His Cemetery Doll (6 page)

He didn't speak of the war. Conall understood.

Conall had no love for the church, nor for cemeteries or tombstones, no particular interest in being caretaker for the dead. All he'd wanted was the purpose, finally, after having lost those things which had given him purpose before.

Then, of course, Shyla had come. Conall found himself with not one purpose, but two: two roles now to fill, two entities which relied on him for their survival. The graveyard...and his daughter.

Now, the appearance of the doll. She troubled him. After so much time, after the effort he'd put forward to rebuild himself a home and a family—meager as they both were—and to do right by them...

Had another creature come to him in need?

This doll—apparition, hallucination, whatever she might be...

Did she also rely on him, somehow, for her survival?

T
he next morning, after Shyla left to help the Trasks with their new horses, Conall returned to the cemetery to deal with the newly sprung-up tree root, and to inspect for any other sudden overgrowth which might have crept in. On his way to Maya's circle, he discovered nothing new.

As he paused for a fraction of a second when the stone angel came into view, a little note of dismay hit him in the chest. A part of him had yearned—and perhaps feared—to see the broken doll again. Maybe waiting for him.

Conall didn't believe in ghosts. What other explanation could there be, though? Other than the chance of him losing his mind?

Could
he be losing his mind?

No doll. Conall stifled the brief flutter of disappointment, shaking his head.

"Stop being daft, man," he growled at himself. Turning on the murderous tree root, he started to dig.

It would take hours to properly deal with this gnarled invader. How in God's name had such an entrenched, obtrusive monster twisted itself so deep in his graveyard's borders, and so close to the graves? Conall would
never
have allowed something like this to develop naturally.

Maybe the woman caused it.

"Bullshite," he grunted through his teeth, leaning on the shovel to loosen the roots' hold little by little.

Before long, sweat drenched his body, and he leaned on the shovel to take a short break. He stripped off his worn work-shirt and tilted his head up to the sky. Crisp morning air teased his damp skin.

"Well," he said to himself with a heavy breath. "If she
is
a dream...I can't say she's a
bad
one."

No. Absolutely not. Conall had forgotten the quiet thrill of flesh and heat in the darkness, the way a woman's labored breaths against his skin made his heart race. Her
smell—
his broken doll's had been like snow on gleaming stone, fresh and clean and bright, but underneath he had still detected the intoxicating heat of need, arousal...the scent of her pristine cunt and the hint of wild pheromones along the hollows of her neck.

"Should've taken more time to taste her," he muttered. With a sigh, he returned to his work. As he did, he let his mind wander back, enjoying the re-awakened sense of arousal his hallucination inspired.

He'd been with women, mostly during the war. Another way in which joining the army had ushered him forward in life. He remembered his first encounter: an older woman with hair like flame. A French "camp girl." He and his fellows had been drinking, but even now he could remember the softness of her hair, the smell of her hairspray and of the sweet flavored cigarettes she'd smoked. Young and green, Conall had imagined he understood what to do, but all his childish notions flew right out of the window when she'd wrapped red, red lips around his virgin cock and he had come, almost immediately, down her throat.

Awkward as his first true orgasm had been, there'd been no love lost. His French lady (he'd never referred to her as a whore, and never would) took special care of him in those first few nights. Since then, though he'd never been any sort of Casanova, he'd overcome his clumsiness at least, and he'd visited more than a few pretty girls in their bedrooms during his stay overseas.

Afterward, come home a cripple, he'd made a go of it once or twice to find his comfort with willing women. As with most things after his return, it hadn't held, and he'd lost interest in even the intimate companionship. He hadn't taken a woman to his bed since before Shyla came into his life. Until yesterday, he'd believed his mind and body had been content with it.

The
doll,
however...God, how easily he'd fallen to the bed with her. How naturally his lips had come to hers. He
vividly
called to mind the taste of her china skin: like kissing snowflakes. The memory of her body writhing with his, moving in tandem—the beautiful, desperate grasps and sweat-soaked flesh. She
had
warmed with his touch on her skin. She'd warmed even more while he worked a steady rhythm inside of her, bodies flexing, limbs gliding, tightening.

