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  Tristan closed his eyes.

  “It wouldn’t just be ghosts. I would see the deaths of any bones I touched. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people’s deaths just sitting in my memory making me crazy. That’s what I’m being protected from.”

  “And who is protecting you?”

  “I don’t know. But I think, from something it said, that maybe the ghosts aren’t real.” Tristan opened his mouth to protest and Melissa held up her hand. “I don’t mean it like that. I know they’re real, but I don’t think they’re souls.”

  “Some aren’t. Some are memories.”

  “I don’t think any of them are spirits, or souls, or whatever you want to call it. It said, ‘The body returns to the earth, and the soul returns to that which gave it.’ Everything that remains is neither body nor spirit.’”

  “What could it be besides the soul, or the spirit?”

  “I don’t know. You yourself said memories. Maybe bits of consciousness that are somehow left over?” Melissa pushed open the door. Sunlight flooded the church and a gust of wind extinguished the candles from the séance.

  “The world looks the same,” she said quietly.

  “Did you expect it to be different?”

  “Part of me did. I just found out that ghosts are real, that without some strange paranormal protection, I’d have been stark raving mad from seeing thousands of horrible deaths, and that even though there are ghosts it might be okay, because the soul really does move on after death.” She took a deep breath. Later, when she had time and space, she would sort everything out and reconstruct her worldview. Right now she’d had enough, so she would do the thing she was good at. She would find and identify human remains.

  *

  Tristan watched Melissa leave the church. Jacques came up beside him.

  “Could you hear whatever was talking to her?” Tristan asked his brother.

  “No, but do you see it? On the wall?”

  Tristan took a deep breath and nodded. He wasn’t ready to deal with what Jacques was talking about yet, so he asked, “Are you my brother’s soul?”

  “I don’t know. How could I tell? I feel like I always have.”

  Tristan wished he could hug his brother’s ghost. “I’m not sure if I want her to be right. If you’re not Jacques’ soul, then what are you? Yet I want to believe that he, that you, are at peace. That you are not damned to this hell.”

  Tristan had not expected that Melissa’s learning the truth would leave him floundering for answers. She’d said that her world was changing, but his was too.

  “Do you remember your scripture, Tristan?”

  “No.”

  “Her protector said, ‘The body returns to the earth, and the spirit returns to that which gave it.’”

  “So?”

  “Ecclésiaste 12:7: Avant que la poussière retourne à la terre, comme elle y était, et que l’esprit retourne à Dieu qui l’a donné.”

  Tristan translated. “Ecclesiastes 12:7: ‘Then the dust will return to the earth as it was, and the spirit will return to God who gave it.’”

  Standing beside his brother’s ghost, Tristan looked at the wall of the church, where the image of two huge wings was burned into the stone.

  Chapter 11

  Tristan worked until his muscles burned. Melissa tried to clear some topsoil herself, but her left arm wasn’t strong enough. Rory and his younger brother Gerard were helping dig. They’d started at what Melissa had identified as the outer boundary and were digging to make sure she was right. So far they hadn’t come across any artifacts.

  Tristan periodically had short, one-sided conversations as he worked, but no matter how hard she tried, Melissa couldn’t hear or see Jacques. She was glad that she knew who Tristan was talking to but was rather sad that she could no longer joke with the brothers. Then again, she wouldn’t soon forget the image of Jacques’ body dangling from the beam.

  One puzzling thing was when Tristan had taken Rory into the church, saying he wanted to show the other man something. They’d emerged a few moments later, Rory saying he couldn’t see anything, but he felt something. Melissa had asked Tristan if the thing they’d encountered was still there, but he’d said no, that he’d just wanted to check something with Rory. Tristan didn’t explain further.

  Having something routine to do with her hands freed her mind to process what had just happened. She felt…peaceful. That didn’t make sense, considering how panicked and freaked out she’d been when she first started to accept that what was happening in the church was real. She’d learned that ghosts were real, and yet not.

