The Shadow and the Night: Glenncailty Castle, Book 3 Page 19

  “So what’s the problem?” Melissa asked.

  “Two reporters showed up. They heard about what you’re doing.”

  “How?”

  “The glen is a small place. We’ve had far more people than normal coming through the pub and restaurant. I assume they’re curious.”

  “I heard all about the extra people who keep showing up. Tristan is less than pleased.”

  Sorcha’s lips twitched. “I heard he hasn’t been back to his apartment in a few days.”

  “He’s staying with me.”

  “I know. Congratulations.”

  “Congratulations? For what? Though I suppose it is an accomplishment to have someone that attractive and creative in my bed.”

  “Creative?” Sorcha raised one brow, then shook her head. “We’re getting off the subject.”

  “The reporters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you need me?” Melissa asked as they started up the patio steps. Sorcha used a key to open the large doors that led into the morning room.

  “They know you’re excavating a cemetery, but they don’t know anything else.” Sorcha held up her hand to stop Melissa.

  “You mean they don’t know that it was purposefully desecrated.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about the nursery?”

  “They know about that, but not that the people we found were murdered. One of them is under the impression that the room was sealed to prevent the spread of sickness. I didn’t say otherwise.”

  “That’s not a bad guess as to why a room, especially a nursery, would have been sealed. I’m still not sure why you need me.”

  “I need you to give them a story.”

  “You want me to tell them what I’m finding?”

  “No!” Sorcha practically shouted it, then cleared her throat. “No, please don’t. I should have said I need you to be the story.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re a famous scientist. I doubt they’d be here if it was just Dr. Drummond and other people from the museum. It’s news that we have such an important expert working with us.”

  “I don’t like media attention.” Melissa had turned down more than one reporter who’d wanted to write about what had happened to her in Ivory Coast.

  “I’m not asking you to give them any personal information. But if you could talk to them, give them something to write about without actually telling them that we had murdered children and their mother hidden away in a secret room, we would be grateful.”

  “You keep saying ‘we’.”

  Sorcha pursed her lips. “Elizabeth and I. She’s meeting with the reporters right now.”

  “They can see her?”

  “Yes. They shook her hand.”

  Melissa blew out a breath. “And did you talk to her?”

  “Of course I talked to her. She’s my boss.”

  “No, I mean, did you talk to her about the fact that she’s not real?” Melissa held up her hand. “Let me rephrase. It’s clear that she’s real to you. Did you talk to her about the fact that she’s not alive?”

  “I…didn’t.” Sorcha’s shoulders sagged. “I can’t believe it. I saw her disappear when you tried to touch her, but I just…”

  “It’s fine. I’ll talk to them. I can give them a lecture on the science of forensic anthropology. I think I have one of my standard keynote presentations on my laptop.”

  “That would be perfect. They’re in the Rose Room. I’ll take you there.”

  “Sorcha, wait.”

  “What is it?”

  “I think I understand what this place is—everyone I’ve met who works here is healing from something. This place is safe to you, to Tristan. I completely understand. That’s why I was in Dublin—my grandmother’s house is my safe place.”

  Sorcha looked shocked by her words, but nodded.

  “But you need to know that these secrets can’t be kept much longer. Whatever Glenncailty is now, in the past it was a dark place. It’s not just the woman and children we found in the nursery that were murdered. I think everyone in that graveyard was too.”

  “No…” Sorcha swallowed and looked away. “Maybe they were victims from one of the uprisings.”

  “I’m afraid not. From what we’ve seen of the headstones and what we’ve been able to reconstruct there’s a hundred-year time span represented—and all of it predates the remains in the nursery. I’ve heard of things like this, primarily in the Middle East.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “People who are killed by some authority, or a member of a ruling family, are sometimes placed in different burial grounds. Sometimes it’s a way of hiding the crime. Other times it’s a form of post-mortem torture for the deceased—the burial defying religious or cultural customs.”

  “You mean that people were killed by the Lord of Glenncailty, and then they were buried outside holy ground, damning them.”

  “Yes.”

  Sorcha crossed herself, then pressed her fingers to her lips. Melissa gave her a moment to pray. She understood the urge—two days ago, when the fifth body showed signs of unnatural death, she’d started to get a sinking feeling. Though she hoped she would be proved wrong, she would have bet money that she was right.

  “I love this place,” Sorcha said. “I shouldn’t—it’s haunted and holds so many secrets, but I love it. Without this job I would never have met Séan.”

  Melissa knew how she felt—without the bones, she would never have met Tristan.

  “I know we can’t keep it a secret forever, but I don’t think we’re ready to expose our secrets to the nation.”

  “That I agree with. I don’t like to present anything until the entire project is complete.”

  “Then you’ll speak with the reporters?”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  Melissa followed Sorcha into the Rose Room. Sorcha put a hand on her arm, stopping her just inside the door. Two men sat in armchairs facing an empty couch.

  “Elizabeth, do you have a minute?” Sorcha asked, squeezing Melissa’s arm.

  Melissa stepped to the side, standing perfectly still as Sorcha ushered empty air out the door. When the portal was closed, she took a seat on the couch and examined the reporters.

  “You both have some Mongoloid features. That’s interesting.”

  They blinked at her, then starting writing furiously.

  “Melissa Jane Heavey.”

  Melissa froze in the castle foyer. Tristan stopped when she did.

  “Damn,” she whispered. “I think I forgot to call her.”

  Footsteps padded toward them, and Melissa turned, pasting a smile on her face. Her grandmother, wearing slacks and a sweater with a pretty scarf Melissa had brought her from Cape Town, was striding across the foyer.

  “Granny! You’re here.”

