Authors: Loucinda McGary
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I don’t really know,” he admitted slowly. “Something isn’t right, but I can’t quite put my finger on what.”
Rylie’s own stomach muscles clenched. “Something with us?”
He turned in her grasp and hauled her tight against his chest. “God in heaven, no! If things were any more right between us,
I would be certain I’d died and gone to heaven.”
She reveled in his answer for a moment, enjoying the tickle of his chest hair against the side of her face.
“Then it must be what you and your sister were talking about,” she ventured at last. “The dead man and your mother.”
Beneath her cheek, his heart gave a pronounced thump. “Yes, and more besides, I think. Dermot, and your father, and maybe
even McRory are all pieces in this. I just need to fit them together somehow.”
She pulled away and looked up at him, but disconcerting shadows obscured his handsome face. “With your Sight thing, you mean?”
“I’m afraid so.” He pulled her close again, tucking her head under his chin. “I’ve never been able to control this gift or
whatever ’tis I have. In fact, I’ve spent over half my life avoiding it. But now I have to use it, because I know the answers
are out there, in the fens.”
The last thing Rylie wanted was to leave the warm cocoon of his arms, and she didn’t care how selfish that made her. “Well,
I don’t think they’re going anywhere, so they can wait for a couple more hours. Let’s go back to bed.”
She got her wish for a little while, but at a quarter before seven, with Donovan waiting in the car, she ran inside her B&B
and did a quick clothes change. Since she’d already showered at his place, she threw a few items into a plastic bag and sprinted
back out the door before Mrs. Cooke or anyone could waylay her. By 7:05, she and Donovan were seated at the counter of a bustling
café called “Molly’s” ordering breakfast.
“You don’t have to go with me, you know,” Donovan muttered after the waitress delivered their heaping plates and hurried away.
Rylie paused with her fork full of scrambled eggs halfway to her mouth. “Yes, I do. We agreed it’s not safe for you try alone.”
After he’d related his adventure from two nights ago and admitted that he didn’t know how long he had lain unconscious, she
wasn’t about to let him do it again without her being close by.
Her gaze followed his to the window, where gray drizzle hung over the street. “’Tis a miserable day to be mucking about in
the fens.”
“I won’t melt any faster than you will.”
Her quip didn’t earn her a smile, but her rumbling stomach would be denied no longer and Rylie attacked her eggs, bangers,
and hash browns with gusto. Donovan followed her lead, though with far less enthusiasm.
“If you’re trying to think up more arguments, save your energy,” she warned between bites.
A half-hour later, they were back in her rental car headed for the O’Shea’s deserted cottage. The landscape remained shrouded
in soggy gloom. This was the kind of day made to stay indoors.
In bed.
Even Donovan’s old, lumpy, squeaky bed.
Rylie gave herself a mental curse for her wayward thoughts. She was definitely fulfilling Doreen’s extremely low opinion of
her. However, thinking of Donovan’s warm apartment in contrast to the cold and dank cottage—or worse, the fens—gave her an
idea.
“Didn’t you say that just looking at a display of Celtic jewelry once triggered your gift?”
Brows lowered in suspicion, he nodded.
“Then why can’t we just take things back to your place and experiment there?”
Frowning, he turned the car off the main road onto the paved country lane. “What sort of things?”
“Dirt? Rocks? I don’t know.” Rylie blew out her breath in frustration as the car bounced over the rutted road. “How did you
know to go to that excavation site? Can you tell you’re going to have a vision before it starts?”
Donovan seemed deep in concentration before he answered. “Usually there’s a kind of buzzing sound first.” He started to say
more then didn’t.
Rylie chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. “If it doesn’t work we can always come back out here.”
“I think you may be onto something,” he admitted, and she nearly clapped her hands in relief. “And trying this in a controlled
environment makes sense.” His lips tilted into a half smile. “A nice, warm and dry environment.”
She reached over and gave his leg a pat. “Have I told you lately that you’re a very smart man?”
His lips curled into a full-fledged grin. “I believe you mentioned it last night.”
Minutes later they turned onto the bumpy dirt track and within a few more minutes, the cottage came into view. Streamers of
yellow police tape fluttered from the open gate.
