Iron and Salt Page 3

  For one sweet second that would surely pave his path to hell, he hoped maybe the good father had died, and Inspector Brown was here to share the news. Then, he might stand a chance with Anne.

  “Not here. Have you heard anything from Helen Pelletier this morning?” Inspector Brown pressed her blocky palms into the desk.

  Paul’s brow wrinkled. “No. But I don’t usually speak to her on this or any morning.”

  “Why’s that? Are you at odds?” Inspector Brown drilled him with her gaze.

  Paul stepped backward, stumbling against the wall. “No, not at odds. I don’t know her that well. What’s this about?”

  “Have you heard of any trouble she might be in?” Inspector Brown asked, side-stepping his question.

  His breath caught in his throat. “No. Helen was the nicest person anyone could ever meet. Everyone loves Mrs. Pelletier.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know her.” Inspector Brown cocked her head and stared at him with flinty eyes.

  “I don’t,” Paul stammered. “But I know her reputation. She’s always surrounded by students, faculty, staff…She’s like a love magnet.”

  “That’s a curious term. Did you have a crush on Mrs. Pelletier, Mr. Riordan?” Inspector Brown drummed her stubby fingers on the desk.

  “No!” Paul stepped forward, his jaw becoming rigid. This line of inquiry annoyed him. If Inspector Brown was asking him these questions, she probably thought him a suspect. “She’s a newlywed. Happy. In love.”

  Inspector Brown rose to stand. Wide shoulders perched atop her rectangular frame. A crisp blue uniform shirt stretched tight over her ample belly. “That’s never stopped an interested male before.”

  “Well, I’m not interested. What’s this all about?” Paul demanded.

  Inspector Brown sighed, deflating into an old woman before his eyes. She brought her hand to her face and squeezed the bridge of her nose.

  “This town,” she said. “It will be the death of me. Do you know my success rate for solved murders in Dungarvan, Mr. Riordan?”

  Murder? Who said anything about murder? His fingers tightened around the Phrygian cap.

  “I’m guessing it’s pretty good.” He tried to smile, but his face was too stiff to pull it off.

  “Ninety-nine percent.” She leaned against the desk and folded her arms over her chest. “What do you think my success rate for solved murders here in Ballynagaul is?”

  “One hundred?” he said, forcing his lips to yield to a smile.

  She held up her hand, her thumb and forefinger curved in a “0.” “It’s a big fat zilch, Mr. Riordan. A zero. Nada. No coins in that bank. Empty-ola. Nothing to hang my hat on, save one.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He leaned against the wall, his right hand ready to grab the doorknob to escape. “But what’s this talk of murder?”

  Inspector Brown sighed again. Then, she straightened into her formidable self. “When Mrs. Pelletier didn’t show for work this morning, police were called to her flat in Dungarvan. She was found dead. Murdered. And, by the looks of it, murdered by Bluebeard.”

  Paul jerked away from the wall. “Is that the criminal who’s been killing young, newly married women over the past few months? I glanced at that story this morning on the T.V.”

  Inspector Brown snorted. “How many Bluebeards do you think we have floating around Ireland, Mr. Riordan?”

  Stung by the reprimand, Paul collapsed against the wall. “You can’t possibly think I’m a suspect. Are you done with me? Can I get back to class?”

  “Just testing out long shots. I have to be thorough.” Inspector Brown waved him away. “Go ahead and go.” Her lips thinned into a smirk. “Nice legs, by the way.”

  A furnace-like blush spread up his neck and face. He quickly exited.

  His limbs shook as he made his way back to class. No wonder Anne appeared so upset. The newscasters eagerly shared Bluebeard’s killing technique—throat slashed from ear to ear. And now, the only thing he could think about was Helen Pelletier’s death. Gone. Never stepping inside this school again. Never getting to enjoy married life and love.

  The thought made him want to give up on pursuing love with Anne. His fantasy definitely included a happy ever after marriage to her. Now, he couldn’t even risk picturing it in his imagination. What if this Bluebeard fellow struck down his Anne? He swallowed, hard.

