Iron and Salt Read online

  Iron and Salt

  Book 3 in the Bloodstone Trilogy

  Calinda B

  Sumner McKenzie, Inc.

  Copyright

  Published by Sumner McKenzie, Inc.

  Ebook Edition

  Copyright ©2018 Calinda B

  All Rights Reserved.

  License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, but it can be lent according to the retailer’s coding. If you would like to give this book to another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About the Author

  As always, to John; to Rainy, my fab editor; to Charity, and, of course, to Ron.

  Chapter 1

  Monday afternoon – Paul

  St. Christopher’s Catholic school, nestled in the bucolic splendor of the Irish countryside, seemed to leer at Paul as he strode up the walkway. He regarded the doors as an unforgiving, toothless mouth, ready to swallow him the second he stepped inside.

  The early morning sun blazed down on his back and trained its relentless sunbeams on the many windows of the school. The glaring light made him blink and squint. To avoid the harsh rays, he turned his head to gaze at the land surrounding the school.

  Flowing, ribbon-like bands of stones lazily meandered along the hillside. Sheep, their butts painted blue and pink, dotted the rolling green hillside between the stones.

  Paul’s biological dad had wanted to be a sheep farmer—that’s what his ma had told him. If that were the case and he had lived, then the mystery of the sheep’s painted butts would be solved for certain. The only story Paul had ever heard about the brightly painted rumps came from the mouth of a barkeep in Dublin.

  “The ram marks his women,” he said. “The farmer slathers his belly with paint. That way they can tell which ewe has been kissed by whom.” The barkeep went on to describe the pride each ram has over a field marked by his own colors, and the care which each ram bestowed on his ewes in the process of the butt painting, but Paul had tuned him out at that point. He’d been obsessed with passing his exams so he could go on to teach the over-eager, the miscreants, the bored, and the just plain stupid at St. Christopher’s Catholic school of Ballynagaul.

  As the distance shrank between him and the front door, Paul’s grip on his briefcase increased to the point of strangulation.

  A white-collared, cassock-clad man rounded the corner of the school.

  Paul’s mouth filled with saliva. A tic began to pulse in his eyelid. He took a deep breath and raised his hand in greeting. “Good morning to you, Father Gillespie.”

  The priest jerked as if yanked from deep thoughts. His eyes trained on Paul and his face stretched into what might pass for a smile. “Mr. Riordan. Good morning to you.”

  A man as plain as the sheep on the hills, without the benefit of a colorfully painted butt, Father Gillespie greeted him every day in the same manner. He greeted everyone this way…everyone except aspiring postulant Anne Adams. The good father fawned over her as if grooming her for humble greatness in her potential acceptance as a nun.

  I wish I were being groomed for humble greatness. Even a bit of mediocre satisfaction grooming would do, too.

  As a new hire at St. Christopher’s, Paul walked a taut tightrope, trying to adhere to school policy and get along with his fellow educators, while keeping his ever-distracted student’s minds on their daily lessons. He couldn’t lose this job. There wasn’t another suitable teaching position between Ballynagaul and Dublin. And he liked working in the village where he grew up. He especially liked working in the same place as Sister Anne.

  As if hearing her cue, she rounded the corner.

  Paul swallowed and touched his hair, which had been recently cut short. He preferred the tangle of untamed ginger curls which erupted from his scalp, but his job demanded a more professional appearance. Even short, it had taken a copious slathering of product to get it to behave this morning.

  I wonder if she’ll like my new look.

  Dressed in a simple, knee-length, black dress, a plain white shirt, and her flaxen tresses pulled back in a short veil, she didn’t even glance at him. Instead, her gaze trained on Father Gillespie.

  When she reached him, the good father patted her on the back and complimented her on the excellent job she had done yesterday with the students. She beamed. Her smile was like warm honey drizzled over apples. It spread its sweetness over everyone in her presence. Her hand rose to the cross dangling around her neck, and her pretty fingers coiled around it as if drawing sustenance.

  Paul’s legs grew roots, watching her and Father Gillespie. Like a doltish mule bound to a heavy cart, he found himself unable to speak or move. And, for one shameful second, he berated Cillian Ward, the man he called his uncle, for hiring Father Gillespie.

  His thoughts skittered back to that horrible piece of personal history. His ma had told him of the strife he endured as a child, nearly losing his life to some wicked banshee. Since she was deaf—also thanks to the banshee—his ma had written the whole story down and presented it to him when he turned sixteen. She reasoned he had a right to know about his tragic past and the miracle of his ma’s forgiveness of his dad and the woman he’d had an affair with before he was murdered.

  Forgiveness is a powerful thing, she frequently signed to him. Don’t underestimate its power. Without forgiveness, you wouldn’t be alive, and I never would have given Stephen Breslin a chance. We’d both have missed out on all this amazing love. She always cried when she said that. And he always smiled, nodded, murmured “there-there” to her and made a hasty exit. He hated to see his ma cry. It churned his stomach to think of his biological father betraying her and leaving her with so much sorrow.

