The Bloodstone Quadrilogy: A Complete Fantasy Anthology: The Bloodstone Quadrilogy

By Calinda B

Get the Bloodstone Quadrilogy boxed set!

Book 1: Grave Stones

Revenge can be bloody. Vampires are deadly.

The beginning of a steamy, dark fantasy series, Grave Stones is the first book in the edgy and quirky Bloodstone Quadrilogy. Experience thrills, romance, and sexy nights while investigating the mystery of the monster who inspired Bram Stoker's Dracula.

Book 2: Heart's Blood

Magic is dark. Evil is mayhem.

Heart's Blood is the thrilling second installment in the Bloodstone Quadrilogy— an exciting and steamy dark fantasy that's dripping with horror and lust. Prepare to be on the edge of your seat as you fall into this intense supernatural world.

Book 3: Iron and Salt.

Supernaturals are real. And so are monsters.
Iron and Salt is the suspenseful third book in the Bloodstone Quadrilogy by New York Times Bestselling author, Calinda B. A dark fantasy series with tinges of horror and romance, prepare to be swept off your feet to a haunted landscape where dark creatures are real and forbidden desires come true.

Book 4: Stone's End

Magical creatures are the stuff of fantasy. Until one of them started stalking me.

I'm William Ward. Moving back to Ballynagaul, nothing could have prepared me for meeting evil head on. Does it have anything to do with me falling for a vampire? Can't tell. But when something started stalking me, wrapping its bony fingers around me, I'm suddenly in over my head. Now I'm talking to kittens, praying to a dead goddess, and defending my right to love the undead. 

Things are about to get crazy. I only hope I get out of it alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Calinda B
• Release date: Jul 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393652441

Calinda B

Author Bio: Calinda B was told early on that she should be a writer. She heard frequent praise for her writing, as well as her sense of humor. Scoffing at such admonitions and praise, she went on to pursue her life of adventure, chock full of the things that make up a well-rounded adventurous life: music (yup, she was a singer in a rock and roll band), dance (even performed hip hop in Russia), rock climbing (ever hung from a rock wall a few stories up? Yikes!), fire walking (taught high-ranking Moscow fire officials how to walk the coals), kayaking, scuba diving (she’s in love with sharks), travel, and falling in love again and again. Living in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with the love of her life and her two cats, she has now chosen to put fingers to keyboard and write – when she’s not in pursuit of another adventure!

Book preview

The Bloodstone Quadrilogy Boxset

The Bloodstone Quadrilogy Boxset

Books 1-4 in the Bloodstone Quadrilogy

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

Full Page Image

Copyright

Published by Sumner McKenzie, Inc.

Ebook Edition

Copyright ©2017 Calinda B

All Rights Reserved.

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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.

Why does everyone declare the obvious when they see me? I’ve been making myself a lamppost in this corner since the wake began.

Here I am. She smiled.

Isn’t it funny, when I call you lassie, it’s your actual name? He grinned at her, crater-like dimples appearing in his plump cheeks.

Ha-ha. She shifted to put her weight on her other foot. My given name is Lasairfhíona. That’s too much of a mouthful.

Lasairfhíona. Wine made from flame. It suits you, what with your red hair and your intoxicating personality. I’m sure you give the lads a run for their money. An approving smile formed on his face.

I don’t know about that. She waved his words away. I’ve no time to be getting on with the lads. My job as a labor and delivery nurse keeps me far too busy.

He nodded. Let me give you a squeeze, child. You’re all grown up since the last time I saw you.

He held his arms wide.

It’s been a while. When was it? When I was sixteen?

I do believe. You whirled through town like a leaf on the wind.

No sense in lingering. She shuffled toward him like an obedient child, letting herself melt into his kind embrace. Wrapping her arms around him, she squeezed him back, squishing into his Santa Claus-worthy stomach. Then, she stiffened and pulled away. She didn’t want anyone to get the impression that she liked it here in Ballyna-whatever. She fell back against the wall, placing her hands against the ancient wallpaper.

How are you managing? he said, searching her face.

She shrugged. I’m here, like everyone keeps telling me today. All I want to do is get this over with and get back to Dublin.

Galbraith’s face clouded over. Ah, Dublin.

What? What does ‘ah, Dublin,’ mean? Her forehead creased.

He rested his hand on the butt of the gun in the holster at his hip. You couldn’t pay me enough to work in Dublin. There’s crime everywhere.

She scoffed. And you think Ballynagaul is all innocent and serene?

His gaze darted about before landing on hers. In Bally, the worst stuff is a bit of drugs here and there, and maybe some petrol siphoning.

Are you sure about that, Garda Galbraith? Lassi fixed her attention on him. Because I’ve seen some messed up things happen in the smallest of villages. When Roberta would drag me around Ireland, I’d hear of horrible crimes committed between neighbors. People like to believe they’re all safe, when maybe they aren’t.

Aren’t you a beacon of joy, a deep male voice said.

