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  Lassi said there was a guy. She told them nothing about him. What am I going to say? Meet the love of my life, who also happens to be a Catholic priest? No. Just no.

  Her friends visited twice in the first year.

  She hadn’t introduced them to Cillian. She said he was away on assignment and couldn’t meet them. Because, knowing Cillian, he’d show up in his clerical collar. Or, the next time they visited, she said he was sick. When they Skyped and asked for pictures, she made up lame excuses like she didn’t have any recent ones. The truth was, Cillian didn’t photograph well. Pictures she’d taken always showed him with tentacles. She didn’t understand why he could be standing there, looking very much the human, but when she snapped a photo, a tentacle or two would be waving in the background. No tentacles appeared in photos of her. Maybe it has to do with the length of time he’s been a Leviathan.

  Lassi sniffed at all the cover stories she’d created. She could hardly call a 300-year-old man who turns into a tentacled sea monster a “strapping lad.” And, she could hardly introduce the town’s priest to her girlfriends. They’d think she’d obtained some degree for immoral behavior on the internet.

  Her friends had taunted her.

  “Don’t tell us you fell in love with a married man, Lassi Finn,” Aisha had said, her face all wide with shock.

  “No!” She’d spluttered. “Never. But he’s…” She thought of the tender way he used his tentacles to stroke her under the sea. When they transformed into Leviathans, they’d coil together, suspended in the ocean like two giant sea slugs, loving on one another. “He’s different.”

  “What? Disabled? Do you think we can’t handle a little disability?” Fiona had said with a sniff of her perfectly sculpted seven-thousand euro enhanced nose. She’d been utterly nice and reasonable with her previous nose. This one had ruined her personality.

  They made it their mission to find out more about Cillian. At least they said they would. But in the way that friends sometimes do, they drifted away as their own lives and dramas carried on without her. Yes, they’d send the occasional email or Facebook message, but usually, it was Lassi doing the reaching out. She considered taking up writing letters by hand again when she felt ornery and unloved by her friends. If I’m going to be a country recluse, I might as well get a quill and inkstand…or just use the beautiful one I found on Roberta's old writing desk.

  She looked up from her musings.

  Lady Freddie made a model-worthy sashay in her direction, food in hand. “Here’s your food, love. Sorry, it was so late. I don’t know where Siobhan could be. She’s so reliable. She simply didn’t show up for work today. I can’t reach her on the phone, either.”

  Another shiver coiled up Lassi’s spine. “This can’t be good. She’s never recovered from losing Dylan.”

  “Oh, I’m a mind to wait to worry. If Siobhan doesn’t show up tomorrow, then we can call in the cavalry. Where’s your boyfriend?” Lady Freddie set two bags of food on the table. “We doubled the order, as usual.”

  Lassi lifted her gaze toward Lady Freddie. “Oh, he’s sitting bedside vigil with a member of his congregation. He told me so.”

  “No, he’s not. I just saw him…”

  A sharp stab of “other woman” suspicion vaulted through Lassi’s gut. Her lips pressed into a grim slash.

  Lady Freddie closed her mouth.

  Billy, Seamus, and Sixpack grew silent. They each studied the table.

  Billy gathered up the money he’d slammed on the table and shoved it in his pocket.

  Lassi’s gaze swung between the three men and Lady Freddie. No one met her eyes.

  She forced a laugh.

  “Oh, listen to me. I got his schedule mixed up. I remember—he said he had to visit with a parishioner tomorrow. I’m so tired, what with all the work I’m doing. What an idjit,” she said, slapping her forehead with her palm.

  “That must be it,” Sixpack said. “My wife and I can’t keep a mind for the other’s whereabouts.”

  “Sure, that’s it,” Seamus said. “That’s got to be it, don’t you think, Billy?”

  “Oh, for sure, for sure.” Billy nodded his head like the pole of a butter churn.

  Lady Freddie busied herself with cleaning up the empty mugs from the fishermen’s table. “Can I get you another round, boys?”

  “Sure thing,” Billy said.

  She nodded and sailed away, mugs in hand.

  Lassi’s face flamed with heat. They were all covering for something. They’d seen him earlier, she’d bet Billy’s wager on it. And who was he with? Why all the silence? She scrambled to her feet. Hefting the to-go bags, she said, “Well, I’d best be off. Cillian’s probably wondering where I am with tonight’s meal.”