  Since his father had died when Paul was only a one-year-old, he had no memories of him save one fuzzy memory of him holding Paul in his arms and walking him along every square inch of the field behind their house, pointing out the rock he called “Sheep’s Mountain” and the stone fence he named “Riordan Way.”

  Then, his bio-dad, still holding Paul, stood beneath the tree—the same tree where he’d been murdered.

  It was a strange thing to remember since his mother never referred to the landmarks as anything but the rock and the fence. And the memory lived in a pool of darkness, such that, whenever it arose in Paul’s mind, he shuddered and kicked it away.

  Then, when Paul was three-years-old, a banshee had haunted the village, summoned by his ma’s grief over losing his dad to murder by a vampire. This memory was even darker than the recollection of his biological dad. The banshee had claimed several lives and almost cost him his own life. Everyone—his ma, Stephen Breslin, his Uncle Cillian and one of his favorite persons in all the world, Auntie Lassi, had struggled and suffered. But their love and determinatio
n prevailed, landing Paul with a new dad and his mother with a new husband—Stephen Breslin, whom Paul called Bres. And finally, Uncle Cillian hired a curate to handle some of his duties so he could be a proper husband and partner to Auntie Lassi. And said curate now stood close to Anne, like her doting father.

  While I stay glued to the sidewalk longing to be next to her.

  Another figure rounded the corner—Mrs. Helen Pelletier. Her arm went up to Anne and Father Gillespie in greeting.

  “Helen,” Anne gushed. “How was your honeymoon? You look absolutely radiant.” She clasped her hands and raised them to her breastbone.

  “Yes,” Father Gillespie agreed. “Married life does seem to suit you.”

  Still mired in his own awkwardness, Paul fell into daydreams of returning from his honeymoon with Anne. Why did she need the church to escape from her former life, when he could be her rock, the same way Bres had been for his mother?

  Paul didn’t know much about Anne’s past. He’d heard something about her growing up rough on the poor edges of Waterford City and coming from a broken family. She’d supposedly been a drug addict to escape the awfulness of hunger and the general nastiness of life. And, she’d been busted for drugs at age sixteen and taken to the Garda Juvenile Diversion Programme.

  Then, right before juvie was about to release her back into the wild and probably a future of theft, prostitution, and prison, the nuns intervened. Still in her discernment phase with the church, there was a chance, albeit slim, he could woo her out of taking her vows. He daydreamed about it constantly. Would she look as happy as Mrs. Pelletier looks? Happier? His wretched cock stirred at the thought. He could make her happy. He would give it his all if his fantasies and furtive hand jobs were any indications.

  The trio continued their chat, with Paul as their half-witted witness, until Sister Anne blurted, “I forgot my lesson plans. Such a ninny. I’ve got to go retrieve them from my room.”

  Father Gillespie and Mrs. Pelletier mumbled their goodbyes and hurried up the stairs toward the building.

  As Sister Anne turned to depart, her head pivoted toward Paul. “Oh! Hello. I didn’t see you there.”

  “I, uh…I didn’t want to interrupt,” he stammered, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

  Sister Anne’s brows drew together. “We were only saying our ‘good mornings’ and hellos. What would you have interrupted? You could have joined in, too.”

  Paul’s face grew hot. “Never mind.”

  His mind raced, searching for a recovery strategy. He took a few steps in her direction, closing the six-meter gap between them.

  Sister Anne studied him as he approached.

  When he attempted a smile, something that must have looked like a terrified grimace, like a chimp in the presence of a three-hundred-pound gorilla, formed on his face. He wiggled his jaw back and forth to try to ease the tension in his face.

  “Are you all right?” Sister Anne asked him, a crease marring her creamy porcelain forehead.

  “Sure. Fine. How are you?” He glanced down at his white-knuckled grip on his briefcase. Christ, man, chill. “So,” he said. “Now that you’ve been here a while and worked with these juvenile delinquents…”

  “Juvenile delinquents?” she said, her frown deepening.

  “The teachers. It was a joke. Never mind,” he said. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Anyway, now that you’ve been here a while and worked with the students, are you still going to pursue your final vows, or, run screaming from this whole insane asylum and take refuge in normal life?”

  She blinked a few times. Then, she smiled. “I get it. You were being funny.”

  “Yes,” he stammered. “That’s me. The guy who tries to be funny.”

  Her smile widened, and all his awkwardness fell away. He loved her smile.

  “Yes, I’m more eager than ever to become formally invited into the community as a novice.” She seemed to grow ten feet tall when she spoke.

  His mood took a sharp left turn.

  Her gaze drifted skyward as if making eye contact with Jesus. Then, she dropped her gaze to his. A grin replaced her contemplative expression.

