Page 7

A gentle breeze carried a voice, enchanting my mind and transporting me to a place where shadows dwelled. Next to my father’s casket stood the woman of my dreams. Her black mane swept into an intricate Celtic knot. An oversized black sweater of the finest weave hugged her upper thighs, and black tights clung to well-formed legs. I stared too long at the sparkling white running shoes, replaying the moment we met. She had worn white shoes then, although they were barely recognizable.

The brass wall sconces cast a golden light, illuminating her from behind and forming a halo around her silhouette. She reminded me of a dark angel. Her mouth intrigued me—how her bottom lip pouted beyond her upper lip. Her mere presence exuded mystery.

“They say they live within you. Right here.” She lifted her hand, catching a pocket of air. “I like to believe their spirits are never far.” She looked away, her smile touching every corner of the room.

I had no intention of seeking her out, but now the improbable seemed possible. There she was, standing before me. I smiled, wondering if she often talked to herself.

My skin prickled beneath the starched dress shirt. The suit jacket I wore seemed suddenly too tight. I cleared my throat.

“Hello, Calla.” My voice cracked. Was it only yesterday I had driven her into town? Lack of sleep, combined with grief-laden guilt, left my thoughts muddled. Or perhaps it was the whisky. I stared, bleary-eyed, only half myself.

“Colm, I’m sorry. Sorry for your loss. How are you?” Her voice washed over me. Soothing. Sultry.

I didn’t know what to make of that subtle gesture. But then a smile lit up her eyes.

“I’ve been better. Why are you here?” The murmuring voices faded, and I heard the quiet for the first time since my father passed.

“Saoirse brought me. I hope I’m not intruding?” The pieces fell into place. Saoirse owned the Black Horse Pub and brought Calla to my father’s wake.

“No, of course not. This is Ireland, after all.” I smiled, and my heart flared with happiness. I had no idea how to approach that emotion. This was not the time or place to feel it, yet there it was. I wanted to reach out, wrap her in my arms, and never let go.

I lifted my gaze toward the open window. A salt breeze carried a cold north wind. The curtains fluttered, and the candles flickered. A deep sense of foreboding crawled under my skin, causing me to pause. I looked at Calla, who appeared unaffected by the change in temperature.

“I’d like to pay you. For yesterday. For the gas?” She searched through her handbag, pulling out twenty euros. She extended her arm, handing me the bill.

“What? No. That’s unnecessary.” Darkness spread along the floor as a hooded crow alighted on the window sill. I held my breath, struck by the bird’s imposing size. The crow bobbed its black head, showing off its black-feathered throat and gray-tufted chest.

“Kraa. Kraa.” The bird squawked, commanding the room with its call. Intelligent eyes inspected Calla alone. The crow ruffled its striking plumage, unfurled its glossy black wings, and soared into the overcast sky.

“What was that?” Calla jumped back, her gaze following the crow’s flight.

“A ‘hoodie,’ otherwise known as the scald crow. They’re uncommon in these parts, especially this time of year.” I scratched my head, wondering if the visit conveyed a dark message. “The locals would say the ‘hoodie’ visits when death is near.”

“Death? You mean an omen of death?” The color faded from her cheeks, her gaze darting around the room.

“That’s what they say.” I saw myself reflected in her dove-grey eyes. My mind fought with conflicting emotions. The woman presented a distraction I didn’t need, yet I wanted her. I felt helpless against her charms.

“Colm.” She spoke my name the way a lover might. She trailed her fingers over mine.

My throat closed. My hands shook. How had I gotten by her side? I couldn’t remember moving across the room, but she was before me, her fragrance seeping into my pores—moonlight and black orchids. My awareness of her heightened, and I leaned into her touch.

An icy breath whispered, demanding I follow. I turned toward her, wondering if anyone else had felt the cooling breeze, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

“Calla? Where are we going?” The situation struck me as strange, but I didn’t know why.

She moved through the mourning crowd on the wings of a bird. None looked her way, or mine, for that matter. We were in a time draft of our own making, and everything and everyone had ceased to exist. The air between us compressed, the four walls closed in, and a blur of light enveloped us. I could almost touch it, but the shimmering silver bands remained out of reach. Her long strides took her beyond the clapboard house, beyond the horse paddock, through long meadow grass and carpets of wild thyme. The ocean roared, throwing frothy streamers into the sky and crashing one after another onto the rocky shore.

She didn’t answer my question, just teased me with a backward glance. She halted beneath the budding branches of an ancient oak tree.