  “Right, right,” Sixpack said. “You take care. Good seeing you.”

  She scurried from the pub, feeling like she had a bright red, shaming tattoo on her forehead that said, “Loser Girlfriend.”

  Once she stepped out the door, her shoulders fell away from her ears. Cillian had been acting strange lately. But he was still an official priest. With iron-strong morals and convictions. But had she opened three hundred years of celibate longing by having sex with him? Was he sitting on a volcano of desire that she couldn’t sate? He couldn’t be up to naughty business, could he? Could he be the reason Siobhan hadn’t come to work?

  Don’t be ridiculous. Cillian’s a good man. He loves me. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me…would he?

  Chapter 2

  Day 1, Tuesday evening - Siobhan

  In seven days it would be the two-year anniversary of Dylan’s death. Siobhan remembered the day of his murder in vivid detail. He’d been slaughtered. His tongue had been cut out. And a vampire had done the deed.

  A long, rolling shiver cascaded through her.

  A vampire, for Christ’s sake. What kind of world do we live in, where vampires rule the night? She started to head to the bedroom to retrieve Paul’s pajamas, then stopped. I should wait to go to the graveyard. She glanced at her three-year-old child—hers and Dylan’s.

  He sat, cheerfully playing behind her in the front room.

  Her heart clutched at the memories of loving Paul into existence. But I can’t wait.

  She straightened the colorful blue and yellow couch pillows for the millionth time. Then she strode toward the fireplace mantel and angled the pictures of her, Dylan, and Paul just so. After, she made a round of the front room, ensuring that every picture on the wall hung perfectly. The entire room, with all its pictures of her and Dylan, served as a shrine to days long gone.

  Paul sat on the floor, with blocks covered with animal pictures between his legs. He clutched a block in his chubby hand while he watched her with the eyes of the innocent.

  Grinning, he held it out to her. “Cow. Cow go moo.”

  She stopped her obsessive arranging and forced herself to smile at him. “Cow go moo, sweet pea.” She took the block from him, regarded the black and white cow, and then handed it back to him. “Ready to go see da?”

  His blue eyes brightened. “See Da! See Da!”

  He scrambled to his feet. Fingernails of guilt scratched at Siobhan’s insides. She sighed. Seeing Da meant playtime to Paul. He’d grown far too familiar with the graveyard. All he knew was Mommy stared at a grave, and he played among the tombstones. With a grunt, she lifted him and carried him back to the bedroom. She bundled him in his red winterwear, covered with snowflakes, donned her own, and then headed out the door.

  Tucked inside her aging Audi, Siobhan drove to the graveyard in silence. Paul might have asked her a question or two, but, if so, the words fell short of her ears. Her thoughts were consumed with Dylan.

  A horn blared, blasting her from her sorrow. Her gaze snapped back to the road. A Porsche rocketed toward her side door. Shite. I’m running a red light.

  “Fecking hell!” she cried. Her arm instantly went out to shield Paul.

  The Porsche screeched to a stop in the intersection, barel
y avoiding t-boning her car.

  The driver leaned on his horn again, sealing in her shame.

  Siobhan sped through the intersection and pulled into the parking lot of the village clothing store, Margie’s Frills and Frocks. She leaned over the steering wheel, breathing hard.

  Paul’s mouth formed a perfect “O.” He stared at her, eyes wide. “Okay, Mama?”

  “I’m okay. Mama wasn’t paying attention.”

  Cheeks flushed, she forced herself to keep her wits about her the rest of the way.

  At the graveyard, she parked beneath a flickering streetlight across the street, got out, and rounded the car. After unhooking the straps of Paul’s car seat, she lifted him from the vehicle and set him on the ground.

  “Stay with Mama,” she said, reaching for his hand.

  He took it.

  The warmth in his sweaty little hand sparked a glimmer of joy in her heart. The brisk weather quickly extinguished it.

  Clouds, decked in the colors of twilight, began to darken. A raw, biting wind nipped at her cheeks. It’s the same fecking weather we had on the day of Dylan’s murder.