Conall groaned and paused again in his work. His cock throbbed, hard under his jeans, straining at the memories. He palmed it absentmindedly, shutting his eyes to better imagine her ethereal glowing shape in the fog: those luscious little breasts; tight, flat belly; her head thrown back in bliss as he drew her to climax.

A surge of need ran through his rigid shaft straight to the heart of his loins. He stopped kneading himself, wiped the sweat from his brow, then glanced over his shoulder. A furtive, sneaky impulse crept its way into his chest, and his hand returned to his erection.

Only Maya here...and what would she mind?

He watched the statue warily as his kneading increased. Slow, waking pleasure spread through him from the head of his cock, down into quivering thighs. Though the statue didn't even face him, something about her presence gave rise to a boyish sense of shame—a feeling in itself somewhat pleasurable—and after a few moments, he had to find a more private place.

Conall smiled to himself, feeling young as he slipped away from Maya's ring, finding a path down to the oldest part of the cemetery where it backed up to the river.

The trees grew thick here, the gently sloping riverbank shady and cool. His heart thumping, Conall found a low-slung oak and put his back to it. Leaning on the thick trunk, he slipped one hand down to undo his blue jeans and release his yearning cock. He started stroking, closing his eyes again with a sigh.

"
Oh,
" he groaned as the first strong swell of pleasure overtook him. The wide exposure of the open air, shifting light, and the sound of the water meandering by, they all sent a raw thrill through his head and chest. The little spot behind their cemetery wasn't normally well-traveled, but even so he was aware anyone could catch him here, working his cock in his fist with slow, needful motions. He hardly remembered ever being so hard, so desperate to come...except when his beautiful apparition had visited him in the mist, last afternoon.

He inhaled a sharp breath, his whole body shuddering as he ran his tight fingers up and down his shaft. He found his rhythm, steadying himself against the tree with his free hand as he jerked his cock with more eagerness. The head grew slick with pre-ejaculate. Conall wet his lips, pleasure catching all through his loins.

"O-oh..." he gasped. "
Oh,
fuck...oh, bloody fuck,
yes...
"

Higher it climbed, mounting and mounting. The sensation brought images to his mind: the camp girl's bright red lips; her ample pink breasts. In his mind's eye she became the doll, lips ethereal white, her tongue sliding across them a delicate, kittenish pink. He pictured it curling, licking around his erection, relishing the salt of his pre-cum, kneeling supplicant before him,
begging
him.

Conall's eyes rolled back, and he let out a long, overwhelming groan. Another low sound of desire escaped him, coming from deep down, rolling up through his body. In a sudden rush he started to come, the first wet jet of hot semen bursting from him, making him cry out. Stream after stream let loose, each shuddering squeeze spilling his pleasure into his palms.

He gasped, quaking, still holding his wet, sticky cock in one hand. Without letting go, he sank to his knees, slowly massaging his tender phallus.

"
Oh,"
he breathed heavily. "Oh,
fuck...
I needed that."

How long has it been since I jerked off?

He closed his eyes, still gently kneading himself as the last sweet vibrations of orgasm subsided. Finally—as if waking up—he blinked eyes open and began to arrange himself.

"Holy shite," he muttered. His whole body buzzed. He stood and his eyes slid shut again for a brief instant, as he pictured his beautiful doll, gazing up at him, his hot cum glazing her face instead of his own hands. Moving to the river's edge, he washed off in the cold water and splashed his face.

"Ha," he chuckled. "
My
doll, now."

As his breaths slowed, he grinned. Maybe he wasn't going mad after all. Maybe he'd simply rediscovered the desire for a woman. Perhaps the time had come to ask Mrs. Trask to start setting him up with some of her friends...

"Dad!" came Shyla's voice from a distance.

He glanced up the rise, back toward the graveyard. Feeling mighty fine for once, he hoisted himself up from the bank and started climbing back up to meet his daughter.

