Ashes on the Waves (23 page)

I pulled down on the lever and the door swung open. The room looked just like the others before it with one exception. It had no windows. None at all.

“The door from this room into the house has a double dead bolt,” I said. “The others had a thumb lock doorknob.”

“What’s the difference?” Anna asked, raising her candle to look at a painting.

“You can lock someone in from the outside.”

She disappeared into the bathroom and flipped on the light. “Hey. Come look at this.” She blew out her candle.

In the corner of the small bathroom where a shower should be, there was an empty space with a faucet sticking out of the wall. Protruding through the floor were four bolts that should have held a bathtub.

“Well, this explains where my mother got that bathtub,” I said.

“And we know she didn’t steal it. It would take several men and a wagon of some kind to get it down there.”

I stepped back into the room and examined the art on the walls. All were paintings of the sea with Uncle Frank’s initials on them. “Someone in the village has to know how or when it happened because one or more of them had to have helped move the tub.”

Anna ignited my candle with hers and we stepped back into the tunnel. “One room left,” she said. “Kitchen, maybe?”

I slid the lock and pushed the panel aside. “Not the kitchen.”

“Oh, God,” Anna said from behind my shoulder.

The long, narrow room appeared to be made completely of black stone and had a tall cathedral ceiling stretching to sharp points at the apex. Wooden support beams ran the length of the ceiling with intricate carved spires pointing down like fangs.

In the open windows, purple silken curtains writhed in a macabre dance to the ocean wind, creating an effect so terrifying all the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

“I could use a kiss about now,” Anna said, stepping into the room. “But I doubt it would help.”

Nothing could help. The room we had entered was a cross between a dungeon and a sorceress’s lair. Only one person could inhabit such a place.

Brigid Ronan.

“What do you think she does with all this stuff?” Anna tuf.

“I couldn’t begin to imagine.” I closed the door to the passageway behind us. “I know she’s considered to be a healer in the village. Maybe the jars and dried vegetation are related to that.”

“She’s a witch doctor. That certainly fits.” Anna picked up a jar that appeared to contain a dead animal suspended in liquid and held her candle up to examine it.

An enormous painting hung over the bed. Barely illuminated by the distant candle flame, the man staring out at us with dark eyes seemed alive. I held my candle closer. He had dark wavy hair and a haunted expression of utter desolation. Chills coursed through me as I stared at what appeared to be a mature reflection of my own face.

“I think that’s Uncle Frank when he was young,” Anna said. “I only knew him as an old guy. Wonder why she has his picture?”

“Is there a light switch?” I asked.

“It should be by the door to the room.”

I flipped on the switch and blew out my candle.

“Whoa. Check out the wall to your right,” Anna said.

The entire surface of the black stone wall was covered in hash marks in groupings of five—four vertical marks with one diagonally across them. There were thousands.

“What do you think Ronan’s counting?” she asked, extinguishing her candle.

There were long lines every now and then, like dividers between groupings. “I have no idea.”

“I wonder where she is? What if she finds us in her room?”

I counted twenty-five longer lines. There were seventy-three sets of hash marks between them.

She ran her finger over the thumb lock on the door handle. “Liam. It’s locked from the inside. She doesn’t want visitors. We should go.”

“I agree.” Seventy-three times five . . .

There was a metallic scraping and a click behind the hidden panel from which we had come.

“We have to get out of here,” Anna said, yanking my sleeve. “Now.”

I reached for the doorknob.

“No. She’ll know we were here. It’s locked.”

We sprinted to the window. Fortunately, we
were on the first floor. I followed Anna out. Hiding in the hedge under the window, we held our breaths.

Anna pulled her knees to her chest and rested her head against the stone building. Flecks of moonlight shone through the bushes, gliding across her face. The exquisite beauty of the effect entranced me momentarily.

We needed to move in case Ronan looked out her window. Crawling on my hands and knees, I made my way out of the hedge. I could hear Anna following. Once we were several yards to the side of the window, I stood and we ran around the corner of the house.

“Three hundred and sixty-five,” I said.

“What?” She was out of breath.

“Marks between the dividing lines.” I shoved the bit that was left of my candle in my back pocket. “She’s counting days—years—over twenty-five of them.”