  She adjusted her camera strap, then stopped to look at something Rory held up. It was a bit of glass, and she tossed it into the labeled bucket.

  Rory, who was wearing a walkie-talkie, let Sorcha know that they were done for the day. Tristan was called back to the kitchen to help with tomorrow’s food and Melissa returned to her room to call an anthropologist friend for guidance.

  She got so wrapped up in planning the excavation that she didn’t notice the time until someone knocked on her door. The clock on the wall said it was just past nine—she would have guessed it was no later than six.

  Melissa stood and stretched, wondering who was at the door. Two steps later she remembered what had happened this afternoon before the séance. She looked from the door to the bed, which was covered in papers and books, to her reflection. Her hair was up in a messy bun, she was wearing a sweatshirt from an American university where she’d spent a semester and her legs were bare except for fuzzy socks that came halfway up her calves.

  “Just a minute!”

  She spun in a circle, not sure where to start.

  “Dr. Heavey? It’s room service,” a female voice said.

  Melissa paused, hair half-down. It wasn’t Tristan.

  “What?” She found her pants from earlier, put them on and opened the door. “I didn’t order room service.”

  “Chef asked me to bring this over to you.” A pretty young woman wearing a uniform from the pub was standing outside with a cart. “It’s not really room service, we don’t do that, but we do whatever Chef says.”

  “I bet you do. Where is Tristan?”

  “He’s gone for the day, ma’am. I mean, Doctor.”

  “Ma’am is fine. Thank you for the food. What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. The Chef made it for you himself.” The server was trying and failing to hide a smile.

  “Thank you.” Melissa examined the girl’s face. “You have very pronounced but horizontal zygomatic bones. By the time you’re twenty-five, your face will have finished shaping and your bone structure will be in line with historical and current beauty standards.” She patted the girl on the shoulder.

  “What?”

  “Your cheekbones. They’re horizontal right now because your face is still developing. In five to ten years, they will be angled.”

  “I…still don’t understand.”

  “Plan for a career in modeling in your late twenties. Goodbye. Thank you.”

  Melissa pushed the girl out the door. Some people just didn’t know how to take a compliment.

  The rolling cart was covered with a white tablecloth. A bud vase with a single peach rose sat in the center of the covered plates. There was a card propped against the vase.

  Melissa took the card and sank down onto the bed. She didn’t want to open it right away. She wanted to savor this moment. She’d never had what many of her peers deemed a “normal” relationship. She hadn’t even had a relationship until grad school, and they’d both been so poor and busy that it mostly consisted of exciting but hurried sex and proofreading one another’s papers. During her post-doc, she’d been with a young Australian professor working on the same recovery project she was studying, but their relationship began while they were stationed in the Congo and ended as soon as she left.

  He’d never taken her on a date, given her flowers or written her a card. Their relationship had been more of an academ
ic interview, to see if they were compatible both physically and intellectually. There was a long history in archaeology and anthropology of power couples. Since so much time was spent away from home, it made sense. Melissa had assumed that was what she would end up with, but nothing ever worked out. She’d had short affairs with colleagues, but none had seemed interested in being with her in a more romantic or permanent way. Eventually she’d learned to be the aggressor, which guaranteed that she got physical contact and pleasure when she needed it. Unromantic but practical, given her lifestyle.

  Tristan made her feel like the kind of girl who men gave flowers to and took out on dates. She wasn’t sure that was really who she was, but it was a nice feeling. Shucking the dusty pants once more, she sat on the bed and pulled the cart into place as a table.

  The card was thick, creamy paper. Tristan’s handwriting matched his personality—bold and strong.

  Food is not better than sex, unless it’s my food. We’re not finished. Think of me.

  Under that was a phone number. Melissa smiled and hugged the card to her chest. She could picture his wicked smile, hear his voice saying the words.