“Are we even supposed to be here?” Rylie asked nervously.
“Probably not.”
Donovan guided the car to a stop close to the cottage door. Before they got out, she looked around for a container. Neither
of them had eaten their muffins at breakfast, and the waitress had put them in a white styrofoam box. Rylie wrapped both muffins
in a napkin and shoved the empty box into her jacket pocket.
“All set,” she said, flipping the hood of her windbreaker over her head.
“Let’s try the storage pits first,” Donovan suggested.
Somehow, the dreary weather gave the cottage and its trampled yard with mounds of dirt a sinister air. Grateful for Donovan’s
solid presence beside her, she slipped her hand into his as they walked across the muddy yard.
However creepy the house and yard looked, the fens looked even more so. The heavy mist hovered over the uneven ground and
clung to the trees and bushes, giving them the look of spectral beings. She sent up a fervent prayer that they wouldn’t have
to go in there anytime soon. As they approached the nearest mound of dirt, Donovan’s fingers tightened around hers. She jerked
her gaze away from the spooky images of the fens and looked at his profile. His jaw was clenched, and his lips were a thin,
rigid line.
“You can hear something.”
It wasn’t a question, but he nodded anyway. Then he let go of her hand and looked away, his voice a stiff whisper.
“This was the first pit I discovered. There was a dog . . . ” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “And a horse.”
“What should I do?” She fumbled in her pocket for the box and held it out. “Collect some of the dirt?”
He nodded again and she walked to the muddy hole and peered into it.
Better than the fens,
she reminded herself grimly.
Donovan continued to stare off in the opposite direction. “I think something from the bottom would be best, if you can manage
it.”
One end sloped and Rylie carefully edged her way down. An inch of muddy water lay at the bottom, so she opted to scrape damp
earth off the side as low as she dared to bend over. When she’d collected a lump roughly the size of one of the muffins, she
closed the box and shoved it back into her pocket. Then she started an even slower and more cautious exit, mud clinging to
her shoes. She could see Donovan now staring moodily at the fens.
“Do we need anything else?” she asked, fighting the urge to wipe her hands on her jeans.
He looked at her as if she’d just materialized from the mist. Then he ran the back of his hand across his eyes and said, “I
suppose you’d like to wash up.”
She nodded and they walked back toward the cottage. However, halfway there Donovan stopped and rubbed at his temple.
“Am I too close? Can you hear whatever you hear from the dirt?”
“No, ’tis something over here.” He moistened his lips then paced behind the car where previous vehicles had left numerous
ruts and tire treads.
Wordlessly, Rylie followed.
Hand still hovering at his temple, he moved slower and slower, finally stopping altogether.
“There’s definitely something here.”
She scuffed at a clod with her shoe, then squatted down to examine the tire tracks. All she could see was more mud and tangles
of dead grass. She started to stand when something metallic caught her eye. Putting one hand on the ground for balance, she
unearthed the partially buried object.
“This looks like that thing Professor McRory had the first night we met,” she mused, brushing away more of the dirt.
“The scabbard ornament,” Donovan hissed. “Put it away!”
Glancing up, Rylie saw him holding both temples. His face looked unusually pale. She shoved the offending piece of metal into
her pocket and leaped up.
“Are you okay?”
Donovan drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then nodded. “I’ll just wait in the car whilst you wash your hands.”
She hurried to the cottage door, which was unlocked. Stamping mud off her shoes, she stepped inside and hastily made her way
to the bathroom.
Plunging her hands under the faucet, she yelped when the icy water hit. Not only was there no soap, but there was nothing
to dry on. Teeth chattering, she turned off the water and rubbed her numb hands on the legs of her jeans. Donovan’s place
would feel like nirvana after this.
Twenty minutes later, they were back in Ballyneagh. Since it was Sunday, everything was closed, including the pub.
Upstairs, they both removed their muddy shoes and left them just inside the door. Heading straight for the bathroom, Rylie
gave her hands a thorough scrubbing with soap and heavenly hot water, while Donovan brewed tea. She returned to the living
room, peeled off her windbreaker and draped it over the corner of the couch, then sat down.