Anna’s eyes grew huge. “Oh, God, Liam. I left my candle in her room.”

The wild—the terrible conspire.

—Edgar Allan Poe,
from “Tamerlane,” 1845

W
hen we rounded the front corner of the house, Brigid Ronan was standing on the porch, arms folded over her chest. “Bad things happen after dark,” she said. “Very bad things.”

Anna clutched my hand. “We went for a walk. I was perfectly safe. Liam was with me.”

Miss Ronan gave no reaction at all. Like a statue, she waited for something.

“Well, we’re going to bed,” Anna said, mounting the porch steps, pulling me with her.

Miss Ronan blocked the doors. “Not him.”

Anna opened her mouth to protest but was cut off.

“Your parents forbade him to stay the night. They were quite specific.”

“It’s fine,” I said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll just see you in the morning.”

“Wait. When did you talk to my parents?”

“On my day off. I called them from Francine’s phone. I give them a weekly update. I have for years.”

“What did you tell them?”

“The truth.”

“Your truth and my truth are entirely different.”

No good could come of this. Both of them had dug in and would never back down. I stepped between them. “Please. Let it go for tonight. I’ll just see you tomorrow.”

“First thing in the morning, I’m calling home to clear this up.” Anna stood on her tiptoes and pulled my face down to hers. Miss Ronan never looked away as Anna kissed me in such a way it almost made leaving worthwhile.

Breathless, she smiled. “See you in the morning. There’s nothing done at night that can’t be done in the daylight.” After flashing me a gorgeous grin, she brushed past Miss Ronan and into the house.

Miss Ronan stopped me before I even made it down the porch steps. “You forgot something.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out the candle Anna had left in her room. She held it out to me. “You should never have come back here. I warned you, but you didn’t listen to me, did you? Just like your mother, you can’t stay away.” She moved closer and I fought the urge to retreat. “What is it you’re after? Money? Power? Sex, perhaps?”

“No!” I found myself backing up, despite my best efforts not to do so. “I love her.
Her.
Nothing else matters . . . and she loves me too.”

She arched a brow. “Are you certain?”

“Positive.”

“You’d better hope you’re right. Go home, Liam MacGregor.”

* * *

Muireann followed the Na Fir Ghorm that had met with Brigid Ronan back to his cave. Underwater, sound traveled great distances, so after he disappeared into the opening, she flattened herself against the rocks at the base of the entrance to listen.

So many of them were talkin/fo wr he dg at once, she couldn’t make sense of it.

“It is time!” the voice of the leader shouted above the rest. “Listen well. Our success depends on getting this right.” The other voices fell silent. “Tonight is the night we win the wager.”

Muireann’s lungs ached. She was at the end of her breath of air. The Na Fir Ghorm had gills and didn’t need to surface like she did. She zipped up, gulped air, and returned to the opening of the cave.

The Na Fir Ghorm were all talking at once again; this time, in loud, unhappy voices. It sounded like she had missed something important.

“What if she doesn’t come this year?” one asked.

“She always comes on this night,” the leader answered, “and we have been assured that the broken one will be alone at the right time to make it work.”

“But what if—”

“Silence!” the leader shouted. “If you fail, this will be in your heart instead of hers! Now take it and go!”

Muireann shot from the mouth of the cave to a hiding spot behind a boulder on the south side. A half dozen of the horrible creatures emerged from the cave, heading in the direction of the harbor.

Thanks to her terrible timing, she had no idea what they
were up to, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

Staying far enough back to not be seen, she followed them to the harbor, where they gathered under a pier. Swimming from the cover of one boat to another, she soundlessly slipped behind the lobster pen at the end of the dock to the store, feeling completely and totally helpless.

The Na Fir Ghorm hung out under the pier in silence and she struggled to stay awake. She hadn’t slept for an entire sun cycle, and the exhaustion was overwhelming. She placed her chin on top of the pen, keeping her body in the water, and closed her eyes. If something happened, she’d hear it for sure.

But she didn’t. By the time she woke up, it was too late.

Too late, at least, to do anything for the poor human floating facedown in the blood-clouded water, a blue stick protruding from her chest.

A lit candle floated on the surface of the water between the body and the human child who wept at the edge of the pier.