“I want you, Colm.” I sensed trepidation in her voice, laced with fear, but then she plunged her hands forward and rested her palms against my chest.

Desire ripped my heart into two distinct pieces. Both belonged to her.

The ground shook, and the branches cracked and splintered overhead. The ocean became a roaring whirlpool. Heat tore through me—her heat. I became one with her essence, drifting through a wonderland of frozen lakes and smoky forests. Aromatic pine, touched with winter’s frost, shielded us from harm.

Her eyes widened, and yet she said nothing.

Whatever that was, I was utterly powerless against it. I surrendered to the otherworldliness of the situation, questioning nothing. My heart pounded in my chest.

“Kiss me.” She curled her fingers into my shirt, closing the gap between us.

I threaded my fingers through those silken locks and drew my thumbs along the delicate curve of her jaw.

A soft moan reverberated in her throat. She tugged me closer and nibbled my bottom lip, tentatively at first.

Rational thought left me when her lips scorched mine—when she swept her tongue inside my mouth and explored wildly. When she dug her fingers into my hair, seizing the kiss and making it her own, I circled my arms around her, pulling her into a hard embrace. I had dreamed of this moment.

A soft breeze slipped over and around us, melting the winter snow and awakening the earth to the coming spring. I saw something that took my breath away—a goddess, wrapped in a delicate gown of gossamer silk threaded with stardust, sat astride a milk-white stallion. Woven into her lustrous ebony locks—a thorny crown of hawthorn blossoms. Radiance surrounded her.

Heat surged through my limbs. Hunger fed my soul. Bealtaine—the night when the majestic white stag chased the white doe, marking the sacred ritual: the union of the spring goddess and the horned god. Seed scattered, fertilizing the land. Faeries danced. She was the hunted, and I was the hunter, pursuing the sovereign queen on this Bealtaine eve. Her sighs fractured my heart into jagged shards. My cock throbbed for this woman.

“Thank you.” A sob rose in her throat. She looked over her shoulder and then back at me, her face wet with tears.

“What’s wrong, mo ghrá ?” Her distress slammed through me. I pressed kisses along her delicate cheekbones. Her flesh was icy cold.

“Nothing. Everything is fine. Just fine.” She tucked against me, burying her head beneath my chin.

“Colm? You make a better door than a window. Move.” Breda prodded my shoulder. Her onyx orbs threw darts straight through me.

I wavered, lost in the eerie. Wisps of light floated through bloodshot skies. Whispers called to me, and a voice sang—Calla’s melodic voice. The tingling sensations subsided, and the room came into focus.

Calla stood ten feet away, clenching my father’s casket, her peaked nipples teasing her cashmere sweater, her lips swollen from our kiss. Her eyes, those dove grey eyes, shimmered with silver light.

Cold sweat gathered beneath my shirt’s collar. The white stag and the white doe did not exist in Ireland. Those were mythical creatures of the Otherworld. And yet, I could not unsee the vision of the goddess following the moon through the quiet greenwood.

She scraped her teeth lightly over her bottom lip and repositioned, crossing her arms over her breasts. A wisp of hair fell over her face, one I so desperately wanted to touch.

“Calla?” My bewildered voice was a quiet echo. I tried to make sense of what had just happened and could not. The vivid details of our encounter faded into the stark reality of the moment.

Her gaze shifted toward a stray sunbeam illuminating the carpeted floor. The lights dimmed, and the candles flickered. The gloom surrounding my father’s body transformed into a glowing ball of light, a radiant starburst hovering over his chest before disappearing.

“Your da, Colm. He’s on his way to Summerland. Did you feel the divine power? It was his energy, his soul. What kept him so long, I wonder? What was he waiting for?” Saoirse clasped her hands together, her brown eyes charged with gold flecks. When she squeezed Breda’s forearm, the candles cornering the casket flickered and extinguished completely, shrouding the room in dim light.

“Bloody hell.” Breda’s face paled, her gaze darting toward me.

I moved past Calla, intending to light the candles at each corner of my father’s casket. The wicks sputtered, refusing to ignite.

Breda gaped at me.

I backed away from the casket, my breath curling in the air.

“Oh, and you’ll never guess, Calla’s singing with Niall at the burial. Wait till you hear her voice. It’s with the angels.” Saoirse tossed her head, oblivious to the force floating around the room.

“Yes, there’s always a song in my head.” Calla shrugged. Her soft, honeyed voice slithered through my mind and crept under my skin. She was the devil in disguise.