  The small, old graveyard stood wrapped in shadows. The huge stone mausoleum near the entrance held sinister gargoyles on each corner. To the right, farther down the street, the centuries-old church looked anything but comforting with its dark windows and unforgiving stone walls. One light shone from the rectory window. It did nothing to stop the falling darkness.

  Nothing ever helped the falling darkness.

  Once they’d passed through the graveyard gate, Paul wrested his hand from her grip. He tottered toward the tombstones to play hide and seek with some imaginary friend. Siobhan rarely played hide and seek, so he’d made up a friend to play with.

  Paul had told her his new friend was a woman, “just like you, Mama.”

  Siobhan hoped the imaginary playmate was cheerier than her. Paul deserved a friend who laughed occasionally. Siobhan’s face seemed to have forgotten how to smile.

  A gust of wind tugged at the hem of her coat. She shivered as she followed along behind Paul, staring at his red-clad back. A movement near Dylan’s grave caught her eye. She lifted her gaze and froze.

  A dark-clad figure lurked behind his tombstone. Fright caught in Siobhan’s throat, paralyzing her. Get Paul. Run. It’s the vampire—the Dearg-Due. Or, maybe it’s the ghost of Penny, that conniving bitch murderer who used the actions of the Dearg-Due to satisfy her own thirst for vengeance.

  With her shoes pinned to the ground by fear, all the horrific memories of Dylan’s death began to replay. I’d been in the bedroom, napping with Paul. I heard a sound. Then I ran out into the yard and… Her thoughts flickered, like a movie reel that snapped in the middle of a scene. She willed calm to claim her body. But the image of Dylan’s dead body insisted on haunting her. I found him under the tree. His legs were all akimbo. His beautiful eyes were pools of the dead. Blood spattered his jumper. Her mind began to meander, unwilling to focus. I’d just picked up that jumper from the dry cleaners. I’d made him put it on that day to keep away the chill. What did we have for breakfast that day? Oh, right, I’d made him a full Irish breakfast because it was Sunday. Potatoes, tomatoes, sausage, the works. Who murders someone on a Sunday? Or, was it Monday? Yes, that’s right, it was Monday. Lassi and Father Ward stopped by after the murder. Everyone stopped by. I hosted the whole village. Her breath caught in her throat. And who cuts out a man’s tongue and makes him hold it while she ravages his neck, only for his sleepy wife to find him there? So, he fancied Ailis. He was a good-looking man. It wasn’t your job to be a marriage counselor, you bitch vampire. Dylan and I—we could have worked it out. We would have worked it out. Her body shook. She balled her hands into fists.

  “I found you, Ma,” Paul’s cheery voice called. Peeking out from behind a gravestone, he waved to her.

  “What?” Siobhan blinked. She lifted her hand to him in a listless wave.

  He grinned and disappeared.

  The figure—a woman—looked up when Paul made his fleeting appearance. Her gaze swiveled toward Siobhan. And, no, the woman wasn’t standing next to Dylan’s grave. She stood before the grave of Ailis, the next tombstone over.

  It certainly hadn’t been lost on Siobhan that Dylan lay next to Ailis in death. And when she died, she would be on the other side of him. Dylan would be tucked between his wife and his infatuation. Had it been more than a flirtation? Had they actually begun an affair? Since both were dead, Siobhan would never know. Still stuck in place, as if she had been mummified, she thought about purchasing a new plot. See how you like that, Dylan if you have to rest for eternity away from your loving wife. The thought left her cold. Never mind, I’ll keep my burial site. The better to keep an eye on you and Ailis.

  Positioning her caution before her like a shield, Siobhan trundled toward Dylan’s grave. As she closed the distance, she kept her eyes on the female intruder.

  The woman did the same to her.

  Siobhan’s fear transformed into wary apprehension. She looks familiar. Do I know her?

  Shadows obscured the woman’s face, but her eyes seemed light-colored. Maybe blue. Dingy blonde hair hung from beneath a sturdy, brown rain hat. A green raincoat hugged her doughy body.

  Standing like a deer facing a predator, Siobhan readied herself to run, if needed.

  “Hello,” the woman said. She extended her hand. “I’m Petra O’Neill. I’m Ailis’ sister.”

