Heart's Blood Read online

  She found herself unwilling or unable to snap out of despair. This was new. She always pictured herself as formidable, practical, and able to meet any challenge that stood in her way. Not this time. Fear began to coil around the edges of her awareness. Have I finally been broken? Is all the tragedy of Ballynagaul swallowing me up? She closed her eyes. This was it. The end of hope. She let herself sink, fully and completely, into a big black hole of misery, with no desire to ever climb free.

  Chapter 20

  Day 5, evening - Siobhan

  Numb, her heart shattered, Siobhan huddled in the mudroom, wrapped in her bedspread. The mudroom felt like the safest place in the house. The shadows that surrounded her in this room were normal sized, and her skin didn’t crawl here. The thought of hanging out in her car all night didn’t appeal to her.

  A heavy sense of desolation mantled her shoulders. I’ve pushed Bres away, and I’m losing Paul, the only bit of joy I have left in this world. She glanced through the slit of the cracked-open door to the carport. The outside light illuminated her Subaru, eliciting a sense of safety from her. The keys rested in the driver’s seat, ready for her speedy exit if the need arose. She’d left the carport light on and the mudroom door ajar, just in case.

  Outside, night insects kept up their eerie wing-rubbing song, heartened, no doubt, by the absence of rain.

  A carton of milk next to her served as her supper. Tissues, wadded with her snot and tears, littered the floor. A few minutes ago, she’d crushed the empty tissue box flat with her booted foot. It had given her momentary satisfaction to obliterate something, even something as innocuous as a flimsy cardboard container.

  Her ringtone blasted next to her ear, startling her. She jerked from her slump. “Oh, dear, God, it’s Paul, isn’t it? He’s gone, and his mama wasn’t there to guide him. Why did I let them talk me into going home to rest? Don’t they know I’ll never rest, as long as Paul is ill?” With trembling hands, she turned toward her coat, which hung on a wall hook next to her face. She fished through the pocket until she found the wretched device. Her heart lightened somewhat when she read the caller ID. Laughing Rat Pub.

  “Hello, this is Siobhan.”

  “What the bloody fuck, Siobhan? Moira Brown just popped in. She took Petra in for questioning regarding the vandalism of Ailis’ grave and the deaths of Seamus and Billy. And she said you were the one to tip her off? What the goddamned bloody fuck?” Lady Freddie’s voice had never sounded so shrill.

  Siobhan held the phone away from her ear. “I…I had good reason to suspect her. All this shit started happening when Petra arrived in town.”

  “That’s bollocks, Siobhan, and you know it.”

  Siobhan blinked at the phone, not quite understanding. Lady Freddie had always been a comforting and caring listener.

  “Yes, but I saw her at Ailis’ grave. And then all the shit started happening,” she said, repeating herself.

  “And you, the great detective of Ballynagaul, put two and two together and deducted that Petra must be responsible. Person arrives. Things happen. It must have been caused by the new gal. Why didn’t you accuse Tommy McCain, the new petrol shop owner? He moved in last week, too. Or, what about that family, the Williams, recent residents from the U.K.? You know what slime bastards the Brits can be. Maybe they’re suspect, huh? Jesus, Siobhan.” The words blasted from Lady Freddie’s mouth.

  “But, it made sense.” Siobhan’s voice came out weak and small.

  “Total bullshit. I’m not buying it. You’re simply jealous of a dead woman, and everyone is fair sick of you taking it out on the living. You need to get a grip, pull yourself together.”

  A black wave of anger surged through Siobhan’s throat. “Jealous? You think I’m jealous of Ailis? She never would have had Dylan. He was too loyal. Sure, his eye roved, but he never would have done anything about it.”

  “Who are you kidding? The week before he was killed, Dylan and Ailis fucked like rabbits. Petra told me,” Lady Freddie shot back. “She found detailed lust letters in Ailis’ belongings.”

  Siobhan blinked back a fresh assault of tears. “They…they what?”

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry to have blurted that out, Siobhan. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Siobhan’s sobs filled the space, drowning out the need to converse. Dylan really cheated on me? It wasn’t just a flirt?