  “And what was I to do? You don’t answer my calls. You don’t call me. I had to read about my own granddaughter in The Irish Times.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.” It wasn’t a lie—she had been busy with the cemetery, and any time she wasn’t doing that she was with Tristan, having increasingly inventive sex.

  They’d been in the process of sneaking away before dinner service in the restaurant started, but it appeared that would be delayed.

  “Your Grand-Mère?”

  Bridget Ferguson examined Tristan head to toe. “And who might you be?”

  “Tristan Fontaine, madame. Enchanté.”

  “Oh, yes, enchanté.”

  Tristan smiled, and it was a thing of beauty. Taking her grandmother’s hand, he tucked it over his arm and headed toward the restaurant. Melissa stared at their backs.

  “What just happened?” she asked aloud.

  “You’d better go after them.” Kristina, the blonde guest services staff member manning the desk, smiled.

  “Agreed.”

  Melissa dashed after them, ignoring the looks the guests gave her. She was used to it b
y this point, and she could only assume that the situation would get worse now that one of the newspapers had written an article about her. As Sorcha had hoped, the focus of the story was not Glenncailty, it was Melissa herself.

  “Excuse me, where are you taking her?” She caught up to Tristan as they entered the restaurant.

  He was still wearing his chef’s coat, and Melissa was starting to really enjoy that particular article of clothing—ripping it off him was one of her favorite things.

  Tristain said something to Kris, who nodded solemnly.

  “Bien sûr, Tristan. Madame Ferguson, this way, if you please.”

  Tristan continued to escort Bridget, pulling out her chair when they reached the best table in the house.

  “Aren’t you a lovely young man,” she said, placing her purse on the floor at her feet.

  “You flatter me. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to prepare something special for you. Kris, wine.”

  The maître d’ walked away while Bridget looked around the restaurant, finally returning her attention to Tristan. “Oh, well, that would be lovely, but I don’t want you to go to trouble. I didn’t expect such nice treatment.”

  “Ah, well, how else would I treat the grandmother of the woman I love?” Tristan bowed his head to Bridget, winked at Melissa and headed into the kitchen.

  Melissa blushed and couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

  “He…you…” Bridget huffed out a sigh and tried to look stern. “Meeting a gentleman is no excuse for failing to call me.”

  “I know, I’m so sorry.”

  “Now sit down and tell me everything.”

  Melissa took a seat, though she wasn’t dressed for the finery of the restaurant. Tristan appeared ten minutes later with small chunks of beef skewered on rosemary stalks, the smell of garlic strong and enticing.

  “I am bringing you something hearty.”

  Melissa’s stomach rumbled. “Thanks. I have to get back to work.” Without thinking, she took Tristan’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He kissed her knuckles.

  “And if that wasn’t just a sight.” Bridget sighed in happiness.

  Melissa blushed again and tried to pull away, but Tristan didn’t let her.

  “And you’ve been taking care of her?” Bridget asked Tristan as she carefully cut into a chunk of beef.

  “As much as she’ll let me.”

  “That’s my Melissa. It’s the Ferguson in her. God rest my husband, but the man was stubborn as they came. He wouldn’t say he needed help if he was being crushed by a cow.”

  “Best to simply love and help even when it’s not asked for,” Tristan said.

  Bridget set her silverware down and pressed her fingers to her lips. “And isn’t that a lovely thing to say? I’ve waited a long time to see my little Melissa find a man who was good enough for her.”

  “Granny, we’re not getting married, we’re just—” Melissa bit her tongue, realizing her mistake.

  “You’re what? I’m sure you’re not doing something you shouldn’t, considering that you’re not married.”

  “Uh…”

  “Melissa Jane Heavey.”

  “I assure you my intentions toward your granddaughter are entirely honorable.”

  His intentions were honorable?

  Melissa kicked him under the table. Tristan planted his foot on top of hers, smiling all the while.

  “Well, I think that we might need to have a conversation.” Whatever else Bridget was going to say was lost as she took her first bite. Her eyes widened, then closed in an expression Melissa recognized—food bliss.

  Tristan leaned into Melissa, whispering in her ear. “I’m sorry we did not make it to the room.”

  “Me too,” she replied. “Sorry about this, I should have called her.”

  “I am happy to meet her. I forgot she lived so close.”

  “Dublin seems like a world away right now.”

  Tristan rubbed her back. “More of the same?” He seemed to know without her explaining that her thoughts had shifted to the graveyard.

  “Yes. A woman. She was pregnant—nearly seven months pregnant. The bones of the fetus were mixed in with her vertebrae and pelvis.”

  He closed his eyes and then kissed her temple. “I hate that you have to see such things.”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “I know. But I see how it hurts you.”

  “I like having you to come back to.”

  Their gazes met, held.

  A discreet cough jerked Melissa’s attention back to Bridget. Her grandmother was smiling softly. “You’re happy, Melissa?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And you, young man?”

  “I have never been so happy.”

  “This is a bit quick for my liking, but I know how it feels to find the person you’re meant to love.”

  Melissa’s cheeks felt permanently hot. “I have to get back to work.”

  “Go, go.” Bridget waved her away. “I’ll talk to your young man. I need to know his family.”

  “Save me something to eat.” She rose.

  “Always.” Tristan rose too, kissing her cheek.

  Melissa slipped through the kitchen, checking on Robert, who was busy cleaning bones. One of the sous chefs gave her a slice off one of the turkeys they’d roasted, and Melissa ate that along with some bread while she returned to the cemetery. Usually when she was working she was so far from home that it was easy to compartmentalize what she was doing, what was happening.

  Tristan and their relationship were a departure from that, though not totally unfamiliar, since the relationships she’d had in the past had all been the result of work situations. In a way, that made it hard for her to think of what they had as something real—if the pattern of her life held true, when this was over they’d go their separate ways.

  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 b
ed. 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.