Echoes Through the Mist: A Paranormal Mystery (The Echoes Quartet Book 1)

Copyright © 2013 by Roxann K. Brooks
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Published by Penman House Publishing
Cover designed by: Alexandre Rito   [email protected]

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Life's adventure reveals more of itself daily. It is an adventure that allows me to do that thing I love best, but I am ever mindful of the many people who have made this life possible.
Thank you to my fellow authors and friends Christopher Clarke and Aaron Aalborg for their helpful critiques and insightful comments and for supplying me with the Echoes.
Thanks also go to the many friends who have helped in their own unique ways to put the Vida in Pura Vida. I would say they put the Pura in that phrase, but being my friends they are all evil, wicked, nasty, sinful creatures, so purity isn't high on their to-do list. And that's why I love them all.
A very special tribute is owed to Roxann who brought this book to life. She believed when many around her had given up. And she believes in me still, especially when I don't.
KFR

“Should we kill ’im now?”

A tall, thin man with a pale complexion and cold eyes thought a moment before he smiled. “This, Mr. Lynch, my large and blood-thirsty friend, this is the Republic of Ireland. So one of your men went to a pub, got drunk and decided to flap his gob and endanger my plans and me, what of it?”

The large man became uneasy with his employer’s tone. “Should we kill him? Certainly not.” The Pale Man continued as his smile evaporated. “You’re the one I should kill for allowing this to happen.” The man’s tone was casual as though he was discussing the weather, but the air in the room became electric with malice.

The Pale Man looked down at the pulped and bloody body of a small, older man tied to a chair and smiled again. “This is the twenty-first century. We aren’t barbarians. No, my little friend, no one is going to put a bullet behind your ear and leave you by the side of the road tonight. Go home to your family and let’s have no more of this.”

The old man struggled against the rope that bound him to the chair. Gratitude glistened in his eyes.

The Pale Man pointed to the door and said to Lynch. “Have your men throw him out, but I don’t think they should stand too close.”

Two men emerged from the shadows in the room, untied the prisoner and led him away.

A clock in the deep recesses of the cold, nearly empty manor house sounded the hour. The large man and his employer faced each other and, again, the Pale Man smiled his twisted smile, closed his eyes and drew a long breath. When he opened his eyes, a protracted terror-laden scream sliced through the night and then was gone.

Heavy boots echoed down the hall. The study door was thrown open. “Mr. Lynch, sor, sweet Jeasas, but isn’t Donny Pearce altogether dead. His feekin’ head exploded like a melon!”

Big Tom Lynch nodded slowly toward his employer. “We’ll leave what’s left on the side of the road.” He looked at the Pale Man and wondered whether what he saw was a look of self-satisfaction or perhaps, madness. What he knew for sure was that he was looking at the face of evil.

***

Julian Blessing couldn’t help but grin, a thing one does not often do in New York City.  An older gentleman, short and rumpled in a brown tweed suit had crashed onto the park bench next to Julian in a cascade of papers and books.

Julian helped his companion pick up his books and scribbled notes and deposit them in the man’s battle-scarred valise.

In a huff, he told Julian, “Tell constables and magistrates alike, Professor Reginald Bragonier, recently arrived here to your fair New York City from Dublin, Ireland, was witched unto death by his esteemed wife, Bridget Bragonier!  Bloody hell!”  The man’s voice was raspy, precise and British.

“I will tell you something friend,” the professor said. “One day my bleached bones will be found alongside some footpath.  Yes, all because I was rushing along trying to make one impossible rendezvous or another with my wife.  She is the very devil when it comes to punctuality.  I tell you, should I not survive this trip, I want you to be my witness.” “Witched unto death?  That’s very good,” Julian said with a chuckle as he regained his place on the bench.

“Not my words, old boy, but that doesn’t keep them from being true.  It was from a play produced in 1620 – or was it 1621?  No matter, it was a long time ago.  I am so sorry. Here we have been chatting like good companions and I’ve not introduced myself.  I can only blame it on my having been among the Irish for so long.  I tell you I endure a veritable shower of savages daily.  It is my cross in life.”

Julian smiled and said, “Professor Reginald Bragonier of Dublin, Ireland, yes, you said.  I am Julian Blessing.  I take it you are meeting your wife here and that she is some sort of witch – in the figurative sense of course.  I had one of those once – in a terrifyingly real sense, I assure you.”