  Siobhan jerked like she’d been shot. Her hand fluttered to her sternum. A million thoughts crashed through her mind. Why now on the anniversary of his death? Why didn’t she make an appearance in the last two years? Is she another man-eater like her sister? An icy chill, rivaling the wind’s bite, sliced through her.

  Even in the gloom, Petra’s face appeared to grow pink.

  “I…” she began. She wrung her hands together, fixing her gaze on her mud boots. Then, she lifted her head. “Look, I had to come. I know many of you hated her. She told me before she left this world. But still…she’s my sister, after all. She was once my all and my everything. And, now she’s gone. Brutally murdered. All we had was each other. And no one should be alone.” She sobbed on the last sentence as if those were the truest words ever spoken.

  The sentiment slammed into Siobhan’s chest, forcing her to stumble backward. No one should be alone. Since Dylan’s death, she couldn’t count the ways she had isolated herself to the point of utter aloneness. Her friends never came around. They probably couldn’t be near such a dreary companion. When she wasn’t working at the pub, she stayed trapped in her home with Paul. It wasn’t fair to Paul, but then, how fair was a vampire showing up in town? She clung to Paul, her innocent little captive, as the only bridge between her and her dead husband, and all the love and heartache that went with it. She couldn’t imagine ever loving like that again.

  Fearing she might be sick to her stomach—in front of a stranger, no less—she bolted.

  “Paul,” she yelled.

  “I’m here, Mama,” he said, popping out from behind a grave marker. “Play hide and seek with me and my friend?”

  “We’re going home.” She snatched him from the grass.

  “But Mama. Not done. Not done.” He wriggled in her grasp.

  “You’re done if I say so,” she snapped, taking off at a run. She paused, briefly, whirling around to look behind her.

  Petra O’Neill stood between Ailis and Dylan’s grave, watching Siobhan.

  What did that woman want? Something told Siobhan she would find out soon enough.

  Chapter 3

  Days 1 and 2, Tuesday night/Wednesday morning - Siobhan

  In the middle of the night, Siobhan woke up screaming. Her cheeks were wet as if she’d been on a massive sobbing spree. Oh, shite. This is new. Can’t say I’ve done this before. With a moan, she rolled over in bed and reached for the pull on the table lamp. The golden light cast an unforgiving glow on the chaos in her room. Unfolded laundry lined the floor. Cl
othes ready for wash lay stacked in a mountainous heap in the corner. Toys littered the entire floor. Ugh.

  In the other room, Paul cried.

  “Mama,” he wailed. “Come get me.”

  She climbed out of bed, reached for her worn pink robe from the chair in the corner, and scurried to his room. “There, there, Paulie.”

  Still shrieking, he stood in his pint-sized bed and reached his arms to her.

  She picked him up, thinking he’d heard her screaming, but nixed that idea when she felt his skin. He burned with fever. Singing softly, she rocked him until his screams became hiccups and whimpers. She trundled back to her room, stepping cautiously through the mess, to retrieve her phone. Phone in hand, she texted Nurse Lassi, hoping she was up in the middle of the night. When no reply came, she called her.

  Lassi answered on the fourth ring. She mumbled something unintelligible into Siobhan’s ear.

  “Lassi, it’s Siobhan.” She bounced Paul on her hip, steadying him with her free hand.

  “Oh, hey, Siobhan. What can I do for you?” Lassi said groggily.

  “It’s Paulie. He’s burning hot with fever.” Siobhan kissed his damp cheek.

  Lassi coughed. “What is it? Have you taken his temp?”

  “No, I can tell. He’s hot as Hades.” Spikes of annoyance stabbed Siobhan’s gut.

  “Numbers help me diagnose.” Lassi yawned.

  “He’s sick, I tell you. I’m hoping you can come and use some of your magic on him. That’s always worked before.”

  Paul laid his head on Siobhan’s shoulder. The heat of his cheek created a warm patch on her shoulder.

  More coughs came through the phone. “I’m sorry, I’ve come down with a wicked chest cold. I can’t risk exposing your child to my illness on top of whatever’s ailing him now. I’ll make sure and set up an appointment first thing in the morning.” Some sort of clatter met Siobhan’s ears. Then, a curse. Next, Lassi said, “I mean, in a few hours. I’ll get you the first appointment with Doc Breslin.”