The Shadow and the Night: Glenncailty Castle, Book 3 (27 page)

Doing that would kill her. She loved that man with both mind and spirit. He challenged her even as he made her feel like she was home.

But for the first time in her life, all the pieces were coming together—she was working, she was in love and her lover was meeting her family. Her mind insisted that when all this was over Tristan would leave, or she would leave for work, and when she came back he would no longer love her. But her heart said that this was it, that he was both her present and her future.

Chapter Sixteen

“
She needs you, go now!
”

Tristan jumped at Jacques’ words, the knife falling from his hand. It slipped off the counter and clattered on the floor. The chefs at the dessert station looked up.

“Chef?”

“A moment,” he muttered, grabbing the knife and setting it in the wash sink. He took the steps down to the underground hall that connected the kitchen to the pub.

Jacques was already there. “
Why are you here? Help her!
”

“Melissa?” Tristan tensed. “Where is she?”

“
In that church.
”

He bounded back up the steps. “You finish,” he ordered the remaining kitchen staff as he ran past. They nodded, then looked at each other before getting back to work. It had been a strange few weeks, and he had no doubt that they would deal with his sudden departure the way they’d dealt with everything else.

Tristan bolted out the door and ran across the dark gardens, his feet crunching over gravel, then falling silent as he pounded across grass.
 

“Where have you been?” he asked Jacques, who was running alongside him. Unlike Tristan, he simply went through, rather than around, bushes and trees.

“
I don’t know. I just…didn’t need to be here.
”

“What does that mean?”

“
I don’t know how to explain it.
”

The policeman wasn’t at his post. Tristan cursed as he darted through the gate. The doors of the church were open, and light spilled out. A generator hummed inside, cords running from it to large work lights mounted on poles.

Melissa was the only one there. It was after nine, and the rest of them must have gone to bed. He stopped at the door, panting.

Melissa was seated on a crate, a large freestanding magnifying glass between her face and the bone she held. He watched as she turned it in her fingers. She saw things in that little bit of leftover person that he never would—it was as if she spoke a language he could never learn. Even if she taught him the science, he would not have her passion or her ability to take tiny pieces of information and reconstruct a life from them.

“Jacques,
tu es un imbicile
.”

“
Look.
”

Tristan frowned at his brother’s transparent figure, then returned his attention to Melissa.

This time he saw it.

A ghost hovered at Melissa’s shoulder. It was a woman, and one he’d seen before.

“The maid in chains,” Tristan said.

It was the ghost most commonly seen in Glenncailty’s halls, and Sorcha had given her that nickname after many different guests had described seeing a pretty young woman with long hair, her body draped in chains. Sometimes she carried a bucket, other times a broom. He’d seen her more than once, and she was always a still, silent figure. Séan said that the maid in chains had talked to him, and some visitors claimed they’d been chased through the castle by her. Tristan had tried to engage her, but she never responded. He assumed that the sight of the ghost had been so startling and frightening that those who claimed she was dangerous or gory had imagined much of their stories.

“Why is she this far away from the castle?” he wondered.

“
She’s the one.
”

“The one what?”

“
She will end it.
”

“Jacques, I don’t understand, explain what—” Tristan’s breath caught.

The ghost’s head turned. She’d been staring out into space, but now she focused on Melissa, and Tristan was reminded of the way the figures in the cemetery had watched his beloved.

The maid raised her hands to her face. An unholy scream echoed in the church as she raked her nails down her face, gouging out her own eyes. The simple dress she wore fell away in tatters, and wounds opened up along her skin, black blood pouring from her sliced flesh.

“Melissa!”

She looked up and smiled at him, totally unaware of the terrifying figure standing beside her.

“You’re done for the night?”

“There’s a ghost,” Tristan said, raising his voice to be heard over the screams.

Melissa shrugged. “Aren’t there always, around here? I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

“Come with me, now.”

“I’m almost finished with this femur.”

Tristan watched, his heart in his throat, as the maid’s face aged, her eyeless sockets retreating further into her head, lips pulled back to reveal not just teeth but the jaw bones themselves. The chains were wrapped around her arms, neck, chest and legs. Her naked breasts were a mess of grated flesh and black with blood.

“
Mon dieu
.” Tristan moved toward Melissa, each step slow and careful. “The bones,
mon ange
. Who were they?”

“This is the grave Seamus was trying to dig up. The casket was too rotted and wet to take out, so we dried it out in place and added bracing. We were finally able to exhume it earlier today. It was a woman—a girl, really. She was approximately seventeen or eighteen when she died. Her remains show extensive signs of abuse. Based on healed versus newer marks, I would say that whatever happened to her happened over the course of several years.”

“What did they do to her?”

“So far I’ve got multiple small fractures of the wrist and ankle bones, probably a result of sustained bondage. There are also nicks along the ribs and scapula indicative of severe soft tissue wounds, perhaps from a knife. There are also some marks around the eye sockets—they’re more healed on the left than on the right. If I had to guess, I’d say that she was blinded—her eyes forcibly removed with a sharp instrument, and it was done one eye at a time.”

The maid wailed louder, the scream increasing in volume until Tristan covered his ears with his hands, his eyes watering.

“Tristan, are you okay?” Melissa’s voice was barely audible.

“We found your body. Give me your name and we’ll bury you.” Tristan’s words were a desperate bid to get the screaming to stop. He’d never tried to reason with a ghost before. Never attempted to guess what they needed or wanted. Melissa’s belief that each person’s life deserved the recognition of burial and ceremony had changed that for him.
 