  Lady Freddie’s voice softened. “Siobhan, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. That’s why I thought you were jealous.” She sighed. “This is so fucked up. Everything.”

  Tears poured from Siobhan’s eyes. “My son is dying, Lady Freddie. They told me there’s no hope,” she wailed. “I have nothing…nothing to live for. Nothing.”

  This time Lady Freddie spoke without harshness. But, her words still carried weight. “This is all the more reason to get a grip and pull yourself together. Are you really going to give up that easily on a miracle for Paul?”

  Siobhan grew silent. What makes me think anything good will ever happen for me again? Surely, I’m being punished for sins I’m not aware of. As she sat, musing on her failings, her shattered heart turned to dust. She could no longer contain it.

  She took a deep breath, readying herself to answer. “Yes, I’m giving up. There’s no longer anything to hope for.”

  She quickly disconnected the phone and then sank into a chasm of despair. Her will to live had, quite simply, disappeared.

  Chapter 21

  Day 6, breakfast time - Lassi

  Mary often told Lassi to listen to her bones.

  “The bones provide the structure to gleaning secrets, and unsolved mysteries,” she’d said. “They’re a sturdy framework around which substance is built. When they sing, you listen.”

  Today, Lassi’s bones were electric with resolve, a sensation far preferable to the gloomy mood she’d been wallowing in for the last umpty hours. She didn’t even whine when she awoke to find an empty space beside her in bed—because it wasn’t empty. Crusty McKitty lay in Cillian’s spot, as content as a cat could be.

  She threw back the covers on her side and rolled to her feet. She grabbed her robe and zipped toward the kitchen. Her footsteps were light—not the “dead man walking gait” she’d assumed recently. When a knock sounded at the door, she practically skipped down the hall to answer it.

  Ryan stood at the door. His head cocked to the side as if wondering what kind of mood he’d be greeted with. He wasn’t dressed in his Garda uniform but looked handsome in a pair of jeans and a gray pullover jumper.

  And, she couldn’t believe her eyes—behind Ryan, a patch of the sun had burned its way through the clouds. It disappeared in a flash, but still, …she’d take whatever good omens she could find.

  “Ryan,” she exclaimed. She welcomed him with a huge hug.

  He stiffened, at first, then melted into it.

  A strange exchange took place at that moment. As Lassi embraced him, she felt like she welcomed a family member—and not the kind you want to throw deviled eggs at over the Easter dinner table or shoo out the door as soon as they placed their dessert fork next to their plate. No, Ryan seemed more like her little brother, even though he loomed over her with his lanky frame. When she drew back, his expression made her wonder if he felt it, too.

  Instead of a mask of anguish, he sported a goofy grin.

  “You look like shit, Ryan.”

  “Well, you’re not exactly a basket of peaches, girl. You look like roadkill.” His grin broadened.

  “Well, I’ve been vomiting up the breakfast I never had in preparation for the breakfast I hope to keep down. What’s your excuse?” She returned a cheeky smile.

  He winced.

  Lassi’s face reddened, realizing her faux pas. Ryan had just lost his mama. And she’d just lost her mentor and better-than-a-mother friend. “Sorry, Ryan.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He waved his hand through the air, then dragged it across his fatigue-lined face. “It’s been a long night. When you stay up all night going
through property and genealogy records after taking your mama to the morgue, you're not gonna win any beauty contests. But you softened the harsh reality just now so…” He glanced away from her. When he looked back, his eyes were moist. “Thank you.” He squared his shoulders. “Can I come in?”

  “Oh! Where are my manners? Of course. Can I get you a cuppa?” Lassi stepped aside for him to enter.

  “And watch you heave and puke all over my good boots?” He lifted his foot to show her his shiny black shit-kickers. “I know what tea does to your pregnant tummy.”

  “Nice boots. Good call,” Lassi said. “I’ll see what else I can find.” She led the way to the kitchen. “So, what’s this about going over genealogy and property records all night?”