Her head swiveled toward the new intruder—the plump, balding owner of the Laughing Rat pub. Oh, hey, Liam.

He dipped his chin in greeting and sidled closer. Sorry for your loss.

Oh, please. We all know Great-Aunt Roberta was a mean-spirited old biddy. She got off on scaring children who came to her door for Halloween trick or treat fun, and throwing rocks at passersby. She’s no one’s friend and nobody’s loss, especially mine.

Garda Galbraith and Liam exchanged weighted glances. Then, they let their gazes roam around the room.

You know I’m right. Lassi began to chuckle. Her hilarity transformed into hearty laughter as the stress and gloom of this whole wake experience found its release.

Liam laughed nervously.

Galbraith smiled indulgently.

She struggled to get a grip on her wild outburst. Her gaze landed on Father Ward.

He stood smashed against the window, with Ailis directly in front of him. His eyes darted about wildly, like marbles on the wood floor. His face bore a grimace. He couldn’t make his dislike of the town slut any more obvious. Finally, he rested his attention on Lassi.

She smiled at him, trying to convey her sympathy through her gaze.

He smiled back, appearing to grasp at the gesture like a lifeline.

For a second, stirrings of interest for the priest pricked her attention.

More like curious wondering of what would happen if I were the one to help him break his vows. Nah. Not worth it. I’ve already got a room reserved in hell. I don’t need an adjoining suite. Another shiver catapulted up her spine.

Then, another plate exploded.

Father Ward tried to lunge toward the coffin but Ailis blocked his way.

The casket slid a few centimeters.

Goodness, exclaimed Ailis. She pressed her hand to her bosom.

Father Ward forced his way past her, reached down and grabbed a broken piece of ceramic. Then, he crouched, and wedged it under the leg, stabilizing the table once more.

Well, that’s something, Galbraith said. Even in death she makes trouble.

She wasn’t steady in her last days. Poor thing could barely walk, Liam added. It’s like she took her unsteadiness to the beyond.

We’ve got it handled, Father Ward said, confidently.

I’m not so sure. Lassi turned back to Liam and Galbraith, positioning herself so she could keep an eye on Great-Aunt Roberta.

Galbraith nodded at her. Let me know if you need anything… anything at all.

Thank you. She nodded, politely. I might need help putting Roberta back in her broken casket if things progress.

He frowned slightly, like she was the oddball, not him and all the rest of these fecking villagers. Then he leaned forward, kissed her cheek, and turned to tromp away, leaving her with Liam.

Liam stared at her, the way her cat at home stared at her when she got out the can opener.

What? She glared at him.

You might consider stopping by the Laughing Rat. I doubt if you’ll be filling your great-aunt’s refrigerator.

Uh.... She studied him for a moment. Right. For a meal at your pub. With you and your forty-year old, bald-pated leer directed my way. Not happening. No, thanks.

An uneven cloppity-clack clattered across the wood floor.

Lassi looked over. Liam’s wife, Penny, lurched through the door from the kitchen, wielding two deviled eggs—one in each palm.

She stumbled toward them, her eyes fixed on Liam’s face in some sort of anti-climactic stare—the way couples do when they’re bored, wondering what they’d seen in the person they’d married.

Here. She thrust one of the eggs at him. I thought you might be hungry for food for a change.

Her gaze swung disinterestedly toward Lassi and back to Liam.

He smiled. I was only offering the girl a meal or two, love. She looks stressed and tired.

Do I? Lassi glanced down at her black shirt. She’d found the tattered thing in the closet. It needed a few holes stitched and smelled like mothballs, but at least it was black. The shirt was undoubtedly something her great-aunt had picked up at a rummage sale for no good reason.

She brushed the front placket, trying to coax a few wrinkles free.

Penny let out a chuckle. "Keeping the ladies content with your culinary charm, are you?"

Her words came out slurred.

Liam put his arm around her. Pet. We’re all upset by this recent death. Roberta was a... He scanned the ceiling as if it held clues. She was a fixture in this town. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. You eat the egg. I insist.

He seized it from her palm and held it to her lips like it was made of the most delicate blown glass.

Smiling, she nibbled the cooked egg white. So, what are you going to do with the house, Lassi? she said through a mouthful.

She kept her attention on Liam like she was still trying to figure out what he meant to her.

Junk everything that needs junking and sell what’s left. Then, take a trip. I’m thinking Barbados might be nice. She twisted her hand to see her wrist. 2:52. The end of this fecking nightmare of an afternoon is near.

Penny ignored her, grabbing the last of the deviled egg from Liam’s fingers. She popped it in her mouth, while keeping her eyes glued to Liam’s face.

How’s that food going down? he said.

It’s wonderful, Penny cooed. Yellow egg bits stuck to the corners of her mouth. She smoothed her frumpy black dress like a preening pigeon.

Liam tapped her on the nose. That’s my girl. Let’s get you home, shall we?

He guided his wife away, without sparing a glance at Lassi.