  But that won’t happen, right? This Bluebeard fellow only seems to go for newly married women. A worrisome thought snaked through his brain. The thought paralyzed his limbs for a few terrifying seconds.

  Don’t nuns marry Christ when they take their vows?

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday evening – Marie

  Tension crackled through the air at Marie’s home—the one she still lived in with her parents. She huddled in the cozy floral-covered chair in the corner of the spacious front room, next to the fireplace. Lifting her gaze from her Runner’s World magazine, she longingly eyed the fields outside the bay window. A run might be in my very near future.

  “I’ve had it, William. I’m done with this conversation,” her mother yelled into the phone, punctuating the statement with the End Call button. She dropped the phone on the side table, next to the sofa, before plopping down next to Marie’s dad. “Ugh! That boy. He takes after you, Cillian. You’re like a matched set.”

  “What? He’s your son, through and through. He’s inherited your rebellious streak, sweetheart. I was a priest for three hundred years, don’t forget,” her dad said, idly looking up from his tablet.

  “And you don’t forget, before that, you were once a philandering blacksmith’s apprentice. Being rebellious got you into the Leviathan stew you’re now in.” Her mother’s face was as red as her hair.

  “So, we’re turning this on me and the stew that I’m in,” her father said with a smile. “I think it’s a fine stew, now that you’re swimming in it with me.” He rested his hand on Mum’s thigh.

  Marie lifted her head from her book and smiled. Dad was such a sweetheart. He rarely let Mum’s temper ruffle his feathers.

  Mum turned her gaze toward Marie.

  Marie’s smile faded. “What? I’m simply sitting here.”

  “Your twin brother is an arse,” she said.

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” Marie said.

  “And why is it that William is my son when he’s an arse?” Mum said to Dad.

  Her father’s lips curved in a teasing grin. “The same reason that Marie becomes my daughter when she’s an arse.”

  “Hey!” Marie protested. “Keep me out of this.”

  Her mother sighed out a long huff.

  As her parents moved on to other topics, Marie mused on all the rights and wrongs of her family. Mum was right that William could be a major pain. To say he was rebellious was to put his behavior mildly. While she rebelled against physical limitations, pushing herself to extremes, William seemed to want to kill himself or numb himself, or both. He smoked. He drank. He bedded as many women as he could get his hands on.

  But William and I have a right to be angry. Not knowing if you’re immortal but definitely knowing you’re a quasi-legendary sea monster shifter is a shitty way to live.

  Marie glanced outside. Clouds were gathering and blotting the sky with darkness. I need to run. Without another word, she bolted to her feet and raced to her room to don her trainers. Then, she grabbed a light jacket from the closet and headed outside.

  She trekked along the meandering pathway her father had made in the front yard, opened the front gate, and started to jog. She passed the homes of their neighbors, and headed out of town, toward the sea. The sea always held space for her wild frustration. She could be angry as a lashing whip when she arrived at the shore, and instantly be calmed into submission by the thrashing waves.

  As she jogged along, the rhythm of her pace jostled memories to the surface—memories of all the times she’d yelled at Mum and Dad. It was so unfair for them to bring children into th
e world without knowing the consequences. Oh, sure, she’d heard her father tell of how it shocked the shit out of him when William transformed in the middle of having his nappies changed.

  “Trying to figure out which tentacle goes where in the fold is no easy task,” he told her with a chuckle. “While you, Marie, never transformed as a baby.”

  To this day Marie never managed a full transformation. And that’s how I want to keep it, no matter how fun my parents and William say it is to dive as deep as whales. Who wants to be more of an outcast than we already are?

