The Bloodstone Trilogy- A Complete Fantasy Anthology Read online

  The Bloodstone Trilogy Boxset

  Books 1-3 .5 in the Bloodstone Trilogy

  Calinda B

  Sumner McKenzie, Inc.

  Contents

  Grave Stones

  Copyright

  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

  Heart’s Blood

  Copyright

  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

  Iron and Salt

  Copyright

  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

  Stones End

  Copyright

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Grave Stones

  Copyright

  Published by Sumner McKenzie, Inc.

  Ebook Edition

  Copyright ©2017 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.

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

  Chapter 1

  Lassi stared at Ballynagaul’s local priest, Father Ward.

  He stood in front of her Great-Aunt Roberta’s cheap pine coffin, which sat propped in the middle of the deceased’s front room.

  Is that a piece of seaweed sticking out of the bottom of his pants leg? She squinted, wrinkling up her nose. Whoa. Is it glowing? No. I must be tired. Or, maybe it’s because there may have been shots of whiskey consumed before this wake began. She rubbed her eyes, squeezing them shut.

  When she opened them, her attention zipped past Father Ward’s ankle to the stack of commemorative plates, pushed against the wall behind him. Is that a dead cat? Good Christ. How can I keep the wake-goers from finding it?

  Wan light, punching through the heavy clouds outside, forced its way past the grimy windows, adding an air of depression. The dim glow weakly illuminated her aunt’s pinched, gaunt face, creating a shadowed mask. Even in death her aunt looked as miserable as she’d been in life.

  Lassi glared at the front great-room of the cottage, filled with local folks all pretending to honor the dead. Ever since she arrived she’d heard hushed whispers of what they really thought about Roberta.

  “She never spoke to a soul,” Penny O’Donnell, the co-owner of the local pub, the Laughing Rat, had said.

  “Mean as a snake,” her husband Liam had added.

  “My neighbors had to keep their kids away from this part of town. She’d yell and throw apples or rocks at them if she saw them heading toward the beach near her property,” Penny whispered.

  “Yeah, well, you know what’s down there—at the beach, I mean,” Liam said.

  Lassi had wanted to ask what they were talking about but they’d shut up and acted all innocent and smiley when she’d approached.

  Fecking villagers. Lassi’s scowl deepened. All around her, the wallpaper sagged. Dirt, which had undoubtedly gathered since the cottage was built—a hundred or so years ago—lined the floors. A dank, musty odor permeated every room.

  Her stomach let out a heaving growl. I shouldn’t have had those whiskey shots first thing. I’m more responsible than that. This whole Bally experience is giving me the creeps.

  The coffin sat on a rickety side table she and Father Ward had dragged in the house from a shed out back. Father Ward had arrived early this morning to assist in preparation for the wake.

  With chin length, dark brown wavy hair, sea-green eyes, and stubble on his jaw, he looked more like a naughty romance cover model than a priest, but who was she to judge? Even a priest had a right to be good-looking. Together, they’d pushed bags and boxes to the sides, and thrown God-knew-what into the spare bedroom to make room for the mourners to walk. Then, they had jammed Great-Aunt Roberta’s sorry excuse for furniture—a sofa with yellowed doilies on the arms, and a couple of turn-of-the-twentieth-century armchairs—against the walls. He’d helped her even out the legs of the old wooden side table with some of her great-aunt’s commemorative china plates.

  “No sense shaking Roberta’s soul to heaven,” he’d said, giving the table a gentle push. It didn’t budge—much. He’d grinned at her, like a man who’d accomplished his greatest mission in life—stabilizing the dead.

  “Honestly, I’d have been happy pitching her old, wrinkled body down the hill for the crows,” Lassi had told him.

  He’d winced at that comment, but she didn’t care. All she wanted to do was get home to Dublin.