Big fat whatever. They’re the oddest pair. When Father Ward had helped her set up for the wake, he’d mentioned how Penny had been super helpful with Roberta in the final months of her illness, so she couldn’t fault her for her oddness. Lassi’s gaze slid across the room toward Father Ward. Ailis had sauntered away from him and now stood flirting hard with a sandy-haired young man.

Father Ward took the opportunity to sidle away from her until his hip bumped the table. It wobbled, so he stayed put.

The sandy-haired man shifted from foot to foot, letting his gaze slide to the floor, to the ceiling, and side to side. A redheaded woman with a toddler on her hip came to his rescue.

Let’s go pay our respects to Miss Finn, the redhead said, touching his arm.

Thank you, love, of course. He placed his hand over hers.

From the warmth in their eyes, to the tone of their voices, they looked to be married and every bit in love.

Their regard of one another struck a soul-deep longing in Lassi—the kind she’d pushed away each time she dated a new man and got her heart squished like a roach.

The redhead led the sandy-haired man toward Lassi.

We’re so sorry for your loss, she said, jiggling the child on her hip.

Truly we are. If there’s anything we can do, the sandy-haired man added. I’m Dylan Riordan, by the way. This is Siobhan, my lovely wife. And this chap... He gently tweaked the toddler’s nose. This is Paul. Say hello to... He looked toward Lassi. Sorry, love, I didn’t catch your first name.

It’s Lassi. Lassi Finn. Relief flooded her to be talking to someone normal for a change. Fina-fucking-ly, some nice people in this village! So, do you live in town?

We do. Siobhan cast a loving glance at her husband. We bought a giant old cottage smack dab in the middle of the village and are renovating it.

With a thatched roof, Dylan said, looking at her adoringly.

Oh, no, you don’t, Dylan, you can’t win this argument. There will be no thatched roof. They’re too much work.

A smile played at the corner of his lips. They’re no work at all. You’ll see, love.

He stroked her cheek with his fingertips.

She brought them to her mouth and kissed them.

You always get your way, don’t you? she said, but she didn’t seem upset.

The only thing I got my way about was marrying you. Nothing else compares.

A blush bloomed along Siobhan’s cheek. Oh, Dylan, I didn’t take too much convincing. I was smitten from the start.

Lassi imagined herself in the middle of sunshine and unicorns. She smiled. Then, her gaze landed on Ailis.

Ailis stared at Dylan, a feral, hungry expression on her face.

Lassi’s eyes narrowed.

Siobhan turned to where her attention rested. She fidgeted with Paul’s red and yellow shirt, tugging it, and then smoothing it along his back. We’d best be getting on, Dylan. Paul’s tired.

Dylan frowned. He just had a nap.

Well, then, I’m tired. Let’s go, shall we? She took his elbow. It was nice meeting you, Lassi.

It was nice meeting all of you, Lassi said. She studied their retreating backs then let her attention slide toward Ailis.

Ailis leaned forward, like she might run after the Riordans.

A few people staggered down the hall from the kitchen, lurching toward the front door. They slung their arms around one another.

Father Ward hastened away from the coffin, looking to either catch them if they fell, or bid them farewell.

Lassi hoped for the latter. The table seemed to be holding steady now, so she pushed away from the wall and headed for the kitchen.

Not one person so much as blinked when she entered. They continued to shout, laugh, and lift their glasses high in toasts.

Pushing through the revelers, she grabbed a garbage bag from the pantry, and began picking up plastic cups and forks, paper plates with crumbs of cake, and soiled napkins, hopefully giving the universal sign indicating, We’re done. Get the feck out of here.

A few got the message.

Let’s continue at the Laughing Rat, an older man said. He reached for the hand of the woman next to him.

I second that, a younger man agreed. Let’s go. He nodded at Lassi. Miss Finn, he said in a slurred voice. Sorry for your loss. Without waiting for a response, he staggered from the room, along with several others.

Her attention drifted down the hall to Father Ward.

He stood at the front door, beaming warmly at each person, patting some on the shoulder, shaking hands with others.

The women tittered, tossing saucy, mischievous looks at their friends.

A few villagers shook his hand as if Father Ward would save their souls this very instant and absolve them of any wrongdoing.

The town elders’ faces bore serious expressions. They looked like they tolerated the priest but didn’t welcome him.

She studied the procession with narrowed eyes. She didn’t trust the seemingly pleasant exchanges. The smiles and fond words seemed habitual, not genuine. And the old-timers…do they wish for an older, more traditional looking priest? She shook her head. Maybe I’m just feeling creeped out at village life. It always struck her as way too insular, incestuous, and riddled with hatred. At least in the city, hatred was anonymous.

If someone gets stabbed to death, it’s usually by a stranger. So, you’d die wondering what the feck that was all about. You’d think it so random to be alive one second, and dead the next by the actions of someone you didn’t know. How much worse would it be to see who killed you and realize they were your neighbor or your supposed best-friend?

