Heart's Blood Page 3

  The doctor’s name sent an unwelcome shiver down Siobhan’s spine. Another coughing fit from Lassi forced her to hold the phone away from her ear.

  Lassi croaked, “Give him a lukewarm sponge bath. Give him some baby aspirin. Take his temp. Keep monitoring it to make sure it doesn’t get higher. We don’t want him having a febrile seizure.”

  Panic shot through Siobhan. “What’s a febrile seizure?”

  “Don’t worry, Siobhan. It sounds worse than it is. Just do what I said, and he’ll be fine.”

  “Why can’t you simply magic yourself well and get over here?” Siobhan shot back. Thick silence met her ears.

  Finally, Lassi filled the gap. “Neither my Finn magic nor my Leviathan magic works that way. I can’t simply perform a wellness spell, Siobhan, or I would be by your side in less than a hot minute, directly after I used it on myself.”

  Siobhan hung her head. “I understand. I’m sorry for snapping. I’ll head to Dungarvan first thing. Thank you.” She disconnected the phone before another surly comment hurtled from her throat.

  In the morning, she bundled Paul in outerwear again, hustled to her Audi, and made the 11km trek to Dungarvan. Along the way, she called Lady Freddie.

  “Siobhan.” Lady Freddie’s voice came through the phone with a mixture of reprimand and relief. “I was worried about you. When I had a chance to worry, that is. We were slammed.”

  Another load of guilt fell on Siobhan’s head. She seemed to carry an anvil’s worth, lately.

  “I’m sorry.” Lifting her gaze to the rearview mirror, she glanced at Paul who sat listlessly in his car seat. “It’s Paul. He’s taken ill again. I’m on my way to Dungarvan right now.”

  “Oh, you poor dear,” Lady Freddie said.

  “And I’m sorry I didn’t call,” she said, unwilling to admit her obsession with Dylan’s death kept her away from the pub. “Paul’s fever has kept me busy.” There. I haven’t lied. Merely omitted a few details. “I hate to ask you to step up again. Maybe we should think of hiring someone part-time to be an on-call sub at the pub?”

  “I think that’s a splendid idea,” Lady Freddie gushed. “I’m so glad you said that. In fact, just this morning a lovely woman stopped by. She’s moving back to the village, and she needs a job.”

  Siobhan’s jaw tightened. “Who is it?”

  With her hand white-knuckling the steering wheel, she pulled up to an intersection. Once she’d stopped the car, she peered up at the sky. The wind continued to howl, pushing aside the branches of the trees as if ushering in the anniversary of Dylan’s death.

  “Her name is Petra O’Neill. She’s the sister of that poor lass who was killed last year.”

  “It was two years ago,” Siobhan said in a cold, dead voice. “Her sister had the hots for my husband, don’t forget.”

  Behind her, another horn blared, urging her to move through the intersection.

  She flipped him off, cringing inside for being so bold, and stepped on the gas.

  “Lady Freddie? Are you still there?” she said to the silence coming through the phone.

  “Yes, dear, I’m still here. I seem to have stepped into a pile of donkey dung. I’m so sorry for my faux pas.” Lady Freddie sighed. “But, still, we need someone. Petra seems like a nice woman. What could it hurt to give her a chance?”

  “You know what they say…keep your enemies close to your chest,” Siobhan said, in forced gaiety. Her teeth clenched as she said, “Do what you think is best.” After uttering a quick farewell, she disconnected the phone.

  Paul began to whimper.

  “Shh, shh,” she said.

  His whimper quickly transformed into crying.

  She readied to do her go-to, foolproof strategy—singing. It soothed Paul every time. When Dylan still lived, Siobhan had loved to sing. Her voice was clear and strong. She sang in the church choir. She sang at parties and events. Now, the only singing from her came when Paulie needed it.

  Opening her mouth, she sang, “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-li, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Hush, now don't you cry…”

  Paul’s cries turned into shrieks. “No sing, Mama. No sing!”

  Her brows drew together. Maybe he doesn’t like that song? She launched into another of Paul’s favorites. “I see the moon.”

  Paul became hysterical. Tears and snot streaked his face.

  “No sing,” he cried. “No sing.” He clapped his hands over his ears.

