Calabi Chronicles: Bloodstone Page 11

  His words were a mix of hurt and amazement and she twisted her hand free and paced to the other side of the room. Wrapping the coverlet more tightly around her, she turned to face him. Half a dozen responses competed with one another until she was left with nothing to say.

  “You used it,” he said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “You aren’t Etain reborn…you are Etain. Just admit it, damn it.”

  She shook her head, denying the truth of what he had said. “It isn’t possible,” she started in a rough stutter. “What I thought I saw—”

  “Don’t go on about the mold again,” he warned. “You’ve been denying what you are, who you are, for over a decade.”

  Aideen gave a strangled laugh and crossed to stand in front of the desk. She flipped Etain’s diary shut with a sharp flick of her wrist. “Why not?” she asked, her voice raw with accusation. “I really wasn’t anyone until this weekend—”

  Kean buried his face in his hands and his voice took on a gentling tone. “Aideen, I just need to understand the stone, to understand your connection with it…” He left the sentence unfinished as he raised his head to look at her. The stormy gray eyes threatened to spill rain and she had to avert her gaze from the raw pain she saw.

  “Sunday, I didn’t believe in reincarnation or time travel,” she began. “I sold trinkets and artifacts to those who did believe—but I never did!”

  Kean rose from his chair and came around the desk to kneel in front of her. He turned the banker’s lamp until its light was tilted down at her stomach and then he pushed the coverlet away. His finger traced scars along the sides of her stomach nearly invisible to the eye, so faint were they that Aideen hadn’t noticed the white lines of stretched flesh on the paler skin of her stomach.

  “Etain had no beginning,” Kean pressed. “And her end was a mystery—she vanished minutes after giving birth to Cenn’s daughter.”

  “How can nine months fit into one night?”

  Kean didn’t answer, just placed his lips against one of the stretch marks. Aideen couldn’t see his face but she felt the slide of a warm tear over her stomach. She had unwittingly betrayed him again by bearing another man’s child, even if that child’s existence was the key to his own. She knotted her fingers through his hair and bent down to kiss the crown of his head. She whispered her apology against the thick curls.

  “No,” he said and lifted his head to stare into her unblinking green gaze. “It has all happened as it had to happen. As you said, both diaries existed to get us to this point.” He tilted his head to one side and studied her for a few seconds before continuing. “Did you love him?”

  Aideen blinked once, a tear escaping to stain her pale cheek. “Yes.”

  “And he loved you,” he said, not questioning his predecessor’s feelings. He paused, his grip around her waist tightening. “And I love you. I’ve never known a moment of your existence when I didn’t love you,” he confessed. “Do you believe that we are the same, he and I?”

  “I…” Aideen turned away, more tears spilling from her. She wanted to respond in kind but confusion strangled the words before she could speak them. She looked at the clock. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since she’d first met him. And if what they both believed were true, in the course of a night, she had fallen in love with Cenn, lost him, and been plucked from her newborn child with only a few physical traces of the course of events. Having loved Cenn so deeply, even for so short a time, was it really Kean she loved now? Could they really be the same?

  Kean nudged her chin until she met his gaze. He saw the question in her eyes and ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip in mute understanding. He pulled the coverlet’s ends together and rose to gather the diaries. “We should get some more sleep.”

  Aideen nodded, still not trusting herself to speak. She waited for him at the study’s door while he secured the cabinet and gathered his shirt and jacket from the floor. A weak chirping from his jacket startled him and he broke into a smile, pulling his cell phone from the inside pocket. He looked at the caller’s ID and the smile morphed into a broad grin. “The cavalry, at last,” he said and tossed Aideen a wink.

  Not understanding what he meant, she listened intently, a growing unease pooling in her stomach as his smile faded to frown. She felt her own lips pressing into a flat line and Kean hooked her waist with one hand and pulled her to him. As he spoke to the caller, the side of his mouth pressed against her forehead in a comforting kiss.

  “What is it?” she asked when he replaced the phone in his jacket pocket and started to put his shirt on.