  She hadn’t really expected him to show up tonight—after everything they’d been through in the church, he had to want some time away from her. The “I love you” was only one piece of a complicated event, but in a way it was the most damning. It seemed like an insane cliché that, when faced with danger, she’d turned into a crying mess and confessed her love to her strong protector. Melissa winced in embarrassment.

  She pulled the covers off plates and her mouth started to water. He’d sent her a beautiful salad of baby spinach, baked kale, oranges, nuts and soft white cheese. She took a bite and moaned in pleasure—it had truffle dressing.

  The entrée was duck fillet stuffed with herbs, the skin crisped to perfection. Sautéed greens with ginger sauce served as a delicious bed for the poultry.

  The final dish was a small chocolate cake that came with a little cup of vanilla cream.

  Melissa forked up a sliver of duck and greens and picked up her cell phone. Tristan answered on the first ring.

  “Enjoying your dinner?”

  Melissa finished chewing, moaning in pleasure as she did, before saying. “Thank you.”

  “That’s a very nice sound you make when you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Can’t talk, eating.” She took a bite of salad and lay back on the bed. The flavors were things she would never have thought would be good together.

  “You know that you called me?”

  “Mmm hmm. Thank you, bye.”

  “Oh no, no. You can’t hang up now.”

  “Nope, I said thank you. That’s why I called, now I need to go back to having the best meal of my life.”

  “Ah, Melissa, you flatter me.”

  “No I don’t, you arrogant jerk. You know how good you are.” She swiped some greens in the gingery sauce pooled on the plate and stuck her fork in her mouth.

  “Is that how you talk to the man giving you pleasure?”

  Melissa paused, fork halfway to her mouth, as her body hummed to life. She hadn’t forgotten what it had felt like to have him touch her, and her body was suddenly very unhappy that the promised sex wasn’t forthcoming.

  “Melissa?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Uh…ducks.”

  “Duck? Then cut off a piece of the fillet and put it in your mouth. Don’t chew it yet, just let it sit on your tongue.”

  Melissa did as he said. The duck had a rich, buttery flavor, and the crispy skin was vaguely sweet, yet tangy.

  “Now chew it, slowly. Make sure it touches every part of your tongue, so you taste all of it.”

  Melissa’s nipples were hard, and she clenched her knees together as she chewed and swallowed.

  “Done?” His voice was lower than normal, tone rougher.

  “How have you turned eating dinner into foreplay?” Melissa licked her lip and looked at what was left on the tray. If they went on like this for the rest of the meal, she would end up saying and doing some very embarrassing things.

  “Food is like sex.”

  “You’re a better cook than lover?”

  He laughed. “Non.”

  “That’s what your note said.”

  “Mais non. I said that food is not better than sex, unless it’s my food. The only thing better than my food is how I make love.”

  “I’m hanging up now.” Melissa ended the call and tossed her phone down next to her. That man was seriously dangerous.

  She finished her dinner, practically licking the salad and entrée plates clean. Clearing away some of the papers on the bed, she lay down on her belly, placing the dessert on the pillow. She poured the cream over it, then licked the spout of the tiny pot.

  “That man can seriously cook.”

  Her phone buzzed and Melissa propped it up on the pillow to read the message.

  Enjoying yourself?

  Biting her lip, she typed out a reply. Dessert.

  You’re a chocolate girl.

  Dessert without chocolate is pointless.

  Fruit with honey cream would be good on you.

  She frowned, assuming it was a bad auto correct. On me? You mean for me?

  On you. So I could eat it off.

  Melissa sucked in a breath and started giggling. There was something wrong with her. She was a grown woman, a well-respected scientist, humanitarian and scholar. She’d faced things most people couldn’t even dream of, up to and including the life-altering revelations of this afternoon.

  And she was giggling like an idiot while sending sexy text messages with the man whose hand had been down her pants ten hours ago.

  I’ve never been a dessert plate.

  You would be the dessert, the fruit garnish.