Yeah, village existence might seem idyllic, but she’d bet her life there were piles of steaming shite underneath everyone’s polite smiles. She hoped to get out of town before she found out what some person she thought as kind had in store for her.

She stepped down the hall toward the front room, garbage bag in hand.

As she turned to head through the arch into the great room, Father Ward turned from his farewell procession and their eyes locked.

Electricity cascaded through her limbs.

Several commemorative plates cracked, sending shards flying.

Lassi raced toward the room, right as Great-Aunt Roberta and her wooden box slid, heading for a collision with the floor, her commemorative plates, and her dead cat.

Chapter 2

The morning after the wake, the rattle and roll of a thunder and lightning storm shook Lassi into semi-consciousness. I’ve got her, she mumbled, fighting with the sheets. I’ve got Roberta.

She tried to organize her thoughts between the storm outside and the horror of Roberta’s coffin nearly crashing to the floor yesterday.

Somehow, she and the lingerers—Garda Galbraith, Ailis and Father Ward—all raced into the great-room and managed to steady the casket. They secured the table, shooed all the other wake-goers outside, and left the front room empty. Hopefully, Roberta hadn’t crashed in the night.

The mothball smell emanating from her black shirt tickled her nose. Keeping her eyes shut tight, she peeled it from her body, crumpled it into a ball, and pitched it across the room. A clatter and dry, hollow thud forced her eyes open.

Ugh. Another dead kitty lay on its side on the floor, partially obscured by the shirt. Parts of it had snapped in two from hitting the floor. She scanned to see where it had fallen from. Her gaze landed on a high shelf secured to the wall. On top of the wooden plank sat three more deceased felines, their vacant eyes fixed in her direction. Gah!

Lassi shivered and pulled the sheet over her head. How did I miss those when I arrived a couple of days ago? She knew the answer. The house was an utter pigsty. To keep from going insane—or maybe to keep from stumbling and breaking a toe—she kept her head down when she trekked through the house.

She lingered beneath the sheet, preferring to avoid the hangover waiting to torture her for her overindulgence last night.

After everyone left the wake, she had hustled toward the kitchen. She’d placed the dried feline she’d tripped over the night before on a paper towel spread on the counter to keep her company. The brittle orangish cat proved better company than yesterday’s mourners. Well, save for Father Ward, perhaps.

Not wanting to waste the liquor she’d purchased, she’d poured the remnants of scotch-filled glasses onto her tongue, sucked droplets from the bottles of near-empty Guinness, and finished off at least one bottle of Ireland’s top-shelf whiskey. She’d toasted her dead great-aunt, told stories of the bits she remembered to the dead cat and celebrated, or maybe cheered, the passing of life.

Her great-aunt had always been bitterly unhappy. And, she made it her mission to have all in her presence join her in misery.

By the time Lassi had staggered to bed, however, a sense of depression had clawed at her insides. The whole house, steeped in decay, mildew, and debris; the wake; the neighbors—they all reminded her of why she hated Bally-nightmare.

And, the sooner I get to cleaning it, the quicker it can be sold and I can get back home to Dublin, she muttered into the hot, damp space surrounding her sheet-covered head. She flung the covers away, rolled out of bed, and wrapped her arms around her naked body to keep some of the chill of the room away. Then, she picked her way through the debris to find her backpack. Rummaging inside it, she retrieved a t-shirt, clean panties, and boy shorts, as well as her wool jumper. She quickly yanked them on. Not wanting to step in anything disgusting, she retrieved a pair of socks, too.

She made her way into the small kitchen, kicking aside the boxes, crumpled papers, plastic bags filled with who knew what, Tupperware, and other junk littering the hallway. She’d made a trail when she’d arrived, but apparently the crap had collapsed back into disarray in the night.

Once she entered the kitchen, she let out a disgusted sigh. The dingy room didn’t look any better in the daylight than it did during her celebratory binge last night. Glasses, paper cups, plates, liquor bottles and other signs of yesterday’s celebration assaulted her eyes, as well as Roberta’s hoarded crap. Someone’s bra dangled from the old land line on the wall. It’s probably Ailis’s. The crispy, dried cat glared at her from the counter where she’d left it.

Christ on a cracker, she muttered. She stepped across the grimy floor, opened the pantry, and found a pack of garbage bags. Pulling one free, she carried it toward the kitchen table. She opened the sturdy black plastic with one hand, balanced one side against the table, and swept the table clear with her other arm.

Clinks and clatters rang out as the waste and bottles landed either in the bag or on the floor.

At least nothing broke. She kicked the bag into the corner and set to making tea.

The dead cat seemed to scrutinize her every move.

We can’t have you staring at me, can we? A search under the sink revealed some yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. After tugging them over her hands, she gingerly picked up Mr. Meow’s brittle body and carried him into the living room. She pried open Great-Aunt Roberta’s coffin and placed the dead kitty at her feet. Then, she traipsed into the bedroom, climbed on top of a dresser, and stretched to retrieve the three dead felines from the high shelf. She stacked them one on top of the other and trekked back into the living room. There, she arranged them around her Great-Aunt Roberta.