  Although she flipped and flopped between being angry and being loyal to her twin, she couldn’t blame William for some of his bad behavior, any more than she could blame herself for running to escape dwelling on her strangeness. They both needed ways to cope with their secrets and the confusion they each harbored about their abilities. She had few friends. Paranoid about the cloaking magic wearing off and being found to be a freak, she kept to herself most of the time. But, she also worried about William. He could charm the whiskers off a cat. His circle of friends all wanted to be like him—reckless and daring. But he took far too many risks—too much drinking, too many drugs, too many women, and too much of who knew what else. He was like a supersonic train speeding toward a brick wall. Marie didn’t want him to come to do anything stupid to wreck himself. She cared about him too much. He’s my brother, damn it. I’m worried he’s going to go too far.

  Her speed increased to an easy run. She passed the rectory, where her father once lived for centuries. Her sense of isolation increased with each pounding footfall. In truth, she didn’t have many people in her life she could trust with the family secrets. Which meant, her circle of trustworthy individuals would always be small—always. She could never live a normal life. And few, if any, understood what it was like to carry such a loathsome wad of fuckery around.

  How many other kids can claim to have a three-century-old father who still looks youthful? I’m going to have to keep his, my mum’s, my brother’s and my secret until I die. Which, if I truly am a Leviathan, might be a really long time. Oh, sure, Mum and Dad assure me the Leviathan magic protects us from being found out. But, that’s their truth. Maybe it doesn’t work that way for William and me. Anger boiled in her tummy. She stepped up her speed, heading down the hill toward her Great Great Grandmother Roberta’s cottage.

  The cottage loomed in the distance, a cruel reminder of everything that had led to Marie being born. She slowed her pace, scooped up a rock, and hurled it toward the cottage. It bounced off the white plaster and fell into the bushes surrounding the place. Then, she veered right and headed toward the sea, her feet pounding the stony path.

  As she approached the lapping waves, her pace slowed to a walk. When her heart stopped its rapid thumping, she stood in place, bringing her hands to her hips. About twenty meters to her right lay that damned vampire’s grave—the grave her parents tended as religiously as they cared for her and William.

  A cold biting wind shook the dried-up field of seagrass before her. The wind blew more memories free of the many failed experiments her mother had tried, in her efforts to bring peace to the Dearg-Due. Like the time Mum had placed roses around the grave and told the stones lining the grave that the Dearg-Due was now and always forgiven. Or, the time after that when Mum had bundled her and her brother at age eight down here in the middle of the night to read passages from the Carmina Gadelica. Apparently, Mum felt certain words uttered by her two innocent children would hold more sway with the vampire.

  That experiment died quickly, when Marie had grown cold to the point of a shiver attack, and William had pitched a tantrum, complete with throwing handfuls of sand at their mother. Mum had seized both their hands and dragged them up the hill to the car. On the way, she reminded her and William of their service to the village in which they lived and the need to keep everyone safe.

  Like two eight-year-olds care about being of service. Marie scoffed.

  When they got home, Mum and Dad had argued until dawn. After that, her mother had never included them in an experiment again.

  Marie shook her head, slowed her walk, and stared at the crashing waves. Thoughts of all her failed attempts at transformation filled her mind with biting fury.

  As a teen, she’d tried to transform. William came here with her several times, and they dove through the waves and swam out into the calmer waters, bobbing like two corks.

  “First, you get calm,” he said. “Or, you get mad, or you think of that girl you want to bone or whatever. It doesn’t really matter what you think about. You just sort of do it. The transformation, I mean.” He grinned. “Now you see me like this, and now…” His eyes turned into yellow-green slits and, right before her eyes, he flashed into a big, ugly sea monster.

  Stunned to see her brother in such a grotesque form, her hands began flailing and splashing in the water, and her heart beat so fast she thought she’d have a heart attack.

  When he reverted to human, he laughed so hard he cried. “You should have seen your face! It was hilarious. You looked like you could shit a whole house.”

  She’d slugged him, hard, in the chest, and swam back to shore.

  After that, he tried to be gentler, but nothing worked.

  At first, shame had often made an appearance when she couldn’t turn into a horrible she-monster. She’d wondered if she’d been adopted, even though, if her hair was shorter and she had a beard, she was a dead ringer for her brother.

