Page 21 of The Scald Crow

“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.

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