A few moments later, Donovan came in carrying two mugs. He sat in the opposite corner.
“Let’s get this over then,” he sighed, placing the steaming cups on the coffee table. He rolled his head from side to side
as if his neck were kinked with nervous tension.
“We could wait,” she suggested tentatively. “At least until we finish our tea.”
“I’d rather not.” His tone bordered on brusque and he didn’t meet her gaze. “I don’t think you realize how difficult this
is for me. I don’t like the idea of you seeing me—” He broke off and closed his eyes for a moment. “Actually, I’m not really
sure what you might see, but I have a feeling it won’t be pleasant.”
He was right. If they waited she might lose her nerve.
“That’s okay,” she replied. “As long as you’re all right.”
Taking a deep breath, she reached for her windbreaker, pulled the white styrofoam box from the pocket, and set it on the table
in front of him. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Donovan took a deep breath too, then leaned forward and opened the lid. With slow deliberation, he broke up the clump of mud
and let it sift through his fingers.
Rylie knew the instant it hit him. His breath caught and his eyelids fluttered as if he were about to lose consciousness.
All the color leached from his face and his fingers went slack.
“Donovan?” she squeaked in panic, grasping his arm.
With a sharp intake of breath, he fell back against the couch cushion in a startle reflex, lucidity snapping back into his
eyes. “Wait!”
She snatched her hand back in embarrassment. “Sorry, I guess I need to give you more time, but I didn’t think you were breathing.”
He gave her hand a pat of reassurance. “At least your idea seems to be working. Just give me a minute or two. Surely I can
hold my breath that long without permanent damage.”
“Okay.” She tried to sound blithe, though she felt anything but. “I’ll hold my breath too. That way I’ll know when you need
air.”
Nodding, he gave her hand another pat then leaned forward again. This time, when he touched the moist earth, he shut his eyes.
His already pale complexion went paler and after a half-dozen heartbeats, his breath stopped again.
With a nervous inhale, Rylie stopped breathing too and studied his still, handsome features. Beneath his eyelids, she could
see rapid movement, like REM sleep. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she fought to keep the air contained in her lungs.
Donovan wheezed unexpectedly and Rylie’s breath whooshed out in surprise.
She grasped his arm. “Donovan?”
Inhaling deeply, he groaned and opened his eyes.
“Are you okay? Did you see anything?” She clamped her mouth shut to stop babbling.
He massaged his forehead with his free hand, which shook a little. “I’m fine.” He ran his tongue over his bottom lip then
swallowed. “’Twas as if I were hovering over the scene and looking down. I could see two Druids preparing the pit. They had
wooden spades . . . ”
“Have some tea,” she insisted, pressing the closest mug into his hands, which felt clammy with perspiration.
He took a gulp, then shook his head as if to clear it. “I don’t think this will show me enough.”
That meant going back out to the nasty old fens.
Rylie shuddered and reached for a sip of tea herself, mind whirling with excuses to not go.
“Try this other thing first.” She set down her mug, reached into her jacket pocket, and pulled out the mud encrusted scabbard
ornament.
Donovan’s eyes widened and he drew away with a hiss, like a vampire confronted with a cross. Abruptly, he set the mug back
on the coffee table, sloshing out tea.
This thing obviously had a lot more woo-woo than a clod of dirt. Rylie drew her hand back into her lap.
He ran his fingers through his hair, then held out his palm. “All right, give it to me then.”
“Just a second.” She glanced at her watch, then back at his grimly determined face. “Okay, you’ve got three minutes.” And
she slapped the dirty hunk of metal into his hand.
He reacted instantly, his breath choking off and his eyes rolling back. She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap
to keep from grabbing him, and focused on the minute hand of her watch. The harder she stared, the less it seemed to move.
Beside her, air rattled in Donovan’s chest and her eyes jumped to his face. Tiny beads of sweat gathered on his bloodless
upper lip and his jaw twitched. She looked back at her watch—still one more minute to go. He was breathing, but shallowly
and very labored. His eyes rolled side to side and a low moan gurgled in the back of his throat.