  “Meyrick’s betting we’re here,” he said, once again retrieving the Bloodstone and Cenn’s diary from the cabinet. He dropped the Bloodstone, still in its velvet bag, into a heavier bag that reminded Aideen of the lead apron her dentist placed over her stomach when taking x-rays.

  “Good bet,” she said, her voice smaller than she liked.

  Kean managed an easy smile that reached his eyes and he nodded down the hall. “Get dressed, we’re leaving before they get here.”

  She nodded but hesitated at the door. “What’s that for?” She pointed at the second bag.

  “Meyrick’s developed all sorts of tools to pick up the stone’s vibrational signal,” he answered. “Unless one of his devices is rubbing up against us, this will hopefully block its signature.”

  With his hand, he motioned her to hurry while he continued collecting things from the room. Her stomach gave a little flip as she was going out the door, the flash of his pistol as he drew it from the desk momentarily catching her attention. “Quickly, Aideen,” he cautioned and shoved the pistol into his waistband.

  Aideen raced down the hallway to the small kitchen and bathroom where her clothes were still in the dryer. She slipped them on, relieved they were dry and hoping they’d stay that way. She was stepping into her shoes when he popped his head into the kitchen and motioned for her to follow him. Back in the bedroom, he opened a closet door and flipped a panel to reveal another electronic combination lock. Another door opened and he ushered her through.

  “James Bond with a Jag,” she half-sighed and was rewarded by a downward turn of his sensuous mouth.

  “Only this is for real,” he reminded her.

  They were in a small room with a counter and top cupboards on one side. He reached into the cupboard and pulled out two backpacks. Next, he pulled out a rugged day tourist jacket and handed it to Aideen. Once she had it on, he put the Bloodstone in the bottom of one backpack along with half a stack of British pound notes and American dollars. This he handed to Aideen and then he wound her hair into a high pile and covered it with a bucket cap while she shouldered the pack. Next, he stripped his dress slacks off and donned a pair of jeans and tennis shoes, with a light windbreaker over his dress shirt that was just long enough to conceal the pistol. He stuck Cenn’s diary in the second backpack, pulled out a flashlight, and then grabbed her elbow and led her through another door and down into a narrow passageway that descended underground.

  “How long does this go on?” she asked. The space was a tight fit made tighter by the packs they were wearing.

  “About two kilometers,” he answered. “Comes up in the back of an alley about two blocks from the public ferry.”

  “When was the last time you went through here?” she asked. The walls were slick with moisture and so was the floor. Twice she reached out to clutch at Kean’s backpack as she lost her foothold on the slippery rock.

  “Mmm…six months ago?” he guessed, catching her and standing her upright with only a slight slowing of his pace.

  “What if the walls have caved in?” she asked. The possibility squeezed at her and she clutched his backpack a third time.

  “Unlikely, but we won’t know ‘til we reach the end.”

  Their voices bounced along the tunnel’s walls and she asked her next question in a whisper. “We’re taking the day ferry?”

  “Mm-hmm,” Kean answered just as softly. “I don�
��t want to risk running into Meyrick’s men alone on the open waters and they may close in more slowly if they see the Jag and boat and think we’re still on the island somewhere.”

  “Where are we going from the ferry?”

  When Kean cleared his throat but didn’t answer, Aideen grabbed the slick walls for support and stopped. “I think I should know,” she began, her voice growing louder as he continued moving through the tunnel. “And it keeps my mind off how pressing these walls are.” She took a few steps forward and stopped again. She released her grip on the tunnel’s rounded outcroppings and planted her hands on her hips. “But if you’d rather keep me in the dark on how you plan to thwart the baddies…we can always talk about how small your penis is.”

  She wouldn’t have thought it possible with the tunnel’s limited width, but Kean turned, backpack and all, in the passageway. He kept the flashlight’s beam on her face as he returned to where she was standing. The sharp glare made her close her eyes and turn her head to the side. Her body gave a surprised jerk when his lips brushed the bit of her ear not covered by the bucket hat.

