Building From Ashes (8 page)

“Tell me about your step-father, then.”

Brigid stared out the windows. The shadow of a large bird swooped down in front of them. An owl? She heard a sharp squeak and knew that some tiny creature had just become dinner. “My step-father died when I was ten.”

“He was killed. In front of you.”

Brigid still stared into the dark night, imagining the razor-sharp talons of the owl tearing into the tiny mole or mouse. “Unfortunately.”

“Why unfortunately? If he were in front of me now, I’d kill him.” Brigid looked up in surprise, but Anne only shrugged. “Human shrinks aren’t allowed to say things like that, but then, I’m not human, am I?”

“I suppose not.”

Anne waited for her to speak again, but she didn't know what to say, except that this session wasn’t turning out the way she thought it might.

“You said, ‘unfortunately,’” Anne continued. “It’s not unusual in cases of long-term abuse for a child to confuse abuse and love. It’s very common and nothing to be ashamed of. From a young age, you were conditioned—”

“I had no love for Richard. I never did. I hated him. I always knew what he did was wrong. I knew by the look on my mother’s face when she found him in my room the first time. I know he was a sick bastard. I know that I wasn’t at fault, so don’t think that I regret he’s dead.”

Anne fell silent, and Brigid could hear the wind whistling around the old house on the edge of the sea.

Finally, Anne said, “Then why—?”

“I said ‘unfortunately’ because I’m still angry he killed him.” Brigid’s head ached as she sifted through the tucked away childhood memories. The dread of the creaking door and the place she went in her mind when she heard it. It was the same. The same every night he came. Then, one night… it wasn’t. Lights pouring in. No place to hide. Unexpected footsteps and her mother’s soft sobs. A shock of auburn hair and a small pop as Richard crumbled to the ground in front of her.

“Why then, Brigid? Why were you angry he died?”

“Not angry he died.” She turned to Anne. “I only wish he hadn’t killed him, because I wanted to do it.”

Chapter Five

Snowdonia, Wales

September 2006

Carwyn murmured the last of his prayers, made the ancient sign of the cross, then rose from his knees. He walked to the closet where he kept his vestments to dress before left the house and went to the small church he’d tended for hundreds of years. It was Friday evening, and in the small town in North Wales, that meant that the Father would be there to hear confession if he was in town. Carwyn didn’t know if it was the silence and peace of the tiny church in the mountains, or the safe cloak of darkness, but Friday nights were often his busiest nights when he was home.

Well, if you could call three or four parishioners “busy.”

He looked in the mirror to make sure his collar was straight, then hastily brushed back his thick red mop of hair. Sister Maggie would say he needed a haircut, but the nights were growing colder, and Carwyn had never much cared for hats. He grabbed a coat and walked down the hall.

Maggie was baking in the kitchen and looked up. “Down to the church, then?”

“Yes.”

“Friday night. Do you think you’ll be long?”

“Last week there were four parishioners, Sister.” He chuckled. “The week before, there were two. What do you think?”

She gave him a rueful smile. “I’ll have dinner waiting, then.”

“No, don’t bother. I’m in the mood for a hunt later.” A hard run in the hills was just what he needed to burn off energy.

“Fine then. No stew for you.”

He gave the old nun a quick squeeze around the shoulders and headed out the door. “I’ll see you later, Maggie.”

“Bye now.”

Carwyn sped out the door and down the mountain, enjoying the whip of wind around his face as he moved effortlessly through the hills. Their ancient energy fed his own, and he had to resist the temptation to take off his shoes and dig his feet into the living soil that called him. He could have stayed lost in the mountains for hours, recharging his amnis and taking comfort in his element, but that was not his purpose that night. His purpose was to offer comfort, not take it.

