Building From Ashes (10 page)

He smiled to himself. Except for the teeth. They always forgot about the teeth.

Carwyn whistled as he walked into the pub and waved at the man behind the bar. David had been pouring pints for years in the small, cozy establishment, as his father had before him. Carwyn could see David’s son, Dylan, helping another customer as he sat at one of the stools. Father and son working together, following a tradition, year after year and generation after generation. The farmer’s son. The teacher’s daughter. He thought of his own children. Not a single one in ministry to the church. Of course, a lifelong commitment took on an entirely different tone when you were talking about hundreds of years instead of fifty or sixty.

“What’ll you have tonight, Father?”

“What do you have local on tap?”

“I’ve a new chestnut brown from that brewery in Colwyn Bay.”

“I’ll take that.”

“Nice to see some of the local boys putting their name out, isn’t it? Keep some of the younger folk around.”

“Nice to see
any
jobs staying.”

They passed news back and forth for about an hour, with some of the older men chiming in with stories or jokes. Carwyn laughed and chatted. He shared his own stories—the ones they could relate to, anyway—and jokes. He asked polite questions and tried to remember the details. The village was his home, but he’d come to maintain a careful distance. It was necessary. He couldn’t afford to become attached to those he ministered to. They were too short-lived and their lives too ephemeral. But he could help when he could.

That’s what he was called to do, after all.

London, England

November 2007

“Does it bother you that they all dislike you?”

Gemma looked up from inspecting the books at the shelter she had started two years before.

“Not at all. I’m here to make sure things are run properly, not be their friend.”

“You’re not nearly as unpleasant as you pretend to be, Gem.”

“And you’re not nearly as much of a clown as you pretend to be, but we all put on the masks we need. The children who come to these shelters don’t need me to be the director’s friend. They need me to make sure they have beds and food to eat. That the lights stay on and the water is warm. They don’t care if everyone thinks I’m a raging bitch to get it done.”

He walked behind her and squeezed her shoulders as she sat at the desk. “You’re a good woman. I’m very proud of what you and Terry are doing here.”

His daughter nodded. “He’s a good man. A good choice for me.”

Ever the pragmatist
, Carwyn thought. His oldest daughter may have had humble origins, but she took her responsibilities as the leading woman in London immortal society very seriously. Terry was the jovial cad who ruled with a fist, and Gemma was the elegant lady who assisted with the satin glove. An unlikely a pair as he ever could have imagined, they were a force to be reckoned with when they had formed their partnership.

Gemma’s quiet voice drew his attention again. “If you ever grow weary of your disappearing mountain town, we could certainly use your help here. We have plenty of money, not as many people as dedicated to helping.”

“And you think any of these children would want to talk to a collar?”

Gemma lifted an eyebrow and scanned his garish red- and blue-flowered shirt. “When was the last time you wore a collar?”

He grinned. “Last Sunday night at mass.”

She snorted, but couldn’t stop the smile. “You’re so ridiculous.”

“And proud of it. Too much seriousness in the world as it is. I hardly need to contribute.”

“Speaking of seriousness, did you hear that Murphy’s finally cracking down on the drug trade in Dublin? I have a feeling Ioan and Deirdre were putting the pressure on. He was just on the phone with Terry about it last night.”

“Really?” Carwyn had never paid much attention to Dublin politics. The damn city was always a mess, in his opinion.

“Yes, I think they’ve become more insistent about it since the trouble with Brigid.”

His mind flashed to a pair of golden-brown eyes and a delicate, sneering mouth. “Brigid Connor?”

“What other Brigid is in their clan? Yes, Brigid Connor. She’s working for Murphy now.”

His head whipped around. “For Murphy?”

Gemma blinked and looked up from her books. “Are you deaf? I didn’t know that could happen with our kind. Yes,
Murphy
. Patrick Murphy, head of Dublin. Perhaps that all-animal diet really does dull your senses after a thousand years.”

“Shut up and tell me more about Brigid.”

Gemma smirked. “She’s on his human security team now. According to Ioan, she’s quite brilliant at it. Shooting guns. Questioning suspects. He says she loves it.”