Eager to get to her tea, she rushed into the bedroom to retrieve the cat which had fallen when she threw her black shirt. She daintily picked up his tail and front leg, and stacked them on top of the dried body. Holding them at arm’s length, she scurried into the front room. Carefully, she arranged this kitty next to Roberta’s head. Both cat and aunt had similarly pinched faces. They kind of look like sisters. She tucked the tail and the leg like a bouquet underneath her dead aunt’s hands, which lay folded in repose over her chest.

Finished with that ghoulish task, she hurried to sanitize her hands and the counter and make some tea. Once she had a steaming mugful in hand, she picked her way through the gloom and waste to sit on the front stone steps.

Even the surrounding countryside brought no cheer. The dark sky cast shadows over an ancient stone dwelling to the south. It had lost most of one outer wall over the centuries. She squinted. In the flickering light, revealed by rapidly moving clouds giving way to seconds of sun, it almost looked like someone was scurrying from one side to the other inside the stone structure. She shivered and looked away, in the direction of the dirt road leading away from here.

A dense fog coiled and billowed across the road. It appeared to originate from the swollen creek and vast wetlands which lined the edge of her aunt’s property. Fingers of tree branches curled through the thick mist.

She blinked, her heart beginning to race, as the dim outline of a figure pushed through the low haze.

The wind gave a gusty blow, whistling around the side of the house. It knocked the mug from her hands. Hot tea splashed on her legs.

Ouch. Shite. She bolted to her feet, wiping the liquid from her pants. As the black clad figure grew near, sharp prickles of fear frosted her skin. Feckity feck. She glared at the person as if he were the cause of the spill. I can shoot a gun, she called, not that she had one in her hands.

As can I, a familiar male voice called. His footsteps crunched through the gravel. But I prefer to perform last rites, tend to the sick and needy, and help young women sell houses.

She squinted, putting her hand above her eyes. Father Ward?

Who did you think it would be?

As he came into view, an amused smirk on his face, she relaxed.

He’d come dressed the same as yesterday, in a clerical black suit and vest, with a white Roman collar. His arms strained the jacket sleeves with hard muscle—something she hadn’t noticed yesterday since she’d been overwhelmed by all the people. His dark hair had been pushed back from his chiseled face. He regarded her with clear, unflinching green eyes, and his full lips curved into a smile. His broad chest led to narrow hips. Even his thighs filled the pants legs of his suit.

And when he turned to the side, she caught an eyeful of a linebacker-worthy butt. Do priests lift weights?

She pictured him in handcuffs, naked, writhing on her bed, begging for her to blow him, until her gaze drifted to the huge gold cross dangling from his neck. She shoved away her lusty thoughts with a silent, forgive me father, for I have sinned, adding an extra and I’ll probably do it again so don’t hold your breath. Her adherence to any kind of faith or rules was sadly lacking.

Her gaze skittered back toward his face.

His attention seemed glued to her bare legs, perhaps in some Christian priestly concern for her attire.

She wanted to pull on some sweatpants.

Casting her gaze at the sparse grass and pebbles lining the walkway, she lowered herself to the front step. How are you this morning, Father?

She hunched around herself, feeling naked.

Very well. And you? He settled his bulk next to her, leaning his elbows on his knees, exuding the kind of warmth she wanted to snuggle into.

How’s the cleaning coming? He stared straight ahead.

Ugh. It’s a disaster in there. I need a fumigator and a Haz-Mat suit to get the job done right. She flipped her head behind her, indicating the house. You know all those boxes and bags I stacked to make a clear path from one room to the next?

Yes. What about them?

They’re yielding to entropy. When I got up this morning, they’d all fallen. She nudged her mug with her toe. Maybe the dead cats were playing in the night.

Dead cats?

She afforded him a glance.

Lines of puzzlement creased his face.

Yep. Apparently, besides being a hoarder, Great-Aunt Roberta had a lot of cats at one time. And, she kept them when they died. Maybe they brought her a reminder of happier times. She shrugged. If there were any.

I’m sure your aunt had a few happy memories, he said, without much conviction.

I doubt it. You did know her, right? She was a miserable woman.

I knew her, yes. Very well, in fact. People tend to have a good reason for their misery.

She turned to give him her full attention.

He stared into the distance, melancholy shadowing his face. His hands clasped together as if in desperate prayer.

Her eyebrows drew into a furrow. I wonder what’s bothering him? Can he read minds? Look, Father, I was only kidding about the handcuffs. Sort of...

Lifting her empty mug, she asked, Would you like some tea? Or maybe some Irish whiskey? I’m thinking this day could use something strong.

He stared at her empty mug. It’s a sin in certain circles for a priest to drink whiskey.

Which circle do you stand in? She rose to her feet.

His eyes lingered at her chest, once more making her feel shivery, but not in an unwelcome way.