The noise didn’t stop.

“Who are you?” he yelled.

The screaming stopped, the silence deafening. Tristan looked at the maid. She was once more a pretty girl with a sad face, wearing a simple dress and a few lengths of chain.

“I know her.” The woman’s voice came from the entrance to the church. “She’s my sister.”

Tristan turned slowly. Even if he hadn’t recognized the voice, he would have known who would be there. There was no one else it could be.

Elizabeth wore a pale blue sweater and gray slacks. Her hair was loose and she looked younger than normal.

“Tristan, what’s going on?” Melissa asked.

“Elizabeth is here.”

“Oh. Her. Well, tell her I said ‘hi’. I’m almost finished.”

Melissa’s casual attitude was almost comical. Tristan’s muscles were tense, and a quick glance around told him that Jacques was gone. Elizabeth’s boots thumped over the stone. She turned to look at the back wall, ignoring the skeletons laid out all around the small space.

“You see them, don’t you?” she asked, gesturing at the image of wings burned into the stone on either side of the door.

“Yes.” Tristan was taken by surprise. “No one else can.” He’d started to think that the wings weren’t real.

“A pity, and they’re lovely.” Elizabeth faced him. “She’s protected, but you know that, don’t you?”

“What are you?” Tristan tried to keep his tone casual, but the words came out harsher than he’d planned.
 

“Your brother explained it to you, I assume?”

“You know about Jacques?”

“I can feel him. We are not the same, but when you took the job I felt something new arrive. There’re many ghosts here, but still I knew.”

“How do you look and feel so real?” Tristan asked.

“Because she’s not a ghost.” Now it was Seamus who was standing in the door. The master of the castle wore a long, gray coat and his face was half in shadow. With a small gesture of his hand, the hounds sat on the threshold, guards at the door.

“You!” Melissa jumped to her feet. “Don’t touch the graveyard.” She rushed toward the door.

“Stay here.” Tristan grabbed her hand as she passed him, pulling her to a stop.

“Why?” Melissa demanded.

Tristan looked from Elizabeth to Seamus. “This ends tonight.”

“Ends?” Seamus asked. “I wish that were so. But there is no end.” As he moved into the light, Tristan could see the weary lines that marked Seamus’ face.

“There is,” Tristan countered. He couldn’t say why he was so certain, but the air was thick and time seemed to have slowed. It felt like a moment when things would change.
 

Melissa stilled, her gaze searching his face. She couldn’t hear Elizabeth, so she didn’t know the extent of what had been said. He expected her to protest, but instead she nodded. “Tell me what to do,” she whispered, lacing her fingers into his.

Tristan squeezed her hand.

“You say she’s not a ghost,” Tristan said. “What is she?”

“I’m interested to know why Dr. Heavey isn’t able to see her,” Seamus said.

“I told you, Seamus.” Elizabeth folded her arms. “She’s protected.”

“What by?”

Elizabeth looked at the wall of the church and the outline of wings that was burned into the stone. “I won’t tell you that.” She looked at Tristan.

“Is it really…are they real?” Tristan didn’t dare be any more specific with his question.

Elizabeth shrugged. “Good exists, same as evil. I suspect the manifestation has more to do with your beliefs, or hers, than the true nature of it. Your mind needed a way to process what you were in the presence of.”

“What are you talking about?” Seamus asked. He made his way into the church and followed their gaze to the wall. His limp, which he normally hid with a measured walking style, was more apparent than Tristan had ever seen it.

“What are you talking about?” Melissa repeated. Despite her earlier words, he could tell her patience was wearing thin.

“Elizabeth knows about what happened to us in here,” he explained.

“She knows? How? Was that her? Did she answer your question about what she is?”

“She didn’t.” He responded to Melissa but focused on Elizabeth.

“As I said, she’s not a ghost.” Seamus peered into a casket set out on the table. The edges were reinforced with straps, and a clean sheet of paper waited on the next table over, ready to have the bones laid out.

“Don’t touch that,” Melissa snapped at him.

“Then what is she?” Tristan asked.

Elizabeth didn’t respond. Just when Tristan was about to repeat his questions, Seamus spoke.

“Do you know what that is out there?” Seamus motioned toward the cemetery.

“A graveyard full of victims,” Melissa answered. “Every one of these skeletons bears the marks of severe trauma. Some aren’t conclusively the result of violence—they could have been the result of accidents—but all together it’s very clear that people laid to rest out there were purposefully injured prior to death. Many of the injuries were severe enough to be the cause of death.”

“The victims of my family’s madness are buried there, in a Church of England cemetery, because torturing and killing wasn’t enough. They had to make sure that the souls suffered even after death.” Seamus’ matter-of-fact words were haunting, chilling.

Melissa frowned. “How do you know all this?”

“Let’s say it’s family knowledge.” Seamus looked at Elizabeth.

“Then who destroyed the grave markers?” Melissa asked.

“The markers were put in place by the families of the dead. It was done in secret, in the dead of night or when the Lord of Glenncailty returned to England, giving these people some measure of peace. Until the day it was decided these dead shouldn’t be acknowledged, and the Lord of Glenncailty ordered the gravestones destroyed.”

“But they are not your family,” Tristan said. “You inherited the land when Ireland became independent.” He remembered that much from the various castle histories they had posted around.

“I’m afraid that isn’t true. O’Muircheartaigh is simply the Irish version of my true last name.”

“Moriarty,” Melissa said. “‘Hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind.’”

“Who?” Tristan was not sure what the significance of that name was or what Melissa was talking about.