The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

—Edgar Allan Poe,
from “Marginalia,” 1849

T
he sun hadn’t even come up when someone rapped on the door. At first, I wasn’t sure whether I’d dreamed the taps or had actually heard them. I pulled on my jeans and stood just inside the door. “Hello?”

“It’s me, lad.” Francine opened the unlocked door, still in a bathrobe, sucking in ragged breaths. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been here by yourself for long?”

“Yes—most of the night. Why?”

She stepped inside. “You need to get out of here and hide.”

“What?”

kquo wr h-1"There’s been another death.”

“And? I’m blamed every time someone dies. What good will hiding do?”

She bustled into the bedroom and returned with my shirt. “It will buy you time and give us a chance to figure out what happened.”

I took the shirt she thrust at me. “Who was it?”

“Katie McAlister.”

My stomach dropped. I would naturally be suspect number one. She’d made no pretense of liking me, nor I her.

“She was called by the sea like the others, I’m sure.” I pulled the shirt over my head.

She tugged my shirt down by the bottom hem. “This one is different.”

“How?”

“Where are your shoes?”

I pointed to the bedroom. “How is it different?”

She returned with my shoes and dropped them at the foot of a chair. I sat and slipped my feet into them. I was able to lace and tie hiking boots one-handed, but as if I were a child, she laced and tied them for me. “You need to hurry. Can you hide at Taibhreamh? They wouldn’t dare hurt you there.”

“Yes.” I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Francine. Tell me.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, lad.” She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “She was pulled out of the harbor with one of your paintbrushes stabbed into her heart . . . and they are coming for you. They’re bringing a rope. You’ve got to get to Taibhreamh. Now!”

Shouting erupted from nearby.

“The kitchen window,” she whispered. “Hurry.”

I bolted to the window, threw it open, climbed over the sink, and practically fell out of it behind the house. Francine pulled the window closed behind me. “I love you,” she mouthed.

The shouting was much louder outside the house. The villagers were close. In fact, it sounded as if they were everywhere. “We’ll check the house. You go to Taibhreamh!”

The door to the house slammed open. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I was here looking for him,” Francine answered, her usual calm completely gone.

I had no idea who she was talking to. It didn’t matter, really. At this point, the villagers were all the same and of one mind: kill the demon.

“If we find out you are hiding him, you’ll hang beside him,” a male growled.

I crawled behind the lobster cages. Through the vines, I watched a group of men climbing up the trail to Taibhreamh.

“Spread out and search,” another male voice shouted.

Darkness was the only advantage I had and it wouldn’t last long. Already, a warm glow spread along the horizon where the sky met the sea. Climbing down the cliff and running along the beach would be the fastest route to Taibhreamh, but it would leave me visible and vulnerable. The woods were my best option.

“Stay here in case he returns,” the man in the house said to another villager I couldn’t see. “And be sure she doesn’t leave to go warn him.”

“He didn’t do it!” Francine said. “He’s incapable of such a thing.”

“Shut up,” the man shouted. “He should have been hu have beng years ago. Hell, he should have been left to freeze as a newborn and burned alongside his mother. If it weren’t for you, he would have been.”

“He’s probably with the Leighton girl. If he’s in there, we’ll have a hard time getting him out,” said the man assigned to guard Francine.

“Ronan will make him available. She wants him gone more than we do,” the first man replied. “The best thing that could happen would be if he’s in the mansion.”

Despite my desperate desire to see Anna and clear this up before she heard about it from someone else, Taibhreamh wasn’t the most suitable place to hide. Brigid Ronan had the upper hand and she knew the insides of the beast far better than I. No place there would be safe.

Francine’s store was out, obviously. My pa would never hide me, and when daylight came, even the woods wouldn’t conceal me for long.

The lighthouse was the only location left. Unfortunately, it was on the other side of the island and the risk of being seen would be great.

The band of light that streaked across the horizon widened by the second. My time to make a move was running out. I scanned the trails to and from my location in all directions. No villagers were close enough for me to see or hear. Most of them had probably arrived at their designated search locations. I doubted any of them had been assigned the lighthouse. No one knew of the key. As a boy, I had pulled it out of the ashes after the sea captain’s funeral, so it wouldn’t be considered a hiding place.