  Siobhan blinked, trying to keep from crying herself. At this stage of the parenting game, her confidence waned into the minus zone. Singing had been her one failsafe. “What’s the matter, Paulie? Don’t you like Mama’s voice?”

  “No sing, Mama. No sing,” he continued to shriek.

  She clamped her lips together and stayed silent the rest of the way, listening to the heartbreaking whimpers of her only child.

  When they arrived at Dr. Breslin’s, she threw open the car door, slid out, and tramped to the passenger door. Mutely, she unbuckled Paul and hefted him into her arms.

  He hiccupped and sobbed into her shoulder.

  She marched, like a checked-out soldier, toward the clinic.

  In the modest, salmon-painted reception office, the receptionist, a sweet young brunette named April, greeted Siobhan from her post behind the counter.

  “Dr. Breslin is expecting you. Come right in.” She rose from her seat and disappeared. A few seconds later, the door to the back office eased open by April’s hand. April ushered her down the hall and showed her to one of the exam rooms. “He’ll be right in,” she said, smiling warmly. “He’ll get Paul to rights.”

  Siobhan allowed the corners of her lips to rise in a show of appreciation.

  April nodded, closing the door behind her, leaving Siobhan to her stew of dark thoughts. No one understands what it’s like to lose your husband to a vicious vampire. And, oh, how about this? The sister of the woman who seduced my Dylan is in town. And now, I can’t even console my own son. How much more bullshit will be dropped on my head before I lose it? What else can this town throw my way?

  She placed him on the floor, set to removing his bulky coat, then lifted him into her arms. She perched on the exam table, with Paul in her lap. As she waited, she patted his warm back.

  He stirred and whimpered.

  She gently bounced him as she studied the small room. She cataloged everything as if she were taking inventory. White walls. Posters of optimal weights and the right blood pressure to maintain. White counters. One small cupboard over the tiny sink. Tongue depressors in a jar. Cotton balls in another jar. A plastic holder hung on the wall stuffed with pamphlets about, “What to do if your teenager uses drugs,” and “Depressed? We can help.” Siobhan snorted. Right. There’s no help for me. Try your best, but I guarantee you won’t get past my fortified walls.

  A few seconds later, a knock rapped on the door.

  “Come in,” she called, clamping down hard on her emotions.

  Dr. Breslin—Bres to his friends—had kept her somewhat sane over the endless months following Dylan’s death. He stopped by on the regular to see to both Paul and her. He liked to take Paul on walks and play with him in the front room. Paul always brightened when he saw him.

  Dr. Breslin had urged Siobhan to call him Bres, but she insisted on keeping things formal. So, she referred to him as Dr. Breslin when she was here in the clinic. When he was at her house, she allowed herself to call him Stephen. It seemed politer than referring to him as “you, there.” Bres seemed far too intimate for the kind of distance she wanted to maintain.

  Dressed in a blue polo shirt and khaki slacks, he entered the room, carrying a chart. His gold-flecked, light brown hair hung in his eyes like he’d barely had time for morning ablutions. When he looked up from the chart, his green eyes softened.

  Siobhan’s heart leaped like a crazy monkey trying to escape the zoo. She kept her expression stiff and stoic.

  “I’ll have to thank Lassi for getting me this appointment
,” she said, glancing away from him.

  “She’s a good one,” Dr. Breslin said. “Sick as a dog, now, though.”

  A hot flush crept up Siobhan’s neck as she remembered telling Lassi to use magic to get well and take care of Paul. She nodded.

  Dr. Breslin’s gaze seemed intent on battering down her armor. “She logged into the office management system and bumped everyone else to make room for you and Paul.”

  The flush grew hotter on Siobhan’s face. I’m an idjit to have been so snappish to her.

  Dr. Breslin waited for her to say something.

  Her mind raced, finally landing on something. “You Americans are sure obsessed with technology.”

  He frowned slightly. “Everyone relies on tools to get the job done.”

  Guilt and shame pressed down hard on her. Why do I say such stupid things? Siobhan stared at the top of Paul’s head. She really needed to trim Paul’s hair. It framed his face in a tangle of reddish-brown curls, the color of a fawn. It made him look like an angel. And angels reminded her of death.