  Her brother would taunt, “What is wrong with you, girl? This shit is so easy. It’s like taking a breath.”

  As she grew older, she was relieved to not have turned. She hoped to have escaped that curse. But I can’t escape what my family is. They’re all capable of turning into butt-ugly monsters.

  Her gaze drifted toward the grave. Her head jerked backward.

  Several stones were missing since her run yesterday. She scurried forward. Sure enough, the gravesite had been disturbed. Footsteps surrounded the stones. Sand had been stirred. She lifted her hand to her mouth.

  Shit. This is not good. Double not good. Double times two, very, very bad.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement. She turned, and, squinting against the setting sun, she spied the silhouette of a figure hurrying away. Her heart sank to her knees.

  Damn if the figure didn’t look like William.

  Chapter 5

  Friday at lunchtime – Paul

  Paul’s eyes stung from staring at his tablet screen in the staff break room. The stringent smell of burned coffee wafted in the air. Sitting next to him stood a half-empty cup of the nasty java brew. No amount of cream and sugar had been able to save it. He could never make coffee as good as his ma. Maybe that’s because I wander off to read or ponder life’s mysteries with Uncle Cillian and forget to turn the burner off.

  He leaned back in his wooden chair and removed his glasses, then rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. Good Lord, I’ve been here since daybreak. Well…I haven’t been working here the whole time, he corrected. I had to babysit my stupid English lit class and listen to Timmy and Tommy prattle on about some epic jump they made last weekend on their motocross motor-bikes, and how extreme everything ran in their bloodstream especially when it came to the chicks.

  Paul had never been one for extreme anything. Wasn’t it enough to have been saved from death by a banshee by his all-forgiving mother? He didn’t remember the details of that time, only the fragmented nightmares of endless shadows that tortured him until his ma dragged him to therapy in Dublin. But to take stupid risks of his own choosing? No to that.

  Oh, sure, he and William Ward used to prank it up when he was younger. They used to ride through town on their dirt bikes and terrify the tourists. They’d aim for them, yell something like, “Help! No brakes!” then, veer to the right or left when the tourist would yell and leap out of the way. Also, they’d once set fire to Mrs. Leary’s laundry hanging on the line. What a sight that had been, orange flam
es poised against the backdrop of a blue sky. He’d even written a poem about it…something about the orange flames of rebellion framed by a daylit sky. It wasn’t his best work, by any means. He’d caught a good whooping, however, when his parents found out. After that, he hadn’t wanted any wilder adventures.

  Instead, he turned to a contemplative, reflective life as he matured, fancying himself a poet, a scholar, and an amazingly good catch…should Anne ever give him the time of day.

  The words and pictures on the tablet screen blurred into a giant mash-up. He had been at it like this for the past three-and-a-half days. He’d scoured every article, blog post, and mention of Bluebeard, serial killers, their signature moves, their M.O.’s and anything that could help him understand Bluebeard. If there was any chance—any at all that Anne might be in harm’s way for marrying herself to the church, he wanted to find out.

  The door creaked open, and he cranked his head around to see who entered.

  Anne drifted through the door. She had that same haunted face he’d seen when she’d emerged from Father Gillespie’s office last week—the day they all found out about Mrs. Pelletier’s death. She startled when she saw him, and not in an “Oh, I’m happy to see you” sort of way. No, it appeared more like a “him, again,” expression, making him feel about two inches tall. Then, she shuffled toward him and peered over his shoulder at the tablet screen. Her nose wrinkled. Then, she reached past him and flipped the tablet upside down.

  “Hey!” he protested, inhaling the clean-soap smell of her.

  “Stop looking at that nonsense, Paul. That’s gruesome. Surely you have better things to do.”

  “Better than trying to glean insight into that murderous villain?” he retorted, surprised at his boldness.

  Her eyebrows launched toward her hairline. “We should all be mourning Helen, not trying to solve her demise. Let her spirit be safe in the Lord’s arms, not tugged back to earth by some obsessed man.”