Staying low, I crept from behind the lobster cages to the outhouse, then sprinted to the copse of trees near the ice pond. My arrival alarmed some ducks paddling on the surface. Their calls seemed deafening as they fled in a rush of wings. I held my breath and willed my heart to slow.

“The pond!” someone a considerable distance down the trail yelled.

Crashing through the thorny underbrush, I cut through the woods north of the pond and dashed toward the lighthouse.

The key was right where I’d left it behind the loose brick in the wall. Shouts sounded from the trail south of me and were answered by more from the direction of Taibhreamh. My heart fell into my stomach at the word “lighthouse.”

I focused on not losing my grip on the key. If I dropped it, I was done. Now that they scented blood, the frenzy was unstoppable. Only stalling them long enough for reason to set in could save me now. And the chance reason would settle into the minds of a mob so revenge driven was slim.

Still, I wasn’t ready to just give up. If the Cailleach had decided it was my time, she would have to work for it.

The lock clicked and I opened the door just enough to wedge my foot in the crack. I held the door in place with my shoulder while I slipped the key out. I shoved it in the knob on the inside, then closed the door, wrapping myself in a blanket of total darkness. Only when the lock tumblers clicked into place did I realize I’d been holding my breath. I took a shuddering gulp of air and turned my back to the door, slumping down to the floor in a moment of exquisite relief. I’d bought myself at least a few more minutes of life.

Through the brick, the villagers’ words were muffled, but the tone was clear. Anger oozed through the lighthouse walls with increasing volume as more of them arrived.

My dark, safe cocoon became a torture chamber when they began striking the metal door with a hard object. A hammer, perh hammer,aps? I crawled to the ladder, certain my ears would bleed as the blows resonated around the cramped circular room and rattled through my skull.

Then the banging stopped.

I knew they hadn’t simply given up. They were going to try something else, but what? There was no way in . . . or out, for that matter. Deaf and blind in a sense and completely helpless, I waited. And waited. And waited.

My thoughts turned to the last time I was here—to the first time I’d ever been kissed or touched by someone other than a caretaker. The smell of her skin, the smoothness and warmth of her lips. The one thing I had worth living for—or dying for—Anna.

Then it dawned on me: I might never be with her again. A panic so severe I was unable to breathe seized me. I had to see her whatever the cost. I refused to let this lighthouse become my tomb without seeing her again.

I climbed the ladder and pushed the hatch open. When I emerged into the morning sunlight and looked down onto the villagers surrounding the lighthouse, their next strategy became painfully apparent: they were turning the lighthouse into my funeral pyre—only the brick structure would never catch fire, it would just heat up like an oven and smolder, killing me slowly and painfully, as befitted a demon.

* * *

The screaming of the Bean Sidhes was the first indication something was happening on the south coast of the island. By the time Muireann got there, most of the Na Fir Ghorm had assembled near the shore under the lighthouse.

Villagers were piling lumber around and against the structure.

“You cheated,” a Bean Sidhe screamed in the ancient tongue.

“We did no such thing,” replied the Na Fir Ghorm leader.

In her golden, female form, the Bean Sidhe hovered just over the surface of the water. “You killed the woman by your own hand. She was stabbed.”

He smiled, exposing his multiple layers of sharp teeth behind his blue lips. “She killed herself. We simply added the stabbing for effect after she was dead. A lovely detail, don’t you think?”

“How does this test their love? You said it was a test of faith. This is going to result in his execution,” another Bean Sidhe cried.

Several of the hideous blue creatures bobbing at the surface chuckled. “The event was received with more emotion and zeal than we anticipated,” one said. “We assumed he would be blamed as usual and the female would have to determine whether or not she has enough faith in him to believe him even though the evidence is insurmountable.”

“That is hardly a test. And now the contest is invalid because he will be dead.”

The Na Fir Ghorm leader grinned. “What better test of love than death?”

Muireann sank under the surface and bit her lip to keep her sobs quiet. If only she hadn’t fallen asleep, she could’ve done something to save her Liam. She could have pulled out the stick before the humans found the body or distracted the pitiful woman before she succumbed to the call of the Na Fir Ghorm. Anything. But now her Liam would die and it was her fault.