  Dr. Breslin stepped toward her and Paul. His muscled arms caught her attention, as usual.

  She arched away, not wanting to give time to any fantasies of what those arms might feel like, wrapped around her in an embrace.

  He sighed and turned his attention to Paul. “How are you today, Paulie?”

  Paul looked up from his snuggle with Siobhan’s shoulder and gave him a listless smile.

  “I guess that’s a ‘not so good, thanks for asking,’ am I right?” He fingered Paul’s cheek. “You’re a bit hot, you are. I’m going to examine you, and then your mama’s going to help you feel better. How will that be?” He smiled, drawing dimples in his cheeks.

  Paul nodded slightly against Siobhan’s shoulder.

  Relief swept through Siobhan to have the focus off her. She knew in her gut Dr. Breslin—Stephen—Bres—loved her. And, simply put, she refused to allow anything remotely resembling love into her heart. I’ll be betraying Dylan if I love again. And that’s something I won’t do. Another thought snaked its way into her head. Then again, Dylan betrayed me first. She sniffed. Still, it’s proper for me to take the high road. An even deeper, quieter thought waved its hand at her. You’re scared to love again. What if you lose another to something vicious and horrible? She didn’t think she’d survive another loss.

  After washing his hands in the small sink beneath the cupboard, Dr. Breslin retrieved his stethoscope from a drawer. He proceeded through the business of taking Paul's temperature, listening to his heart and lungs, palpating his abdomen, and taking a little bit of blood.

  All the while, Siobhan sat like a stone on the examination table, gripping Paul, unable or unwilling to look at the handsome man who threatened to batter down her walls. Awkward tension stretched its spidery fingers between them. She knew he felt it too as he revolved around his examination of Paul as if she were merely a chair.

  He stepped toward the counter, opened a drawer, and rustled around. When his hand emerged, he held a lollypop. Turning, he held out the bright red sucker to Paul.

  Paul reached for it.

  “Ask your ma to unwrap it.”

  Siobhan dutifully took the sucker from Paul’s grip and unwrapped it. She handed it back to her child.

  He popped it into his mouth and began to suck.

  “It’s sugar-free, Mom, so you don’t have to worry about his teeth,” he said, keeping his gaze on Paul.

  “Thank you,” she said. She also focused her attention on Paul.

  “We’ll have to wait for the bloodwork to come back. If I ask real nice-like, I can usually get it done by tomorrow.” He smiled, but not at her. He kept his gaze pinned to Paul. “It could be a virus, in which case, it will have to run its course. It could be bacterial, and that will show in the blood. Have you given him any baby aspirin?” He side-eyed her.

  Siobhan nodded.

  “Good.” His head bobbed up and down. “Keep it up and watch him for the next twenty-four hours. Give him a lukewarm bath if the temperature spikes.” He brushed a few curls out of Paul’s eyes.

  She stiffened, lowering her gaze. Stephen’s kind regard of Paul seemed far too intimate for her liking. Is he only nice to Paul to get to me? Or, does he think my son needs a man in his life. I can raise him just fine. Her heartbeat began alternating between a sprint and a waltz in her chest. Dr. Breslin is staring at me, I know he is.

  “How are you doing, Siobhan?”

  She jerked. Dr. Breslin could have asked her how she was doing without adding her name. Saying her name felt personal…intimate. It sent all sorts of prickly sensations dancing along her skin. And his gaze seemed too open, inviting her to let go. Thoughts of drowning in his vulnerability whirled through her mind.

  He seemed to sense her distress. He blinked, reached for Paul’s chart resting on the counter, and took a step backward. “You seem tired. That’s why I asked. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  Her gaze hardened. She met Stephen’s eyes in a challenging manner, like throwing down her gloves for a duel.

  “I had a nightmare. Not unexpected at this time of year,” Siobhan said, daring him to disagree with her.