The small town nestled in the isolated valley had been his tiny province for over five hundred years. Like Deirdre and Ioan’s people, the villagers never asked any questions, knowing that something otherworldly dwelled among them. They offered seclusion and secrecy and, in turn, Carwyn took care of them. The father who lost a job found another in a nearby town. The child whose parents couldn’t afford braces received them. It was a fair trade, in Carwyn’s opinion. They were his people, as small as the community might be. He had watched families form and break apart, much to his sorrow. He christened and buried the faithful. He celebrated the weddings and mourned the lost. The town was his, but as the years passed, even Carwyn had to admit things were changing. His parish was slowly shrinking. More and more young people left the town and stayed in the city. Fewer and fewer children were born.

It was the way of things, he supposed, even if the thought filled him with sorrow at times.

When he entered the sanctuary, his keen, immortal eyes spied only two women. One was as faithful as the clock in his library. The other, though, was a surprise.

“Lynne, are you all right?” He placed a soft hand on the young woman’s shoulders. He had married the girl and her young husband five years before, and they had christened two children in the church. “Nothing wrong with David, is there?”

Tear-filled eyes blinked up at him. “Do you have time to hear my confession, Father?”

“Of course. Give me a moment.”

She nodded and went back to praying while Carwyn entered the small, wooden confessional and took a seat on the bench.

Father God, if you’d like me to be more patient hearing your lambs, put it on Sister Maggie’s heart to get me a cushion for this wretched bench.

He settled in and soon heard the other door open. He slid back the tiny screen and listened to the familiar refrain.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two months since my last confession, and I accuse myself of the following sins…”

The poor girl was pregnant again. And though her heart loved the child, her husband had lost his job and she despaired of how they would manage to pay their bills when they could barely afford to pay their way with two small mouths. Carwyn’s heart hurt for the girl, whose husband was a proud, but good, man who wouldn’t accept charity. He heard the girl’s confession of anger and resentment toward her husband. Her guilt over not feeling joy at the coming new life. Her sharp words to her older children.

By the time she had finished, his heart was heavy, and he knew he’d be seeing another family leave the town. He could find a job for the young man, who he knew was a steady worker, but it wouldn’t be in the valley. The jobs were all leaving, along with the people.

“Go in peace, Lynne,” he told the young woman after they had prayed together.

“Thank you, Father. It always helps to talk to you.”

He saw her cross herself, stand, and leave. Shortly after, a middle-aged man slipped into the booth. He must have come in after Carwyn had started with Lynne.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been six months since my last confession, and these are the sins I have committed…”

I’ve been drinking again.

I was unfaithful to my husband.

I’ve had lustful thoughts.

I spoke hateful words to my children.

I lied to my wife.

I beat a man who angered me.

Though the world changed, humanity did not. The sins he had heard in the days of carts and horses were the same committed in the time of computers and automobiles. Life flowed around him. The town grew, then died. Sin and anger, love and life remained the same. As powerful as he was, there was so much Carwyn knew he could not control. Oftentimes, he was helpless to make things right. But he could comfort. He could advise. And as his beloved sire had admonished him a thousand years before, he could have a purpose.

But Carwyn was beginning to wonder if his purpose needed to change. The community he had shepherded through so much was crumbling. It was inevitable.

Shortly after the man had received absolution, the door opened again. He recognized the step and smiled.

“You the last one, Davina?”

“I think so. I waited a bit so I wouldn’t be a bother.”

“You’re never a bother, dear.”

“You say that, but I know you tire of hearing about my cats.”

Carwyn smiled as she sat her old bones in the chair. Davina was one of his oldest parishioners. He had christened her, married her, christened her children, then her grandchildren. Someday, he would give her the last rites before her soul flew to be with her beloved William again. Davina was there every Friday, faithful as the sun.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. These are the sins of which I accuse myself…”

He tried to keep a straight face as she detailed her litany of failings.

“And I should have told her that the dress made her backside look like a mule, but I didn’t.”

“No?”

“I told her it was grand.” Davina sighed. “Brenda has many fine qualities, but she’s a poor seamstress. She was just so proud, I didn’t have the heart to tell her. But it was a lie. Definitely a lie to say ‘grand.’”

“You might have to make a pilgrimage of some kind for that one, Vina.”