The professor answered thoughtfully, “Indeed, however there is nothing figurative about the lovely Bridget – would that it were so simple.

“Perhaps not a witch in the technical sense,” he continued, “but she does have the Sight, what in Gaelic is called An Da Shealladh.  Don’t try to pronounce it.  It will only drive you mad and in the end, you’ll have probably got it wrong.  No three Irishmen agree on the correct pronunciation of anything in their language.  They do that just to irritate the rest of us.

“Anyway, the Sight is quite frightening really, but I've learned to live with it over time.  She is replete with bushel baskets of other surprises too, each one more disconcerting than the last.  Can't say all of it didn't scare the hell out of me when we first met. 

“The woman simply knows things – things she has no way of knowing.  That, and she appears where she has no business being.  Let us hope she does not know I arrived a smidgen late, what?”

“Surely, you’re joking,” Julian said.  “She’s clairvoyant.  You honestly believe that?”

“Believe it?  I live by it.  She glimpses pieces of the future.”  The professor turned serious and continued.  “She perceives things the rest of us cannot see and there is much we cannot see.

“My friend, one does not live among the Irish without developing a robust respect for what we today write off as magic or superstition.  I tell you, there was a time when those were considered science.”  In a distracted undertone the professor added, “In Ireland they still are, but that’s another story.

“Oh, yes, I see your sly smile,” the professor said.  “Well, let us hope my bride does not…”

A tall, slim woman shimmered into view behind the professor.  “Reginald,” she said, “Are you imparting your silly notions to this good man?  Oh, I nearly forgot – you were late again, darling.  Twenty minutes late in case you want to add that to your memoirs.”  The woman’s voice was cultured and unhurried with a poetic Irish inflection. 

Julian had the immediate impression that this woman would deal with life on her terms and life had better sit tight and wait its turn if it knew what was good for it. Although she had been speaking to the professor, her eyes never left Julian’s face and the slight smile never left her lips.

The professor jumped to his feet and with evident delight embraced this graceful woman.  Although her smile seemed to Julian to be mischievous and her blue-gray eyes kind, her glance was penetrating. She regarded Julian critically and openly, so he returned the favor. 

He saw her as a woman attractive, but not beautiful.  This woman he thought of as having a spirit that was at once fascinating, radiant, and ultimately compassionate.  To Julian, she was the exemplar of a vanished age. She was the personification of warmth without pretense and grace without effort.

The woman’s face was a road map of fine lines and wrinkles giving evidence of a lifetime of full measures of pain and joy, sorrow and laughter.  Lustrous silver hair fringed her face and framed perfectly her prominent nose and sensuous lips. 

She was of a certain age.  That age, in her, bespoke compassion and a pragmatic tough-mindedness. This was not a person whom one underestimated with impunity. Julian knew it and he knew the professor’s wife knew it too.

“Darling, Bridget, allow me to introduce my very good friend – even though we met only minutes ago, ah...  Mr., hmmm, I knew it a moment ago...”

At forty-two with the graying hair to prove it, Julian was privileged, educated and over the years had assembled a considerable personal portfolio.

He was a modern day alchemist – a high-powered stockbroker with a knack for turning money into a lot more money.  Clients wanted him as their broker because he was Julian Blessing.  He was somebody in the investment world.  Unfortunately, he had only a murky idea of who Julian Blessing really was.

There were things he did know.  The economy had imploded.  His workplace was toxic and likely to land him in jail.  His ex-wife wanted to see him dead and he had been keeping a secret for a very long time.  He was a man searching for new possibilities in a world that seemed to be closing off his options by the minute.

Julian stood, hesitated a moment to clear his thoughts and then introduced himself.  “I am Julian Blessing, and the professor has been good enough to tell me some remarkable things regarding Irish fables and folk lore.”  Julian smiled and took Mrs. Bragonier’s hand.

At the touch, he experienced a mild and swift disorientation.  A moderate electrical impulse left his hand tingling.  For a long moment, Mrs. Bragonier looked into Julian’s face with open curiosity. 

Her hand felt warm and soft and Julian noticed his own trembled slightly in hers.  Her eyes narrowed and slowly she smiled broadly, knowingly and released Julian’s hand.

“Has he now?” she said and an eyebrow shot up.  With a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, she continued addressing Julian.  “He is a dear, sweet man and no woman could ask for a better partner in life.”  She reached out and touched the professor’s hand and he beamed with pleasure, "but he suffers from a monumental ignorance as regards the Irish.”  She leaned close to Julian and with a New Yorker’s instincts he drew away.  In a stage whisper she said, “The poor professor sadly suffers from the curse of his profession.”