The one that says I’d love a touch, thank you. He seemed to jerk upright, as if he were yanked to standing. Then, again, water will be fine.

Suit yourself. She shrugged, grinning at him. More for me. I’m afraid I indulged in my own separate wake last night.

His eyebrows pinched together.

A lion’s roar of a yawn escaped her throat. Sorry, she mumbled. This whole thing. I can’t wait to be done with it.

She stepped inside, heading for the kitchen with Father Ward at her heels.

You opened the coffin? he said.

Is that some sort of mistake? She whirled around to face him.

He stood stock still in the front room. Well, it’s not a mistake if you merely wanted to say your goodbyes. He took a few tentative steps toward the coffin. But it looks as if you’ve added a few of her deceased pets as companions. His chin lowered as he clutched the edge of the coffin. He stared hard at the bouquet of cat tail and leg resting in her hands. She’s holding parts of her dead cat? He appeared to be torn between repulsion and wanting to laugh aloud. Miss Finn, I’m afraid you’ve rendered me speechless.

He let out a small, nervous chuckle, turning to study her face.

As their eyes met, the same flush of heat as yesterday spread through her neck and cheeks. Her gaze dropped to her stocking-clad feet. I, uh...Let’s see to that water you requested, shall we?

By the time she’d handed him his water, tossed back a shot of breakfast whiskey, and sat at the kitchen table across from him, he seemed to have recovered his calm tranquility.

The fellows from the local boneyard will be by shortly to fetch the coffin. His lips curved in the barest of smiles. Let’s make sure to close the lid before they arrive. Others might not share your sense of humor.

She nodded. We might wait to see if I find more dead kitties before they get here. I’ll make a quick scan of the closets and such.

His face furrowed. I’ll arrange for a truck to cart off any furniture you don’t want.

Oh, god, I want none of it, she blurted. Sorry, I used the Lord’s name in vain, she added, in case she’d offended him.

He took a sip of his water. Just... He waved his hand in a circle. Just act yourself around me, please.

Will do. She nodded vigorously. Be myself.

They sat in silence for a few tortured seconds.

You might want to dig through her paperwork to see if there’s anything useful to be found. Sometimes the relatives of the departed are surprised at what they find. Those who have crossed over have been known to look after their living relations in unexpected ways. He tipped his head back to finish his water.

She focused on his strong neck and jaw.

When his head lowered, he caught her stare. He cleared his throat.

She looked away. I’m, um...I guess I’m the last of the family name, aren’t I?

Her head swiveled back to meet Father Ward’s gaze.

You’re right. You’re the last of your line. All sorts of emotion played in his eyes, and none of it seemed particularly happy.

She wrapped her hands around her arms and rubbed up and down.

Are you cold? He leaned forward in her direction, looking concerned.

No, I... It’s just weird, you know? I never put much thought into it but it makes me kind of sad I’m the last of the Finn women. It seems significant somehow. She shook her head.

Deep lines of sorrowful anguish etched his face, as if he carried the weighty sins of the villagers—or, the even weightier sin of what she’d like to explore with him. He worked his mouth around, and then let out a bottomless sigh.

The nurse in her wanted to comfort—more like swaddle him and rock him, since she worked in OBGYN. That hardly seemed appropriate since he was a grown man and her interest in him was hardly maternal.

I’m being stupid. Don’t listen to me. I think this place is getting to me, what with the surprise dead cats and all. She bolted to her feet. I’m an idiot.

She reached for his glass.

Don’t. His searing fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Her breath caught, and she stared at his fingers.

I can manage my own glass. He withdrew his hand.

She huffed out a breath and hurried to the stained sink.

I’ll be heading to Dungarvan this afternoon to pick up a few things, she said, starting to speed-talk. I’ve got to get some more cleaning supplies. I can’t linger here any longer than necessary. I’ll be needing to get back to the hospital. Babies can’t deliver themselves, you know? I tried to tell the moms to stall until I return but some of them look like bloated cows. I’m sure they want to shove their babies from their loins so they can breathe again. Breathe again. Listen to me. They’re breathing just fine, now. She clamped a hand over her mouth. Shut up, shut up, shut up. After letting out a long exhale, she said, Can I give you a lift?

He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. In two short steps, he brought his glass to the sink. Standing far too close for comfort, he turned on the tap and rinsed it out. No, thank you. I love to walk.

She winked. You’re not used to being driven hard by a Dubliner, are you? We like it fast. You probably prefer a slower pace.

The double entendre spewing from her lips made her cringe. Her cheeks flushed with fiery heat.

He seemed amused by her flustered babbling. Actually, I don’t drive. Hard or otherwise.

She blinked and pivoted, tipping her face toward his. You don’t?

No, Miss Finn. Never have. His eyes twinkled.

How can a red-blooded Irishman not drive?

He shrugged. The heat rolling between them warmed her to her bones. I prefer it that way. I like to savor what’s around me, not blaze through it like a lightning bolt.

