, slipping into the forest.”
Ryan flinched and reached for her hand again. “You say you saw William out at the desecrated grave of the vampire,” he said in a voice void of emotion.
“That’s right,” she said.
His eyes clouded over as he blinked and nodded like he struggled to comprehend what she implied.
This time she didn’t let go.
Chapter 7
Sunday morning – Paul
On Sunday morning, the wooden pew beneath Paul’s behind felt as unforgiving as Father Gillespie’s sermon. He’d stayed up late researching serial killers and had overslept this morning. In his haste to get to church on time, he’d tied his stupid necktie too tight and grabbed the wrong jacket. Actually, he grabbed the wrong everything. So now, here he sat, in a purple jacket with a paisley flourish on the right panel, for God’s sake, and his baggy Hunter green slacks. The red and gold necktie only accentuated his mismatched appearance.
I need to get better lighting in my bedroom. It was so dark, I thought I’d grabbed the blue tie and the blue jacket, and the gray slacks.
Fidgeting with his tie to loosen its stranglehold, he sat beside his ma and Bres, in the ancient church. Ryan sat to his right. Several rows ahead, in the front row, Marie, Uncle Cillian, and Auntie Lassi huddled together.
Stained glass windows filtered colorful light into the room. Rays of pink and gold highlighted Marie’s mane of dark hair, giving her an ethereal appearance, like an angel.
“Go forth the righteous and slay thy fellow man with thy judgment,” Father Gillespie said, in a too loud kind of voice. His microphone let out a shrill squawk.
Old Mrs. McNamara, sitting in the pew opposite Marie, put her hands over her ears.
Several other parishioners followed suit.
Spittle flew from Father Gillespie’s mouth as he continued. “Their bodies will be raised from the dead as vessels for the soul-vessels of wrath. The soul will breathe hell-fire, and smoke and coal will seem to hang upon its burning lips. Yea the face, eyes, and ears will seem to be chimneys and vents for the flame, and the smoke of the burning, which God, by His breath, hath kindled therein. And upon them, which will be held one in another, to the great torment and distress of each other.”