Her smile activated the fine network of lines at the corners of her eyes.  For his part, Professor Reginald Bragonier reveled in her mischief and basked in the warm glow of her affection and attention.

“You see, my husband is a professor of history at one of our universities.  His presence is an oddity to be sure.  An Englishman teaching history to the Irish – you need not look far for the irony there.  He has dedicated his life to fabricated facts.  He will beguile you with his knowledge of history and other outright lies.  The man is a humbug you see.

“Darling,” she smiled and said to her husband, “You were interested in finding a copy of the Irish Times.  There is a book shop just over there,” she said indicating a spot at the far end of the park.  “They will have your newspaper.”

“Was I?  Well, yes I suppose I was, but I don’t remember.  Book shop you say.  Right then, off I go then.  I’ll be back in a wink.”  The professor gave a jovial wave over his shoulder as he walked away, battle weary valise in hand.

“That will be the longest wink in history,” she said with an easy laugh.  “I will give him a few moments but soon it would be best if I tag along with him or he will get into no end of trouble.  Professors and books are a bad combination to be sure.”

Mrs. Bragonier sat down on the bench and inclined her head indicating Julian should join her. “The professor believes you are clairvoyant.”  Julian smiled.

“And I take it, you do not put much stock in such things. That does not surprise me too much. Still, on this occasion my husband’s remarks do surprise me,” his companion said.  “That is not the sort of thing he would confide to just anyone. 

“In most regards, Reginald is cautious with people, although he does not appear so.  You may number yourself among the very special,” the woman paused, smiled more broadly and continued, “in many more ways than you know.” She passed Julian a thoughtful look and they sat for a moment in silence.

"To be sure,” Bridget Bragonier said at last. “It is a lovely park you have here Mr. Blessing, but what do you suppose brought you here today and not another day?”

“It is an island in a sea of madness, I suppose.  Today is just slightly more mad than most. It helps to get out of my office and breathe what passes for fresh air in Manhattan. Nothing more than that, Mrs. Bragonier,” Julian said and turned with a smile to face his companion.

“Is that what you think?” Her smile was eloquent. “If you will indulge an eccentric old woman – albeit, I should point out, a charming one – let me tell you what I know.” Julian nodded and waited to see what kind of scam this woman was running.

Bridget Bragonier said, “You see, Mr. Blessing, you are unique. You are a man struggling with a number of mysteries. What I know, and you do not, is that you are here so that I may help you release the truth you have locked away, to say the words you have kept hidden and in so doing, to help you find your footing in the life that awaits you.”

The remark caught Julian off guard and he dropped his smile.  He was a man with prepared responses for everything.  He had no snappy comeback now.

“Something you cannot explain has happened in your life,” the woman continued. “That is, without including mental illness as part of your reasoning.” Her mood and manner were light, as though she was discussing a lunch menu instead of dissecting a man’s soul.

The woman with the silver hair and the deep eyes drew closer to Julian. His thoughts were suspended when
Mrs. Bragonier lightly touched his sleeve.  He looked at her and any denial he was about to make died in his throat.

It was impossible, he knew, but somehow her eyes had changed.  There was a luminescent quality coming not from the mischievous, playful eyes of the professor’s wife, but from eyes ancient in depth and rich in meaning.

She reached out and placed her left hand slowly, gently over his heart.  He felt himself unable to stop her. Although every instinct screamed at him to run, he was unable to draw back from her.  At the touch, Julian felt another low voltage jolt, stronger this time, that left him breathing rapidly and riveted to his spot on the bench.

She was inside his defenses and there was nothing he could do about it.  She knew his secret, a secret there was no way she or anyone could know.  The woman’s hand never left his shirt front, the smile never left her lips and her eyes held his relentlessly. 

“The secret you keep regards the echoes you hear, which you have been hearing for some time,” the woman said.  “You can of course make out the words, but are afraid to acknowledge them, let alone try to understand or accept them.  Is this not true?”  Julian’s silence answered for him.

“You realize the words you are trying so desperately to reject are a key to your future. Therein lies the difficulty. You long to find a life worth living, a life far different from the one you have known. You hold the key to that life in your hand, but are afraid to use it. And that is with good reason.