  “Siobhan, I didn’t…”

  “You don’t get it. No one seems to get it. I’m still grieving,” she blurted, the words rushing out on a polluted river of stale emotion. “I don’t stop hurting just because you or the townsfolk, or Lassi, or Lady Freddie say so. This is my process, get it? Mine. And I’ll mourn until I don’t want to mourn.” Her insides cringed. “Or, maybe this is how life will be now, forever.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “And I’m sorry if I seem snappish. It’s just…It’s that…there’s so much pain inside. Sometimes I feel like I’ll detonate. I…I…” Her face flamed.

  Dr. Breslin’s lips disappeared between his teeth as if he dare not comment.

  His soft, sappy, mushy gaze proved too much for her. Her hand itched to slap it from his face. She didn’t want sympathy. She didn’t need sympathy. I need, I need… Her attention darted toward the door. I need to get out of here before I say anything else.

  “Thank you for your time, doctor,” she said with as much curtness as she could manage. “I’ll let April know if there are any more issues.” She glanced at him.

  He had that same, stupid, vulnerable expression on his face like she hadn’t said anything wounding.

  “I’m always here for you, you know that,” he said, in that ridiculously gentle voice he reserved for her.

  She’d have preferred anything but his kindness and understanding. Augh. I can’t take it.

  She wriggled from the exam table, Paul in tow. Then, she snatched Paul’s winter coat from the chair where she’d dropped it. Like a bat-shit lunatic, she bolted toward the exit, feeling like a royal shit. Next time, if Paul got sick, she’d send Lady Freddie out with Paul to see Dr. Breslin. She couldn’t face him after this. Her foot kept a permanent residence in her mouth lately, like some twisted-in-a-knot yogini. And that would stop. She vowed to take her need for isolation more seriously than ever. She’d never show her face in town again. Well, there’s my job. Okay, I’ll only come into work, continue to hide in my office, and leave.

  She knew she only talked nonsense to herself.

  Something, someday, might get her to break. If it did, she didn’t know how she would deal with it. Will I simply give up on life? She shuddered, not really wanting to find out.

  Chapter 4

  Day 2, Wednesday morning - Lassi

  A sense of jittery apprehension shook Lassi out of her dreams, jangling her bones.

  In her weekly lessons, her dear friend and magic mentor, Mary Conway, taught her to listen when a feeling stirred the bones. She listened. She didn’t know the what, the how, or the who, but, like sensing tectonic plates about to cause an earthquake, she knew something would shift today.

  The dreary weather outside the window added to her anxiety. Ever since she and Cillian had joined forces to keep the Dearg
-Due safe in her grave, the weather had been more like normal Ireland weather—rain with a slim chance of sun. Now, it veered toward constant shrieks and wails from the wind, and temper tantrums from the relentless rain clouds.

  She blew out her breath, lingering in the warmth under the covers. Her hand instinctively reached for Cillian, only to find a chill between the sheets on his side. Where’s Cillian? That parishioner must be clinging to life. Remembering the awkward conversation at the Laughing Rat Pub made her heart sink. I really don’t know what they were trying to hide, so there’s no need to wonder and worry, right? He’s tending to a sick person, right? He couldn’t be avoiding me. But, honestly, how much had she actually seen him in the last month? A dozen or more times? Sure, the sex had been fantastic, but, then he’d disappear.

  She forced her attention to her surroundings. Her cottage rested along a slope heading down to the ocean where the Dearg-Due lay in her grave. She never, in a gazillion years, thought she’d be living here. When she’d arrived in Ballynagaul to see to her dead Great-Whatever Roberta’s estate, this room, as well as the entire house, had been a hoarder’s wet dream. Bags of crap littered the floors. Boxes of more shit were piled high. Navigating through the house had been a kick, step, and swear endeavor, clearing a path from room to room. It had been a nightmare for Lassi and her orderly ways.

  Now, nearly all the furniture had been given to the church to pass on to those really desperate, because who would want Roberta’s ragtag collection of furniture? Lassi had kept the only two antiques deemed willing to submit to restoration—the four-poster bed she now lay in, and the dining table.

  Time, energy, and a healthy amount of coarse language had been used to clean the place of the rest of the garbage. All the dead cats, Ireland commemorative plates Roberta had lifted from stores all around the country, and odds and sods of rubbish had been carted away to the Dungarvan Goodskeeper storage facility. Well. The dead cats and rubbish were sent to the dump site.