He felt a smile lift the corner of his mouth. “Is that so? She said she wanted to go into the
Garda
. Good for her.”

Gemma shrugged. “Well, she couldn’t go into the police with her background, could she? And Murphy was certainly happy to have her.”

He frowned, remembering Ioan and Deirdre talking about the man’s interest in forming a connection with their clan. “What do you mean about that?”

She smiled. “What do you think? She’s a lovely young woman with good connections and obvious intelligence, which Murphy has always valued. Brigid is the opposite of brainless. I imagine he’s quite interested in her.”

“She’s human.”

Gemma arched an eyebrow at him. “We all were, once.”

Carwyn looked away to study the map of the London Underground that was hanging on the wall. Brigid Connor and Patrick Murphy? He pictured the very proper man in his three-piece suit, then the girl with the brilliant purple streak in her hair who had demanded a whiskey and sneered at a beer. He could certainly see the attraction on Murphy’s side, but what would Brigid see in him? For some reason, the idea of the two of them together irritated him.

“None of my business,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Terry wanted me to invite you for Christmas, by the way. You’re not going to the States this year, are you?”

“No, Gio’s still hopping around the world being mysterious, and I don’t want to intrude on Caspar and his family. I thought about going to see Gus and Isabel, but it’s too far.”

“You’re welcome here, if you like.”

Carwyn frowned. His thoughts still swirled around a woman in a Dublin pub. “Maybe I’ll go to Ireland this year.” Gemma was silent behind him, so he turned around. She was looking at him with narrowed eyes. “What?” he asked.

“Ireland?”

“Why not?”

Wicklow Mountains

Christmas 2007

Brigid was so short that Carwyn stared down at the top of her head in the pew at Christmas Eve mass. She was sitting next to him, dressed in a simple black dress, and her hair was her natural dark brown, trimmed into a short, professional bob. Compared to the college girl he’d met two years before, she was hardly recognizable. Her pixie face had taken on the more mature angles of a woman. Her figure was slight and lovely. Luckily, the hard expression in her eyes had softened, and she seemed far more comfortable in her own skin.

She had been formal to him. Polite, but formal. Proper. And more than a little disinterested. He wondered if she was the sort to hold a grudge.

Carwyn found it oddly annoying. He somehow wished she would roll her eyes again. He’s be lying to say that he’d not thought of her in the years since he’d seen her outside the pub in Dublin. Something about the young woman had haunted his thoughts. He admired the way she’d struggled through her difficulties. She had finally found success, but for some reason, her very proper clothing and neatly cut hair bothered him.

He whipped out the Christmas program, scribbled a note in the margins, and handed it to her. She looked up at him with disapproval, but took the note, anyway.

‘What happened to the purple?’

She mouthed ‘Purple?’ and looked at him in confusion. He grabbed the note and scribbled again.

‘Hair.’

He saw a tiny smile cross her face. An appealing blush came to her cheek, and she grabbed his pen.

‘Not exactly office-appropriate.’

He scowled.
‘Not the right office, then.’

Carwyn couldn’t stop the grin when he saw her roll her eyes. She took the pen and wrote back.

‘What do you know about the right office? According to Ioan, you wear Hawaiian shirts under your vestments. Not to mention your rumored television habits.’

‘Lies. All lies. I’m a picture of devotion and obedience. Highly appropriate at all times.’

Irritating children, telling on him like that. Carwyn frowned and poked his son in the shoulder. Ioan and Deirdre were sitting in the pew in front of him. His son looked over his shoulder, then between the two of them and the note Brigid held in her lap.

“Behave, both of you,” Ioan whispered. “Brigid, I expect this behavior out of him, but not you. Father Jacob is in the middle of the homily.”

“And it’s a very boring one,” Carwyn whispered back. “Trust me, I’ve heard a few.”

He took perverse pleasure in Brigid’s quiet snort. Ioan tried to look disapproving, but he smiled before Deirdre pinched his side and he turned back to the front of the church.

Carwyn took the note and scribbled again.
‘Why preach a doom and gloom sermon on Christmas Eve?’