“That’s unnecessary.” I paced from one end of the room to the other, turning on table lamps. I dismissed the offer with a wave, my tone harsher than intended.

“Colm.” Breda raised her white eyebrows, disapproval written on her pale face.

I had experienced something similar once before, during a training exercise meant to allow recruits to experience firsthand the torturous effects of mind-bending drugs. The simulation was nothing compared to my walk through the Otherworld with Calla Sweet. I steeled my mind against the enemy force. But she was not the enemy. Complex logic replaced the fantasy I had held moments before. I accepted my initial reading of her. She was from a different time. But what phenomenon was she? Time travel was too fantastical. I dismissed the theory of reincarnation. And what of the prophecy she spoke? She whispered I was too late. How did she know my father had died? The hairs on my nape rose, and my ears roared.

The complexity intrigued me. I was familiar with dead souls and ghostly spirits, but this was entirely different. That was something the old ones spoke of.

I strategized my next move. The more time I spent with her, the more I discovered. I acknowledged the thrill of that realization. I left my musings, concluding my thoughts: why would I refuse if the most beautiful woman in the world offered to sing at my father’s burial?

“Excuse us, ladies. Calla and I need to talk.” I took one step forward, offering my elbow.

“We do?” Calla showed no interest in joining me. Perhaps seeking forgiveness rather than permission was not the right approach.

“You do?” Breda’s mouth hung open.

“Yes, we do.” I curtailed my enthusiasm. One thought raised its ugly head: resisting her charms wouldn’t be easy. She was an affliction.

Calla shrugged and, without a glance in my direction, sashayed down the hallway.

I hung back, admiring the view—round bottom, shapely thighs, legs that went on forever.

“So, what is it, sweet cheeks? What’s on your mind?” She faced me, planting one hand on her hip.

I found her precocious manner amusing.

“You clean up nice.” I offered my hand, hoping to guide her into a quiet corner, away from prying eyes.

“Hey! Stay in your own lane.” She turned sideways against the wall, avoiding all contact, yet her gaze remained fixed on mine. Her eyes shifted, changing from dove grey to silver and then back again.

The distance between us hummed, and my world became a muffled place where I could neither speak nor move.

“What? What are you?” My heart throbbed in sync with hers.

“What’s wrong, cupcake? Lost in the sunshine?” Her voice caressed my mind, sweet like cotton candy.

“Are you a witch?” My stomach dropped to the floor, and my ears popped. For the second time today, I felt alive.

“A witch? Hmm, I don’t think so.” She smirked, and my heart quaked.

“I didn’t expect to see you.” Free from her enchantment, I extended my fingers and bent each knuckle. I gazed at the soft skin beneath her jaw. “Or kiss you.”

“Not ever?” The hum left her fresh scent in its wake. She took one step forward, trailing the tip of one red fingernail along the edge of my jaw through two days of bristled scruff. “A new look, huh? Brings out the sparkle in your eyes. I like it.”

“Explain the vision.” Her touch sent heat arrowing in all directions. What I would give to be somewhere else, with that woman—my heart’s desire. I would willingly admit she held the advantage.

“What vision?” She smirked, tilting her face and pouting those lips.

There were too many people—too many eyes and ears within proximity.

“Hmm. You got it bad, huh?” She turned to leave, and the loss consumed me.

Emptiness—a sensation I hadn’t felt in such a long time—made my bones ache.

“Wait, we need to talk.” My mouth went dry, and that familiar hum returned, but the energy differed. My heart skipped erratically, the blood coursing through my veins energized.

“Looky here, lucky charm. I’m not lookin’ for a new bestie.” She smiled knowingly. When she moved, the aura surrounding her shimmered.

Was I the only one who could see it?

“Hey, a conversation. Give me that.” I offered my palms up in apology, hoping to gain her trust. Everything I thought I knew, I didn’t.

“I’m sorry about your father. Truly. It’s an awful thing. I know how painful it can be.” Her voice dropped one seductive octave. Calla Sweet, the girl on channel 549 who cried for the world, stared into my soul.

“It was a shock.” I grasped the wall with one hand. “Looks like you’re fitting right in.”

“Saoirse has been good to me.” Her gaze held me hostage.

I had the distinct impression she tested me.

“And Niall?” I mentioned the fiddle player, regret coating my tongue immediately.

“Niall? Are you jealous, Colm O’Donnell?” Her eyes danced with merriment.

“I’m concerned, that’s all. You’re new here.” I considered her question. Maybe I was. “So you sing? You’re a singer? I didn’t know that.” I attempted to change the subject. I wanted more than anything to relive that dream.