  She’d never considered garnish a dirty word until this moment.

  You make me feel young, she texted.

  You are young.

  Not really.

  Why do you feel young?

  Because I’m sending dirty text messages. Melissa’s thumbs hovered over the screen as she debated adding something provocative to the message. Hoping she wasn’t making an idiot of herself, she added, While lying on the bed in nothing but a shirt and panties.

  That wasn’t precisely true—it was a sweatshirt, not T-shirt, and she had on socks.

  Show me.

  Melissa blushed, hiding her face against her shoulder, though there was no one to see her. Rolling off the bed, she took off the sweatshirt. Wearing nothing but a tank top and panties, she examined herself in the mirror. The most noticeable thing about her was her damaged arm. Turning so she could see her shoulder blade, she examined the white scar that cut across her back. It was one of many smaller scars and burns that she’d accumulated. No longer feeling flirty anymore, she returned to the bed. Taking the last bite of cake, she posed with the spoon halfway to her mouth, took a picture and sent it to Tristan.

  Very sexy, but not what I expected.

  Naked Melissa isn’t pretty, she replied.

  Lies.

  She put the dessert plate on the tray and wheeled it to the door. Opening it quickly, she started to shove the cart into the hall when the sound of voices caught her attention.

  “I didn’t choose her.”

  Melissa held her breath and leaned forward, straining to hear. The voice was male and seemed to be coming from the end of the hall, close to the stairs to the second floor. She couldn’t see who was speaking unless she leaned out the door.

  “She’s already started digging up the graveyard. I can’t stop her now, too many people are involved.”

  Melissa’s stomach rolled. Whoever was speaking was talking about her.

  “I wouldn’t have started this if I knew everything would be exposed. You said—”

  The voice stopped abruptly, and though Melissa strained, she couldn’t hear a second voice.

  A dog
barked. Melissa jumped, then pulled back, easing the door partially closed. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and a dog barked again, the sound closer. Holding the handle down, she closed the door the rest of the way. Her heart was in her throat.

  It had to be Seamus, the owner of Glenncailty. He’d been talking about her. Melissa scrambled to put her clothes back on. It sounded like he’d been talking to the mysterious Elizabeth. She now had no doubt that the general manager was real—or as real as a ghost could be. The mystery was how no one knew that she wasn’t alive. After seeing Jacques, she could understand how everyone could mistake a ghost for a living person for a little while, but even Tristan, who knew more than most about the ghosts thanks to his brother, had been fooled. That was a mystery that needed solving, and the man with the answers was right here. All she had to do was follow him.

  Melissa shoved a torch into the pocket of the sweatshirt, then grabbed her phone. She had three messages from Tristan, but she didn’t read them. As she opened the door and peered out, Melissa sent him a quick reply.

  Seamus in ww. Talking about me. Elizabeth here. Following.

  Hoping that was excuse enough for abandoning their sexting, Melissa eased her door closed. She had no idea which way Seamus had gone. She crept up the stairs to the second floor, checking the hallway. There was no one there, and the caution tape she’d fastened across the door was still in place.

  She caught the distinct scent of wet dog and looked down. There were wet patches on the carpet. It must have rained. Flicking on the torch, she followed the trail back to the first floor, through a small utility closet, to an exterior door. Ignoring the Emergency Exit Only sign, she opened the door, slipping out into the garden.

  * * * *

  Seamus in ww. Talking about me. Elizabeth here. Following.

  Tristan sat up, his erection subsiding as he read Melissa’s message. He’d been prepared for an evening of teasing, and hoping for some pictures. Melissa probably hadn’t meant the photo of her eating cake to be erotic, but she clearly had no idea how much he’d been fantasizing about her lips.

  Seamus in ww.

  He assumed “ww” mean west wing. Seamus was back in the castle and apparently talking to Elizabeth about Melissa. That was alarming in and of itself, but the fact that Melissa was going to follow Seamus had Tristan very, very worried.