  “After all, someone sane has to be in charge of the asylum.” She chuckled, then scrutinized his head. “Nice hair,” she said, adding a wink.

  He felt like he’d been kissed by an angel. With her beaming countenance, her willingness to acknowledge his joke, and the compliment of his hair, Paul fell completely over the moon in love. It could be a hard landing when he finally crashed back to earth. Hadn’t she just declared her devotion to the church?

  He didn’t care. Even if there were the slimmest chance of being with her, he would risk his all. What could be the harm? There might be true love in his future after all.

  Then again, knowing the history of Ballynagaul and all the freaky paranormal bullshit the village had endured, he slammed down his inner walls on that idea.

  What made him think he’d ever be lucky in love when the same strange creatures that lurked about when he was a child, still sat hiding somewhere in his midst? One of them could be watching him right now.

  He frowned as a recent memory surfaced in his brain. Wasn’t there talk of a serial killer named Bluebeard? Paul had skimmed the news on the television this morning, noting something about a series of murders in Dublin and Dungarvan.

  What if the killer came to Ballynagaul?

  Chapter 2

  Monday late afternoon/early evening – Marie

  Marie Ward glanced at her wristwatch, gritted her teeth, and pushed herself into a brutal run across the grass-covered terrain a few miles from her home. The watch, created with 3D print technology, fit her wrist like a second skin. It monitored her breathing, heart rate, hormone output, and blood composition. And, if nothing beeped or blared at her, all systems were functioning optimally.

  Her shoe-clad feet pounded the pavement as she entered Ballynagaul. The shock absorbers in the shoes gave her just the right amount of spring while supporting tendons and ligaments. The footwear even had a navigation system built into the sole that connected to her phone, telling her which way to turn, should she need directions, without having to stare at her mobile device. But here, in Ballynagaul, she had every square inch of the town and countryside memorized.

  Her run began on the sandy beach near her Great-Great-Great-Whatever-Roberta’s cottage and continued up the coastline and into the hills, winding back toward town. The varying terrain, from grassy fields to mud, to asphalt, provided just the right challenge to her already ambitious runs.

  At the edge of the cemetery, she threw her arms into the air as if powering through the finish line, and then took another glimpse at her watch. She’d cut off a minute on her time. Smiling, she declared it a good day.

  As she slowed her rapid pace to a walk, she seized the towel around her neck and wiped the sweat from her brow. Her muscles were firing to the point of fatigue, but her spirits were light. She’d just completed a forty-two-kilometer run-jog interval marathon through the verdant hills of Ballynagaul, hurdling over the occasional stone wall along the way.

  A lot of things had changed in Ireland since her birth. And, a lot of things hadn’t. Sure, they had electric vehicles with sensors that opened the doors as the owner approached and ignited the engine with the flick of a button. Mobile phones were powered by hydrogen fuel cells. Network download speeds were off the charts, even in remote places along the Wild Atlantic Way, meaning movies and games were on one’s phone in nanoseconds. And, the smarter phones had a variety of textures for the screens, meaning, Marie could ask for a whipped cream kind of feel on one day, and a sandy feel on the next day.

  But the rolling hills dotted with sheep, the wild ocean, the castles, and ancient dwellings sitting aside modern homes—those things would always be part of Ireland.

  She paced herself the next few blocks, allowing her heart to slow. Ahead lay the Laughing Rat Pub. Figuring she earned the right to a pint—and a glass of water, for goo
d measure—she headed in that direction. As she walked, she vigorously toweled her sweaty body, making herself look somewhat presentable.

  Before entering the Rat, she removed the hair band from her ponytail and shook out her lustrous dark brown hair. Then she placed the hair band around her wrist and the towel around her shoulders and neck.

  Inside the dimly lit pub, she strode toward the bar. Her greyhound-slender physique vibrated with its typical state of amped energy. Her running shoes squeaked on the burgundy tile floor as she nodded at the patrons, most of whom she knew.

  “Good afternoon, Marie,” Lady Freddie called from behind the bar. In her eighties, she looked her usual elegant self. She wore black slacks and a white linen shirt as her usual pub uniform. She could wear a sack and still look good. Her white hair towered high on her head in an artfully messy bun. Red and gold chopsticks held the masterpiece in place. Her eyes were as blue as ever, noticing everything that went on in the Laughing Rat.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Freddie,” Marie replied. She headed toward a bar stool, glancing to her right to see Sixpack at the end of the bar, hunkered over his pint. “Sixpack,” she said, with a grin. Pivoting, she took a few steps toward him. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she gave him a squeeze and a kiss on his weathered cheek. “How’s my favorite old man?”

  “There’s my girlie,” Sixpack said, beaming at her. “You’re a high-spirited young filly, you are, galloping all over the land.” He lifted his hand to pat her arm affectionately. “You’ve got the same gumption as Billy did,” he said, his eyes misting over. He lifted his mug of Guinness. “To Billy.”