  “By the time I returned from the morgue I couldn’t sleep. I figured I’d best make myself useful or else I’d drink myself stupid and be no good to anyone. So, I went down to the station and got busy in the back room, pouring over old town documents. That’s why I’m here.”

  Crusty sat on the kitchen table, giving her the “why didn’t you feed me first” glare. His black, orange and white fur stuck out in all directions as if he’d applied styling gel.

  Ryan reached to pet Crusty.

  He accepted the petting, all while keeping his shrewd gaze fixed on Lassi.

  “All right, all right,” she said to Crusty. “Food first.”

  “You know he didn’t say anything, right?” Ryan said.

  “He said plenty with his eyes. He has demon eyes when it serves his needs.” Lassi stooped to pick up his bowl from the floor and set it on the counter. She retrieved an open can of cat food from the fridge, grabbed a spoon from the sink and scooped the tuna into his bowl. “Ready, your highness?” She held the bowl in the air before placing it on his little food mat.

  He leaped from the table and trotted toward it.

  That task accomplished, she trekked into the pantry to search for a suitable drink for Ryan. She spotted the Irish whiskey and plucked it from the shelf.

  “What about this?” she said, turning toward him.

  “Perfect. I would have asked, but I didn’t want you to think poorly of me.” He flashed her a sheepish smile and settled in one of her kitchen chairs.

  “Oh, goodness, Ryan,” she said, striding to the cupboard to retrieve a shot glass. She poured the whiskey into the glass, pivoted, and handed it to him. “I never think poorly of you, especially today.”

  “Thank you.” He threw his head back and tossed the whiskey down his throat. He grimaced and shook his head.

  “Here,” she said, extending the bottle. “Keep it. I should probably ease up on the whiskey.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He gripped it like a prize while eying the empty jigger.

  “Go ahead. Old Jamison there got me through many a moment. I won’t be one to tattle,” Lassi said. She settled opposite him.

  He poured himself another shot and chugged it down. When finished, he let out a humorless laugh. “Can’t say I’ve had shots for breakfast before.”

  “Yeah, well. Just don’t do it on the regular.”

  Lassi eyed him thoughtfully. His grief, courage, steadiness, and resolve had transformed him. Not that he was handsome—he would never be that. Plus, he was still very young. But…something radiated from him that would make him a bedrock of strength for some woman someday. She glanced away.

  “So,” she said, wishing she could join him in whiskey bliss. She drummed her fingers on the white-painted table. “What did you find?”

  He sat forward, his eyes appearing glassy from the liquid satisfaction. “I think all this shite has to do with banshees.”

  “What?” Lassi’s eyes went wide. She eyed the bottle. Just to take the edge off, she reasoned. Then, she seized the bottle and took a swig. “For the shock of everything,” she explained to Ryan’s gape-mouthed expression. “Or, for the banshee business. Feck me, I don’t care what it’s for. I need a drink.”

  “Think of the babies,” he reprimanded, moving the bottle away from her reach.

  Crusty, having finished his tuna, jumped on the table to groom his paws and face.

  Ryan placed both palms on the table. “Get this. Siobhan’s house was originally built in 1657. Guess who owned it?”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “I don’t know. Who?”

  She eyed the out-of-reach whiskey.

  Ryan set it on the floor by his side. “The O’Neills, as in Ailis’ ancestors.”

  “No shit,” Lassi said, gripping the table to keep from falling through the floor. “Are you fecking serious?”

  Ryan nodded. “It’s true.”

  “So, why does this mean banshees are at play?” Lassi stood and headed toward the cupboard. She removed a glass, stepped to the sink, and filled it with cool water. When she returned, she took a long glug, trying to calm the stormy sea beginning to surge inside her belly.

  “Siobhan was a McGrath before her marriage to Dylan Riordan,” he said, his eyes shining.

  “I’m still not seeing the banshee thing.” Her stomach did a twist and shout dance maneuver. She bolted to her feet and raced for the pantry. There, she seized the saltine crackers. She tromped back to the table, opened the box, and removed a few crackers. After shoving them in her mouth, she mumbled, “Want some?”

