I glanced at my clothes, remembered how monstrous I must seem. “It’s a long story.”
She looked away, jaw tight. “I buried you myself. Dug the hole with my own hands. Said the prayers, even though I hate them. You’re not supposed to be here.”
I almost said I was sorry. Almost.
Catherine
The dead do not walk. Nor do they blunder in the door at cockcrow, their eyes all red as a banshee’s and their hands shaking with blood not their own. But there stood Sully, in my kitchen, three days past his burial and looking like he’d just tunneled up from the grave I’d dug with my own two hands. He said my name, and I nearly pissed myself. I thought the soul had left me, but I could taste my own heart in my mouth, hot and wild.
He just stood there, swallowing hard, his face some strange blend of hope and dread and guilt. If it was a fetch, it was the worst I’d seen; but fetches don’t track mud through the house, or bleed from fresh wounds. And when he said the word, “a ghra,” in that hush only we shared—no devil could fake that.
I wanted to run, I wanted to scream, I wanted to lay him flat on the stones and fuck him until neither of us could stand. Instead, I sat down hard and watched him breathe, his chest rising inslow, pained jerks. He stank of sweat and gun smoke, of old rot and raw iron.
“Sit, for the love of Mary,” I said, pointing to the rickety bench. My voice cracked on the first word. “You look about ready to drop.”
He did as he was told, same as always, lowering himself gingerly. His eyes never left me, flicking to my hands, my mouth, my collar. That was Sully—he never stopped watching, even when it hurt him.
I got him a cup and poured the last of the beer. His hands shook so bad he nearly spilled it all. He stared into the cup, like he thought the truth might be at the bottom.
“Are you real?” I asked again, leaning close enough to see the hairs stand on his arms. “Or are you just here to haunt me for my sins?”
He looked up, blinking fast. “If I’m a ghost, you’re the only heaven I’d stay for.”
I rolled my eyes, but the words soaked straight through. “Don’t be daft. You’re covered in blood. Whose is it?”
He looked down, like he’d only just noticed. “Three Redcoats on the bridge. Wouldn’t let me by.”
“Three? Alone?” I reached out and grabbed his wrist, checking for bone. The muscle jumped under my fingers, and he winced, but let me. “You’re mad as a March hare, Sully O’Toole.”
He grinned, and for a moment the old light came back. “Wasn’t much else to do. I had to see you.”
I let his hand go, but not before I squeezed hard. “Next time, bring a stick. Or a whole damn army.” I got a rag and wiped the worst of the blood from his forearm. There was a new tattoo, green as summer grass, a shamrock just below the old scar from the sheep shears. I traced it with my nail. “What’s this?”
He flinched at my touch, but didn’t pull away. “A promise. To remember.”
I shivered. “Are you warm enough?” My hands shook, too, but for different reasons. “This can’t be!” I stepped back. “But—
He nodded, but he was lying. There were goosebumps all up his arm, and his lips had the blue tinge of a corpse. “Warmer now that I’m here.”
I moved to the fire, tossing in more turf. The room went bright and close. I could feel his eyes on my back, on the sway of my hips, on the skin at my nape. I was never vain, but with Sully it was different—I wanted him to see me, every inch. But he wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real!
When I turned, he was crying. Not loud, just a trickle. He swiped at it like he’d rather rip the whole face off than let a tear escape.
“Ah, don’t start,” I said. “Else I’ll follow, and you know I can never stop once begun.”
He tried to laugh, but it broke in his throat. “I thought you’d be gone. I thought—”
I shut him up with a glare. “What, run off with some lad from the village? There’s none there with two wits to rub together.”
He sobered, real quick. “You could’ve gone to family. To your brother in Kildare.”
“This land belongs to us,” I said. “I could never leave this place.”
Sully nodded, like this was an old argument. “I don’t know—
I went back to the table, knuckles white on the edge. “Aye, I stayed. Waiting for you to come back, like an eejit. And now here you are, but it’s wrong. I saw you buried. I felt you cold, Sully.”
He looked away, jaw clenched, eyes shining. “It’s wrong, but it’s real. I don’t know how, Catherine. I just…woke up. Like out of a bad dream.”