  Instead, she was stuck taking care of Great-Aunt Roberta’s funeral and cleaning up her house—a hoarding situation if ever there was one. Great-Aunt Roberta had collected the ridiculous commemorative plates for half a century. She’d visited gift shops in every town and village in Ireland, sometimes dragging Lassi along on
the rare occasions she’d been forced to visit as a kid. She would find a china plate she liked and stuff it in her oversized purse, justifying her use of the five-finger discount she thought she deserved because she’d grown up poor.

  The plates stood in stacks in every corner of the house. And, as it turned out, when placed at least three-deep, they were sturdy enough to steady the table legs supporting the shriveled body of the bitter old hag, tucked in her wooden box.

  Now, as Lassi studied the pretend mourners, contempt bubbled in her belly. I wish I was back home in Dublin delivering babies, not standing in the middle of Roberta’s fecking cottage in bloody Ballynagaul tending to her sorry wake. She glowered and pressed into the corner, hoping the walls might swallow her up, sending her shooting through a mystery portal away from here.

  The wind outside howled and screamed. A huge gust blew the front door open. It banged against the wall with a loud thwack, no doubt heralding some new arrival.

  Lassi jerked and pushed away from her post, turning her head toward the foyer. Several more wake participants shuffled up the stone front steps.

  More villagers? Don't they have anything better to do? They must be here for the booze. They can’t be here for Roberta, except maybe to celebrate her departure.

  She sighed and glared at her wristwatch. Still 2:15. This shindig is supposed to last until 3. She shook her wrist and held it up to her ear, catching the quiet, tick, tick, tick of her cheap Timex.

  The newcomers wiped their feet on the mat bearing a handwritten “Not Welcome” statement, courtesy of Great-Aunt Roberta’s scrawling penmanship. They proceeded through the open door and entered the house, head bowed in a ridiculous show of sorrow. One by one, they made their way to the coffin. They mumbled back and forth with Father Ward. Then, they galloped to the kitchen to toast the dead. Half of them barely knew the departed’s name. The other half despised her great-aunt.

  From her position in the corner, Lassi’s glance again flitted across the room toward Father Ward.

  Standing near the coffin, Father Ward offered sappy comfort to all. Since no one liked her great-aunt, Lassi didn’t believe for a second they needed any kind of consoling words. No, this event got the people out of the miserable rain and gave them something to do. While I, the sole heir, have far better things to do in Dublin than tend to a relative’s remains, especially one I barely knew.

  As she studied him, a shivery vibration shot through her belly and limbs. Her face flushed. She lifted her hand to her forehead. I can’t catch a fever. I’ve got too much to do.

  A cracking, crunching sound burst out from under one of the coffin legs and a piece of a plate flew free.

  Her eyes widened. She locked gazes with Father Ward who appeared equally alarmed.

  He placed his hands on the coffin, nudged it, and nodded, lifting his hand in a thumbs-up position.

  Lassi let out her breath. She wiped her forehead, mouthed a “whew,” and smiled.

  She figured many a town gal had placed a bet on who could get the priest to break his vows. He was handsome, for a priest—well, for anyone, if truth be told—and must be in his twenties, same as her. He radiated soccer-hero charm and the kind of good looks girls hoped the boy who asked them to the Debs—the U.K. equivalent of the Prom—possessed. Until they got so drunk they threw up their fancy dinner all over his tux, like she’d done to Tommy McCallan at her Debs ball. Lassi had crushed hard on Tommy in secondary school. Her crush had ended when sour flecks of kale and potato landed on his cream-colored shirt. After that, Bobbie Sue—a girl from the goddamned United States—had rescued him, saying her father owned a dry cleaner’s shop. She’d told him the Debs was a poor excuse for a Prom, adding, “In the States, we’d be taken to the prom in a stretch limo, not a school bus.”

  Whatever.

  She flicked her fingers, ridding herself of dark musings of Tommy McCallan. Why those thoughts had lurched through her mind when she gazed at Father Ward was a mystery. She hardly crushed on Father Ward. He’s a priest, for feck’s sake. Still, she appreciated all the help the good Father had given her. He even offered to help her sell this ramshackle house. She’d gratefully accepted. Anything to spend the least amount of time in Ballynagaul, or Ballyna-nowhere, as she called it. She couldn’t wait to unload the dwelling and get back to Dublin.