  “No, thanks,” he said, with a shake of the head. “I’m good. Anyway, banshees are known to be tied to the O’Neill and McGrath families. Both family lines have an uncanny ability to summon banshees both as protectors but also as harbingers of death and disaster.”

  “Well, feck me hard and leave me panting.” Lassi wiped the cracker crumbs from her mouth. “If you have to have a banshee connection, that's a hell of a one to have.”

  “Right? So, the way I figure it, Siobhan’s calling forth the banshee somehow. Maybe with her relentless grief.” Ryan reached out to ruffle Crusty’s head.

  The cat, offended, no doubt, since he’d just tidied himself, leaped from the table and wandered away.

  “Anyway,” Ryan continued. “I have no idea what to actually do about this news. And time is of the essence because of wee Paul…and anyone else who might fall ill from the curse of Ailis’ rage and Siobhan’s grief. We can’t let anyone fall to this…this curse or whatever fecking thing it is.” He pounded the table with his fist.

  Lassi jumped.

  Ryan continued. “I say we consult Cillian. He’s the oldest man alive. He’s got to know a thing or two about banshees.”

  Her initial thrill at seeing Cillian flashed before her, obscured by apprehension. “You go. I need to, um, clean something.”

  She scanned the kitchen.

  Ryan tsked. “Lassi. Come on. Cillian loves you. The whole town can see you’re in a bit of a rough patch, but it will pass.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Her good mood darkened. She studied her fingernails.

  “Well, come with me anyway. Do it for little Paul.” He rose to his feet, a bit unsteadily. The whiskey had undoubtedly landed in an empty stomach.

  “Okay, lightweight,” she said. “It looks like you need help up the road.”

  He scoffed.

  They trekked from the kitchen toward the hall. Lassi raced to her bedroom and hurriedly threw on some clothes. Then, she scurried toward Ryan, down the hall. She snagged her coat from the foyer, and away they went, tromping up the hill toward the rectory.

  Wispy fingers of fog clutched the land. It made everything, even the sheep, look softly blurred around the edges, like some quaint water-color effect.

  Lassi had grown to love the land, the village, and the people of Ballynagaul. She couldn’t deny it. And she loved Cillian, too, even though he was a perfect sod lately.

  When they arrived at the rectory, she marched right in the side door, the same way she’d done for months before getting pregnant.

  Cillian wasn’t in the front room. A soft clatter came from the kitchen, deeper in the house, accompanied by a smell that didn’t make her stomach lurch�
�coffee.

  She studied the space for a second. It held the same plain furnishings as always. Truth be told, she often felt like she stood in a museum in this part of the house. She rarely lingered here, preferring to scuttle toward the kitchen or the bedroom.

  An ancient Bible sat on a podium near the corner. One simple brown corduroy sofa, where Cillian often read, stood before the fireplace. Some Biblical scene painting hung over the fireplace mantel.

  A mahogany formal dining set at least as old as Cillian took up the other half the room, for when visiting church dignitaries passed through town. The Finn women who took care of Cillian through the years made sure to always prepare feasts at those occasions. Apparently, he helped in the preparation. Cillian’s needs were fairly simple. He ate what was served, always thanked her, and helped clean the kitchen. Or else, he cooked, which was preferable to them both. He was a far better cook than she.

  The smell of coffee lured her, followed by Ryan, down the hallway.

  Cillian sat at the simple plank table, sipping a heavenly smelling mug of java. A half-finished scone, dotted with currants, sat on a dainty white plate in front of him. He looked up when they entered, smiling slightly.

  “Coffee,” she said, without making eye contact. “It smells divine.”

  Her gaze skittered to the ancient hearth behind him. A copper teapot rested on an iron stand in the hearth. Once, that hearth had been used to bake bread and cook the stew for Cillian. Now it stood as a timepiece to the past, replaced by the electric stove on the opposite wall. She scuttled across the kitchen, seized a mug from the rack on the wall, and poured herself a cup. Then, she helped herself to copious amounts of cream and sugar, brought the cup to her lips, and sipped.

  “Heaven,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, a grin split her face. “Sweet baby Jesus, I’ve found my salvation.”