  “Is it smaller than my predecessor’s?” he asked and wrapped his free arm around her waist. “I am impressed, Aideen.”

  Aideen’s breath, coming fast and hot, bounced off the tunnel wall and she turned to face him. Their mouths brushed against one another and, despite the tunnel’s cool temperature, she started to sweat. “I just wanted an answer—” she protested before his mouth closed over hers.

  Kean’s hand dropped to her hip, his thumb digging into the softer flesh through the jeans. The kiss roughened and, through the layers of intervening denim, she could feel him grow hard, his cock swelling in protest at her insult.

  Aideen melted into the kiss, the folds of her sex growing as wet and humid as the tunnel that surrounded them. She pressed her stomach against his shaft and gave a disgruntled groan when he broke away.

  “Aw, Goddess, Aideen,” he swore softly, his voice still thick with passion. “How am I supposed to get you and the stone to safety when all I want to do is…” Kean let his thought fall to the damp floor and backed a few paces away until he could turn a quick semicircle without hitting her with his backpack. He resumed walking, answering her earlier question as he did so. “I’ve an old beater stored in Rossaveal. At that point…it’s about a ten kilometer drive to a friend’s airfield.”

  “Flaherty?” she asked, remembering the old man in her father’s temple who had often flown her and her father from Dublin to Rossaveal.

  “The same,” he answered. “From there, he’ll get us into England without drawing the attention of any authorities.”

  “And then?” she asked. Kean abruptly stopped and Aideen ran into him, propelling him against something blocking the tunnel. Her chest contracting, heart pounding furiously, she reached past him to feel a solid piece of metal.

  “End of the line,” Kean said with evident relief. Cautiously, he opened the door and stepped into a room some two square meters in size. Thin slats of daylight filtered through dusty windows set near the high ceiling. He cocked an eyebrow in warning. “And the end of your questions…for now.”

  The door exiting the small room opened, as promised, onto a rundown alley. Garbage blocked the door and they had to push together before the door opened wide enough for them to squeeze through. Kean locked the door and kicked the bulk of the garbage back in place. He dragged in a lungful of air and then grimaced. “Which way is your nose telling you to go?” he joked.

  Aideen pointed to the east end of the alley.

  The grimace melted into a grin that left Aideen’s knees wobbly. “You can smell the day tourists from here, can you?”

  She gave the jacket she was wearing a disdainful sniff. The fabric’s stale scent mixed with the sweat she’d worked up hiking through the humid tunnel. “I should fit right in, then,” she offered in return.

  Kean hooked his arm through hers and headed down the alley. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

  Two blocks later, they bought their tickets for the morning ferry’s return trip to Rossaveal then found a breakfast stand serving scrambled eggs and sausages. They shoveled down the steaming eggs and meat before casually wandering through the shops and kiosks lining the street. They bought sunglasses at one kiosk and a disposable camera at another before the ferry’s first warning bell sounded.

  “That would be our signal,” he said and turned his attention to the ferry.

  For the first time since they’d stepped onto the lively street that morning, Aideen looked at the boat. The Sea Monster. The name’s origin, her father had told her on one of their many trips, referenced the translation of Rossaveal’s name—the sea-monster’s peninsula. The thought had never filled her with the same pleasure it had produced in Gerald. Rather, she felt like Andromeda offered up on the rocks with no Perseus in sight. She looked up at Kean and wondered if she would have felt differently had she known about him then.

  Kean caught her gaze and seeing only her apprehension, gave her a comforting smile and softly squeezed her shoulder. At the top of the boarding ramp, a middle-aged woman punched their tickets and waved them into the passage area.

  “In or out?” Kean asked, nodding at the glass enclosure that would shield them against the worst of the wind and water spray.

  She looked at the rough waters, a swirling gray that perfectly matched Kean’s eyes. “In,” she answered softly, a grateful warmth filling her when he slid an arm around her waist and led her inside.