“Where is this going, Colm?” She placed her index finger on her chin and widened her eyes in animated wonder.

I wondered the same thing.

“Listen, I’m sorry for my outburst earlier. It was uncalled for. I’m glad you’re here.” I looked into her shadowy eyes, and again, my ears popped.

“You are?” She tilted her head, lifting the corners of her lips into a curious smile.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” My confidence grew, and my psyche responded to her opalescent vibrations, luring sensations I had never experienced before meeting her.

“Hmm.” She crossed her arms and then exhaled. “Hey, which brother did I meet?”

“Sorry?” I asked, taken aback by her question. I dared not look too long into her eyes.

“In the room with your da. I spoke to one of your brothers. I didn’t get his name.” She tilted her face, her gaze questioning.

“Perhaps you were speaking with my father’s ghost. Da always had to have the last word.” I shrugged, unsure of where our conversation headed.

“No, he called your father, da. I heard him. Tall. Blond. You couldn’t miss him.” She convinced me of one thing. She believed what she said.

“There was no one there, Calla.” I relived the moment—my father lying peacefully, his hands clasped together. Her voice echoed in my mind, speaking in comforting tones to someone.

“He walked away when you showed up. I’ve seen him before. I saw him at the Black Horse just last night.” She searched for answers, her brows creasing.

“Hmm.” I considered the probabilities. She could be a medium who spoke to spirits, but what of the other day? “You’re too late,” she had said. I prevented her fall but caused her physical pain. I recalled the fear running through her eyes. My blood ran cold, and I looked at her in a different light.

I offered my hand, testing her reaction. I expected her to walk away, and she did. I followed her down the dim hallway.

“What business do we have? What do you want?” She turned on her heel and leaned forward slightly, commanding my respect.

“I didn’t think you would be here.” I stalled for time. She was not a witch or a spirit medium. No, she was something else entirely.

“And yet here I am.” She clapped her hands together, waking me from the trance.

“I wanted to…well, once things settle down, could I show you around town? Help you get sorted in your new place?” I steadied myself. I questioned my assumptions. Could I be that far off base?

“My new place? You’re not much of a player, are you? Look, you’re a nice guy, Colm. Maybe even the full package.” She moistened her lower lip and then smiled.

She was, in a word––captivating. Yet, I was already aware of this. She possessed a dangerous allure, mesmerizing my thoughts with a whim.

“I’m a nice guy.” It would be so easy to lose myself in those starry eyes. I wondered where she would take me. The possibility filled my mind with unease.

“You’ll see me at the burial. If you’re okay with that?” Her voice soared with her rising eyebrows.

If I listened, I heard tinkling bells. That’s what Saoirse meant when she said Calla sang with the angels. The Angels or the Other Crowd?

“Yes, the day after tomorrow. Of course. Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I thought. I’m glad you’re making friends.” My perception changed. Her kind were vengeful beings and not to be trusted.

“You’re glad I’m making friends? You’re funny, Colm.” She backed away but came to a hard stop in the middle of the hall.

I followed her gaze to the family portrait hanging on the wall–the last time we were all together, on the winter solstice seven years ago.

“There he is.” She pointed to the third brother from the left.

“That’s Ciarán.” My brother stared back from beyond a thin pane of glass, unsmiling—something I had never noticed before.

“Yeah? Well, that’s the guy.” Her voice dropped to a haunting whisper.

“That’s not possible. Ciarán’s gone, and he’s been gone a long time.” The hairs on my neck rose when Ciarán whispered, “Brother.”

“Oh, he’s not gone. I spoke to him. I saw him.” Calla shook her head. Her voice conveyed honesty. She believed.

“He is, Calla.” I disregarded her sincerity and ignored her words. A stabbing pain struck my frontal lobe, debilitating my mind. I retreated into the dark, suffocating hole where I had existed for the last seven years.

In the military, a well-known maxim emphasized the importance of teamwork, loyalty, and dedication to the mission: “Never leave a man behind.” That maxim represented an unbreakable bond of trust and commitment. Ciarán had been my mission, and I had failed him. I let him down when he needed me most, and guilt weighed heavily on my conscience.

“You’re not listening.” She batted my hand and walked away, leaving me staring after her, unable to respond.

Her words played in my mind like a broken record. “He’s not gone.”

I turned and slammed my hand against the wall. Plaster fragments fell to the floor, and the pictures swayed. Had I been blind? Had I accepted my brother’s fate too readily? The shadows whispered, and her words sank in. Ciarán lived.

* * *