She waited by his forgotten tools and the half-dug-up root. "Oh!" she said as he came into sight. "Where were you?"

"Cooling off for a bit," he said. He opened his arms to welcome her into a hug. "What are you doing back so soon?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You told me to be back by ten."

Conall frowned and glanced at his watch.

"Well in that case, you're late!"

"I'm sorry, Dad," she said, casting her eyes down. "I, uh...had a flat tire on the way home. I had to walk my bike back to town so Toby could fix it."

Conall narrowed his eyes.

She'd...
lied.

Shyla had never been a deceitful girl, not the sort to fib. Now it practically blazed on her: she'd told him a blatant lie.

Why, though? If she'd simply been caught up over the horses, she could have been honest. Conall might be stern, but he'd never given her a reason to think he'd tan her hide for a simple mistake.

"Your...bike tire," he said carefully. "You're sure?"

The expression on her face couldn't have been more obvious, but she nodded. "I hope you won't change your mind about me feeding the horses with Ora..."

Was that it? Did she simply think he would forbid her from going back, after being a little bit late?

His daughter toed the ground nervously. Her hand came up to fiddle with something around her neck, drawing his focus.

"What've you got there, lass?"

She glanced at the item in her palm: a small, simple medallion. He'd seen the same type, and he recognized it before she explained.

"It's the medal of Saint Margaret," she said. Her voice had dropped an octave. "Father Frederick, uh...he gave it to me when he saw me at the paddock."

Conall's frown deepened. Frederick of all people should respect Conall had not raised his daughter in the church for a reason. It might be one thing to suggest sending the girl to the Little Sisters, where she could get an education even if she didn't remain to take monastic orders... another thing entirely to be gifting her with tokens of a faith Conall himself hadn't decided he approved.

Conall had many reasons to distrust in spiritual indoctrination, and furthermore to doubt exactly where he wished to guide his daughter in such respects. He did feel quite strongly about this, though: Saint Margaret of Antioch bore many titles in the Catholic religion...and not all of them mantles he wished for his daughter to idolize.

Saint of the
Dying,
for instance.

"Father Frederick said...my mother might have liked me to wear it."

Her
mother?

Now Conall scowled outright. Who did Frederick think he was to talk to Shyla about her
mother,
without first consulting Conall? Shyla's mother—either of her birth parents—were, if anything, a
private
matter for her to discuss with
him,
if she wanted to discuss it at all. Frederick didn't have any information Conall didn't. He hadn't been the one to discover Shyla, either. As far as Conall knew, Fred believed the same story as everyone else in the Knoll and accepted Shyla as the daughter of Con's late sister.

If Shyla's mother had intended to leave any message at all, she'd have done so when she'd chosen the graveyard—
Conall's
graveyard—as the baby girl's shelter. No, Frederick had no call, and no right, to be discussing this unknown woman with Shyla. Not without first talking to Conall about it.

Shyla may have sensed his disapproval, because she quickly slipped the medallion off. "I don't really think I should keep it, myself...I might lose it, and losing a Saint's token has got to be some kind of really,
really
bad luck."

"What will you do with it then?" he asked. He was incensed at the priest, but he tried to hold his temper for his daughter's sake.

She studied the necklace in her hand, then glanced up at Maya.

"Maya should wear it!" she said, handing it to him. "She watches over the people here, doesn't she? This way,
she
can be like their own Saint!"

Utter blasphemy,
he thought, but he smiled nonetheless. Father Frederick might whole-heartedly disapprove—both of Shyla giving up an icon of his church
and
of her arbitrarily deciding to name Conall's strange sculpture a saint—but Conall himself saw no problem with it. In fact, it put him somewhat at ease. The statue could follow any faith she pleased, for all he cared.

"All right, then," he replied, and, humoring her, he reached up to hang the pendant around the statue's neck. "Very good. I think it suits Maya well!"

"She probably likes it better than I do, anyway," Shyla muttered, fingering her throat where moments ago the pendant had hung. Conall quirked an eyebrow at her, and, as if she'd forgotten herself for an instant, she blushed.