Oh, good Lord, my path to hell is being paved. She wanted to rip off his clerical garb, wrap her arms and legs around him, and get good and sweaty. Stop it. He’s a priest!

A mirthful smile danced at the edges of his lips. Although we each have our preferred speeds. Yours is no better or worse than mine. He glanced at his watch. I’d best get on my moseying way. I’ve got a baptism to perform this afternoon.

Right. Annoyance rumbled through her belly at her reckless desire for him. He was far too attractive, appealing to her refusal to follow rules of any kind. Fecking forbidden fruit. She stormed from the room. As she exited the kitchen, her foot caught on a pile of boxes. One of them fell open, its contents exploding along the linoleum floor. Gah! she exclaimed, as three dead parakeets tumbled in her path.

Allow me, Father Ward said. He retrieved a paper towel, crouched, and picked up the dead birds. Where shall we put them? He rose to standing, extending them in her direction.

She glanced at the birds, then at Father Ward. Follow me.

She stepped to the counter and pulled another paper towel from the dispenser. Then, she made haste toward the front room, with Father Ward behind her.

When she stood before the coffin, she plucked the birds one at a time, arranging them in a fan along her aunt’s breastbone. There. Pretty, huh?

It’s something, Father Ward said, bewilderment obvious in his wide-eyed gaze.

She shrugged. Look, she was lonely. Maybe they’ll keep her company in the afterlife. Lord knows she could use a few friends. And, I had to do something to dispose of them.

He gently closed the coffin lid over Great-Aunt Roberta, her five dead cats, and her three dead parakeets. He made the sign of the cross and mumbled something about resting in peace, dear soul. Then he turned back to her. You’re a strange one, Lassi Finn.

I could say the same of you, Father. She side-eyed him. I mean no disrespect.

None taken. We all have our secrets. Again, his earlier melancholy tugged at his face. I’ll be seeing you. Stop by the church later today so we can deal with the house sale arrangements, will you?

She nodded.

Somberly, he turned and picked his way through the front room, leaving Lassi wondering exactly who this priest was, and what were his secrets.

Chapter 3

When Lassi marched through the front door several hours later, something furry shot past her legs and rocketed into the house. She yelped, barely managing to keep a grip on the bags of food, cleaning supplies, and house repair tools she’d purchased in Dungarvan.

A reddish-brown and black tabby cat faced her from a mere meter away, crouching, eyes mere slits. It let out a menacing growl.

You’re one to complain. You don’t have to clean this bloody cottage. She tried to take a step, but the tabby gave another warning growl. Look. I need to set these things down. She lifted her packages. She took another step, but the tabby swiped its claws at her calf, drawing blood. Ouch! You fecking feline beast.

Unable to wipe the blood from her leg, as her hands were full, she stomped her foot a few times to distract from the stinging pain. Her gaze slid to the front room.

The coffin had been carted away. Only the rickety table remained. Broken commemorative plates were scattered around the legs.

Good. The boneyard guys came. I thought I saw tire tracks out in the dirt. She cast her attention around the room, noting the dingy windows, the dust monsters lumbering along the floor—no doubt having eaten the dust bunnies—and the peeling wallpaper.

It sagged in places, came away from the wall in others, and curled at the corners. She squinted, wondering what color blue it had been, as well as what century it had been applied. It still retained bluish stripes in places, but it was all blotched with brown water stains.

That’s where we’ll start. As soon as I can deal with this live version of Mr. Meow. In the best slow-motion-move she could muster, she leaned to the side and lowered the bags to the floor.

The cat hissed.

Slowly, she crouched, reaching into one of the bags. Her fingers closed around a chunk of cheese she’d been nibbling on during the drive back to the cottage.

I’ll bet you’re hungry. She pulled the cheddar from the bag and broke a piece off with her fingers.

Mr. Meow backed away, growling.

She extended the cheese, being watchful of the cat’s claws.

Mr. Meow’s ears stayed plastered to its head, but it sniffed the air.

You don’t want to end up like your dead friends, do you? She extended her hand, hoping the cat wouldn’t take another swipe at her.

The cat stretched its neck in her direction, delicately sniffing.

She tossed the bit of cheese on the floor.

Keeping its eyes on her, the cat inched toward the treat, and then snatched it between its teeth. It scurried backward.

What’s got you so spooked, puss? She scanned the room, answering her own question. The whole cottage, inside and out, gave her the creeps. She’d no doubt have nightmares when she returned to Dublin.

Gripping the cheddar lightly in its fangs, it shook its head, the way cats do with their prey. Then, it swallowed. It looked at her expectantly, ears now forward.

She broke off another piece and tossed it out the front door.

The tabby eyed her, studied the cheese on the landing, and sniffed the air. Hunger won over fear. It bolted past her toward the food.

She kicked the door shut behind it. Poor thing. It was probably one of Great-Aunt Roberta’s. And it's fear and growls are the result of the abuse it endured to get fed.