The old woman chuckled. “You’re teasing me again.”

“Lying to Brenda about her dress is hardly a mortal sin.”

“I hope you’re not so light with the young people about these things, Father.” Her voice held a slight note of disapproval.

“What young people?”

The old woman sighed. “Don’t I know it?”

“How’s your daughter and her family in Cardiff?”

“Doing well. Very well. She was just telling me about…”

The friendly woman began filling him in on all her children’s doings before launching into her grandchildren’s. She did every week. Though her family was caring, they were busy, and Davina was quite adamant about not being a bother to them, so their visits were rare.

“Davina?” He finally broke in.

“Yes, Father?”

“Let’s finish up and just go get a cup of tea at the house, dear. This chair is not the most comfortable.”

“Oh! Well, that would be fine, Father. Is the sister about?”

His hunt would have to wait. Carwyn smiled. “She is, and I believe she was baking a cake.”

“Well, that would be lovely, then.”

Carwyn smiled, closed his eyes, and began to pray with her.

Chapter Six

Dublin, Ireland

September 2006

It was amazing how much one city could change in a year. But then, as Brigid opened the door to her new flat that faced the river, she thought she might have changed just as much. And just like the modern construction that lined the River Liffey, she felt ready for the future. Her year with Anne had helped her turn a corner. And though shadows of the past still haunted her at times, she’d finally reached a place where they weren’t an anchor dragging her down.

In her time away, Patrick Murphy had moved the center of his operations to the newly refurbished building in the heart of Dublin’s emerging Docklands. The old building had been razed and a bright, modern structure of glass and steel had been built in its place. Since Brigid considered this move a new start for a new her, she approved of her flat. She never wanted to step foot in Parliament House again.

“Miss Connor?” The building director was still standing in the door. “Will this be acceptable?”

“Thank you, Smith. It’s lovely. When my things arrive, please have them brought up.”

The older gentleman nodded. He probably could have worked running any one of the world-class hotels in the city, but instead, Smith coordinated the residents in Murphy’s new building. The bottom floors hummed with the night and day business of the immortal leader. Shipping. Clubs. Restaurants. Her new landlord was powerful and very, very wealthy.

“May I escort you to Murphy’s office for your interview, Miss Connor?”

She dropped her purse on the table in the entry and picked up a small handbag. Smith cleared his throat. “You won’t need your bag, miss. I’ll be happy to see you back into your rooms, but security does not allow any bags or briefcases into Murphy’s office.”

“Well, of course not. Thank you, Smith.” She picked up her jacket and patted the pockets, looking to Smith with a smile. “Best make sure I don’t have any spare pen-knives, matches, or broadswords in here, either.”

“Very thoughtful of you.”

They walked down the hall to the elevator and took it down to the first floor. Unlike most executives, who would consider the top floor a mark of stature, Patrick Murphy kept offices on the first. As they walked past the wall of glass that lined the hall, Brigid looked at the lights of the boats floating up and down the river. She noted that the building jutted out over the bank, giving Murphy and any other water vampire immediate river access and what would probably be very strong elemental strength.

They stopped in front of a set of double doors, and Smith paused. He gestured toward a small sitting area with a coffee table and an old rotary phone.

“You may wait here for security to come get you when Murphy is ready for your interview. If you dial fifty-four when you are finished, it will connect directly to my office, Miss Connor. I’ll see you directly back to your room, or escort you through the building, if you like.”

“Thank you, Smith. But please, call me Brigid.”

He smiled. “Of course, Miss.”

Brigid held out her hand and gave Smith a firm handshake. Her heart did not race. She was calm, and her palms were not even damp. After months of Anne’s unique therapy, which combined traditional counseling with the targeted use of vampire amnis to treat certain symptoms, Brigid finally felt as if she was in control of her reactions for the first time in her life. She no longer felt an instinctive aversion to touch and she was far more comfortable in social situations. She had feared, prior to her return, that being back in Dublin would cause her to relapse, but so far, none had occurred.