  Staring at the living room, stuffed full of mourners, she sighed. Ever since she’d arrived here a week ago, the walls seemed to shrink around her. Perhaps they were hoping to fall about her dead aunt’s coffin and collapse in a heap, joining her in decay. Tomorrow, she’d have to deal with all of it—the mess, the piles and piles of hoarded crap, the dead cat, the dirt...

  “There you are.”

  A chirpy voice assaulted her eardrums. She blinked, looking for the source of the intruder.

  Ailis O’Neil.

  Inwardly, she groaned. She’d met her and half the bloody town over the last couple of days and had been subjected to the gossip each one dished about the other.

  “And there you are. We’ve established a fact. What do you need?” Lassi swept her gaze up and down the cherubic figure tottering toward her.

  “Nothing.” The word fell long and slow from Ailis’s lips, as if coated with cold molasses. “I only want to lend comfort. It’s always a moment to pause and take stock when we lose someone, isn’t it?” She cast a moist, blue-eyed gaze at Lassi.

  “Is it?” Lassi frowned. “I’m here to take care of business. That’s all. No stock to be taken or pauses to be made, save for this wake.”

  Ailis’s head twitched, as if struck by a tiny hammer between her small, round eyes—which is something Lassi might enjoy doing to the woman to get her to go away.

  Ailis pressed her lips together, forming a ruby-red ribbon along her too-pale skin. Then, her face softened, opening like a time lapse video of a blooming tulip.

  “You poor thing. You must be in shock. Sometimes we say the darnedest things and don’t really mean it, don’t we?” She reached out a hand and seized Lassi’s fingers.

  Lassi pulled a disgusted face before she had a chance to edit. Ailis’s hands were sweaty. It felt like her hand was encased by warm oysters, wrapped around her fingers.

  She tugged free of Ailis’s slimy grip and tried to muster up some politeness. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine.”

  Or, will be, as soon as I get out of this village. Her face stretched tight into a grimace.

  Ailis nodded, made the kind of smile one practices in the mirror for moments like this, and pivoted on her heel. Her hips jiggled and wiggled as she walked, no doubt from the results of one Guinness too many. She beelined for Father Ward.

  Get in line, honey. I doubt he wants a ride on your bike. Lassi rolled her eyes.

  From what she’d been told, Ailis had a disreputable reputation in the community. Apart from her job as a real estate agent, she was known as the “village bicycle.” A good pour of Guinness from the local pub could—and usually did—result in a ride.

  Ailis stopped and turned. “Oh! Give us a call tomorrow.” She waggled her finger between herself and the priest. “He’s coming to my office to list this house. We’ll get it handled so you have time to grieve.”

  She made another simpering, sympathetic face, shook her head, and turned to totter toward Father Ward.

  Oh, brother. Lassi glanced at the table leg which had lost part of a plate. She lifted her eyes and met Father Ward’s intense scrutiny.

  Another shiver cascaded down her spine. Again, her face felt uncomfortably warm. Uh! I can’t get sick!

  Another plate splintered, pieces flying in all directions.

  Ailis jumped out of the way of the ceramic bits.

  Lassi jerked from her position as a wall prop.

  Father Ward hustled toward the coffin, steadying it. He jostled the coffin again. This time it wobbled a little but not enough to result in a Great-Aunt Roberta’s pine box taking a tumble.

  Bloody hell. The plates must last until
the end. She lifted her wrist toward her face once more, as if it moved of its own accord. 2:22. Progress. Thirty-eight minutes left. She pressed into the corner, propped on one foot, her other foot against the wall. Staring out the window at the lush, green countryside, she wished time would speed up.

  Heavy footsteps tromped in her direction.

  Who is it this time? She turned from her pastoral musing and directed her attention on portly Garda Galbraith. She’d met him about ten years ago and she remembered him as kindly.

  He lumbered toward her, breathing heavily, like every step took effort. “There you are, lassie.”