She strode into the front room, dumped the contents of her satchels—all except the meager supply of groceries—on the table and took stock. Since she planned to attack the wallpaper first, she picked up the detergent and cellulose paste the hardware guy had recommended. Wallpaper products in one hand, bag of groceries in the other, she headed toward the kitchen.

After putting the foodstuffs away, she searched for a plastic bin. When she found an old metal bucket, instead, she filled it with water, adding the recommended amount of paste and detergent. Hefting the pail, she shuffled toward the front room.

The hardware guy had told her to wet the wall, peel the corners away with a utility knife, and tear off the softened pieces after they had soaked for five or ten minutes. She pushed an end table toward the wall, set the bucket on top, grabbed her tools, and readied to do the task. Remembering something about using a fork to poke the wallpaper allowing the liquid to penetrate, she hastened to the kitchen. Returning a moment later, fork in hand, she began stabbing the walls, getting some of her frustration out in the process.

This is for dragging me back to Ballynagaul. Stab, stab, stab. This is for dying in the first place, Great-Aunt Roberta. Stab, stab, stab.

When she finished assaulting the wall, she wet a paintbrush with the gooey mixture and dabbed a few strips of wallpaper.

The ancient paper covering came off the lime-washed and plastered wall easily, as if it only needed a nudge. After laboring for an hour, however, she’d only managed to scrape six huge panels free. When she began peeling off the seventh strip of wallpaper, she uncovered something strange. A rectangle, approximately twenty by thirty centimeters, had been carved into the rubble stone and earth wall. On one edge, a half-circle had been cut into the rectangle, like some sort of handle. Pushing her finger into the half-moon shape, cool air, instead of solid stone met her skin. She tugged. Nothing budged. She tugged again. It gave almost imperceptibly. She pulled the utility knife from her pocket and picked and pried at the edges, sending plaster and stone dust flying. She scraped and gouged the wall. Finally, the two-centimeter-thick stone slab tumbled free, landing with a thud on the floor and promptly breaking into pieces.

Musty air drifted from the gap. Lassi squinted, finding an opening about a half of a meter deep.

More dead cats in there? A cat crypt? Thinking a flashlight might best serve her exploration, she climbed off the end table and picked her way through the clutter to the kitchen. There, she rummaged in a junk drawer for a flashlight. Dammit. I suppose Great-Aunt Roberta could see in the dark. The gloom of night was no doubt her preferred time.

A candle lay in the back of the drawer, along with a box of matches. She pulled both free and hurried back to the front room.

She lit the candle and held it in front of the opening. Inside sat a small box, surrounded by cobwebs and dead spiders. Oddly enough, no dust could be seen on the box itself. It took some careful maneuvering to pull it from the hole in the wall. After blowing out the candle, she settled on the floor with her treasure.

Wow, this looks ancient.

Turning the oilskin leather wrapped box over and over yielded no clues as to how to get it open. Her finger grazed a slit along the side. She held up the box to inspect it, then picked up the utility knife from the floor and slid the knife under the edge. Peeling the leather free revealed a hinged lid. Her heart began to pitter-patter. Using her fingertips, she pried the stiff-hinged lid open, hoping for lost jewels or maybe old coins to fund her Barbados dream. Instead, the contents consisted of paper so old it might crumple when she touched it. Her spirits sank.

You can’t stop a girl from hoping, she muttered.

Gingerly, she plucked one of the parchment pieces from the box. She did her best to unfold the brittle document without damaging it, then held it up. The handwriting was meticulously small and difficult to read. The words Strongbow, and Waterford County were all she could make out.

This is Waterford County, but the name Strongbow isn’t ringing any bells. I know a Jonny Strongman back in Dublin, and strong, he isn’t. More like a wimp. I beat his ass in arm wrestling. Strongbow...She tapped her temple with a cellulose paste covered finger. I can’t exactly Google the name. No wi-fi out here.

Liam O’Donnell’s offer to serve her some pub grub swirled through her mind. She carefully set the box next to the couch, out of the way of footsteps. A shower first, and a trip to town for a meal seemed promising. She intended to pick the brains of the locals about the name Strongbow, as well as feed her growling stomach.

After her shower, she donned jeans and a long-sleeved, slub jersey and left the front placket unbuttoned down to her cleavage. Since it never seemed to stop raining in this village, she shrugged into her raincoat and jammed her feet into her Wellies before departing.

She practically ran the entire way from the cottage to downtown. Thirty minutes later, she opened the creaky blue-painted door to the Laughing Rat. Even though it was storm-cloud dark outside, she had to pause for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of the interior. Dim lighting, dark, worn-wood booths, and smoke-grimed mirrors surrounded her. The walls, bare of adornment, were covered with a century or more worth of soot and smell. The pub atmosphere fueled the depression she experienced being in Ballyna-numbing. Everything seemed cramped and weighted. Even her footsteps dragged as she clomped across the dirty tile floor toward the bar. Each footstep echoed through the space, bouncing off the walls.

The handful of people who were inside the pub, were hunched over the tables, not looking at anyone else but their dining or