She wrote back.
‘To remind us of our grave sins amidst the worldly revelry.’

‘God loves revelry. He told me.’

Brigid snorted again, and Deirdre turned around, reaching back to snatch the program from them. Carwyn crossed his arms and glared at her as the priest finished the mass. And he may have snuck a few more glances at the intriguing Brigid Connor.

Christmas Eve dinner in Wicklow consisted of a turkey and all the traditional foods Sinead prepared to go along with it. It was the first Christmas Carwyn had spent in Wicklow in over twenty years. He usually went somewhere warmer for the holidays, but Ioan and Deirdre had been pleased to welcome him. Sinead, who had always enjoyed joking with him, was thrilled as well. Several of Ioan and Deirdre’s own children had also come with their mates, so the family party included over thirty people.

Ioan caught his eye over the turkey and nodded toward the door. Carwyn nodded back. They would go hunting for something more appetizing after the humans were asleep.

After dinner, they gathered around the fireplace in the family room to open a few gifts, and Carwyn was immediately handed a present from Sinead.

“This is from Brigid and me, Father. I’ve been wanting to give this to you for years.”

Ioan snickered from across the room, and Carwyn tried not to cringe. “Oh, Sinead. That fills me with a grave fear, I cannot lie.”

Sinead went back to her seat laughing, and Carwyn looked for Brigid. She was smiling, but she hadn’t really laughed all night. He wracked his brain, but he couldn’t think of a single time he’d heard the woman laugh.
Really
laugh. Well, that was just like a challenge, wasn’t it?

Carwyn shoved the thought from his mind and focused on opening his present. As he lifted away the tissue paper, he roared in laughter. “Sinead! Where did you find it?”

“Brigid had to order it on the internet for me. All the way from Hawaii.” The older woman was laughing, tears streaming from her eyes. “I’d say she picked out the best one.”

Carwyn held up the shirt for the room to see; it was met with many an agonized groan. In the history of Hawaiian shirts, it was possibly the ugliest he had ever beheld. Florescent green hibiscus flowers dotted bright orange fabric. And along the bottom edge of the shirt, the ugliest hula girls in history danced.

He looked across the room at Brigid. “These are the ugliest hula girls ever. I’m impressed.”

Her voice barely carried across the room. “More like hula
men
, I think.”

“I think you may be right.” He pulled Sinead into a hug and kissed her cheek. “You brilliant women, it’s the crown of my collection.”

Deirdre said, “Pack it away, Carwyn. It’s blinding me.”

“Absolutely not. I’m wearing it.” He stood and all the humans and vampires around him groaned again. Carwyn glanced at Brigid as he pulled off the very proper Oxford shirt he’d donned for dinner. She still wasn’t laughing, but he caught her glancing at his bare chest and had to smother a grin.

She
was
blushing.

“Put your shirt on, Father,” Deirdre cried. “No one wants to see your hairy chest.”

He winked at Brigid, who was still stealing glances. Her neck was bright red. “I have it on good authority that Sinead has always been fond of my chest hair, Deirdre.”

Carwyn buttoned up the truly hideous Hawaiian shirt and pulled Brigid’s aunt into another hug.

“You’re a bad, bad man, Father.” The older woman was blushing as well.

Ioan lifted a glass of whiskey in a toast. “But an excellent vampire, we can all agree.”

“Hear, hear.” He almost missed it, but Brigid’s quiet voice made it to his ears over the din of the party. Carwyn looked over to her, and her beautiful amber eyes met his. For a moment, he saw a hint of the mischief he remembered when she was a girl, and his heart gave a sudden, and completely unexpected, thump. He blinked and looked away, suddenly distracted by Deirdre as she opened a gift from one of her daughters. When he looked back over to the chair where Brigid had been sitting, she was gone.

“What’s going on with you and Brigid?”

Ioan’s question caught him by surprise as they walked through the woods, scenting for deer. Carwyn blinked and almost stumbled over a log.

“What are you talking about?”

Ioan narrowed his eyes and smiled, just a little. “You kept looking at her during dinner. Then afterward, as well.”