  Chapter Nine

  As they picked a side bench remote from the ferry’s other return-trip passengers, Aideen tried to quash the heavy sense of déjà vu enveloping her. Her father’s pedantic monotones played in her mind. She would soon be old enough, he advised, to take a more pivotal role in the ceremonies, to prepare to lead them one day. She must learn, through meditation and prayer, to channel the goddess for the most sacred of the group’s ceremonies. It was that, his last statement delivered in an uncharacteristic offhand way that had sent Aideen racing to the boat’s side rail while Gerald remained seated, patiently waiting to resume their conversation. But she didn’t let him continue with his little talk and he had foolishly thought he could wait out her opposition. But the docile child who followed her father’s instructions with a trembling obedience was gone—cast out with a heaving stomach to sink beneath the dark waters of Rossaveal’s harbor. Was the wraith of that child still waiting in Rossaveal to reclaim the sunlight and air? If she looked over the ship’s rails, would Aideen see that child, white frocked and floating just beneath the water’s surface, the pale blonde hair ringing her waterlogged face in a saintly nimbus?

  Kean’s hands on hers brought Aideen back to the present. Her eyes, kept open in memory, blinked once and filled but she didn’t cry. She didn’t want to. Her father was dead, the last years of his life spent in clandestine, arcane pursuits to which she’d never been privy. That he may not have been demanding too much of her was irrelevant. She could only remember how he had asked and how her refusal had erected a polite but unscalable barrier between them.

  “You’re thinking about your da, aren’t you?” Kean reached to take her backpack. He nestled both packs between them and coaxed Aideen into resting her head on his shoulder. He tucked a lock of her blonde hair back into the bucket hat. “Gerald regretted pushing you away,” he said, his thumb tracing the edge of her ear.

  Aideen stiffened and she lifted her head from his shoulder.

  “Now,” he said, pressing her back down, “have you looked at it from his point of view?”

  “I don’t have to,” Aideen bit out and raised her head again to look at Kean. “I wouldn’t put my child in ceremonies, my mother certainly—”

  Kean’s eyebrows shot up questioningly, effectively shutting Aideen up. “Ah,” he smiled and looked around at the scattered passengers. He spotted a young woman, rosary in hand, reading from a prayer book. His sharp gaze returned to Aideen. “You’re not Catholic or P
rotestant, are you, Aideen?” he asked, although he knew she hadn’t been raised as either.

  He nodded at the girl. “But most everyone in Ireland is one or the other.” Again, he gestured to the girl, who read from her prayer book blissfully unaware of all the attention she was receiving. “Do you begrudge her the rosary she’s fingering?” Aideen’s lips pressed together in reply. “Or the bit of wafer she holds in her mouth each week while she poses before the priest on bended knee?” Aideen shifted her weight away from him but he continued to press his point. “Or the communion dress she’ll clothe her daughter in?”

  “I get your point,” Aideen responded at last, but Kean wasn’t yet ready to relent.

  “Maybe you do get my point,” he said and leaned in to whisper against her ear. “But I don’t think you get the difference, Aideen. Your father’s religion was a secret one and secrecy carries with it a sense of shame, doesn’t it, love?”

  Aideen faced Kean. Tears brimmed in her eyes but her cheeks were flushed in anger. “My mother,” Aideen began but Kean interrupted her again.

  “Your mother conceived you during a temple ceremony, just as,” he added, “three years earlier, my mother conceived me.”

  Aideen’s skin began to itch as she remembered the feel of the silk shift she had taken off just a few hours before. Had her mother…

  “No,” she said. Her sharp tone drew the attention of the closest passenger and Kean gave a cautionary clearing of his throat.

  “Aideen, I don’t want my words to hurt you,” Kean began. He kissed her cheek, his lips claiming a salty tear. She tried to pull away but he wrapped a restraining arm around her waist and another around her shoulder.

  “I’m not feeling well,” she protested.

  He shook his head and kissed a second tear at the corner of her mouth. Her lips were trembling and he pressed his against them in a firm kiss. His hand stroked the back of her neck as he spoke. “You’ll feel better if you accept the truth, Aideen. Your mother, Danae, was a high priestess in Danimir’s temple.”