Page 71 of The Scald Crow

Tension hung in the air. It was steely and filled with a burning tang.

I could see where this was going.

“Doctor Hamstead, I’ll reach out if Ms. Sweet returns.” I weaved through the group of four, holding the door open.

“Thank you, dear. We’ll speak again.” The Doc’s darting gaze changed from confused to penetrating. “Come along, Ramone.”

A deep sense of dread quickly replaced the relief washing over me.

9

Calla

The aroma of rich leather filled my nostrils. The chrome gleamed, and the dark paint sparkled. I backed the sexy little coupe from the garage and sat idling in the courtyard.

I checked the rearview mirror for any sign of the mysterious little man but saw none. Since discovering the truth about my past, Seamus had made himself scarce, and his absence had me on edge. Questions plagued my mind. He had suggested my father wanted to meet me. Finvarra—if Orlaith’s revelations were correct. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. Meeting a Faerie King would mean exiting the mortal realm and entering another. Would it not?

I shifted gears, allowing the classic car to glide over the cobblestones, roll slowly down the long laneway, and enter the enchanted forest. The woodland bordering Dermot’s property was a magical place filled with wonderful and horrible things, disconcerting and terrifying, and today proved no different.

The wind moaned, and time lost its grip. Daylight shifted into purple twilight. Mist appeared out of nowhere, weaving through the trees—long fingers seeking the dead. Haze crept in through the driver-side window, touched my face, and held my hands. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

Fluttering wings broke the silence as a trio of birds took to the sky. I debated punching the accelerator but faced the horror instead. I told myself that what I saw could not be real—a trick of the imagination—someone or something playing games with my mind.

I had laid among the soft ferns only yesterday, gazing at puffy white clouds accompanied by whispering winds and the singing stream.

But that was then.

Their voices prowled beneath my skin. An army of men, long dead, littered the scorched earth—soldiers from another time. The acrid scent of burnt flesh stung my nose. Tendrils of smoke clawed the sky.

My heart bled for all they had lost. I scanned the river banks for survivors but found none.

Carrion crows darkened the velvet skies. They descended, picking what remained of singed flesh and wasted bones. I forced my foot to engage the accelerator, propelling through the shadows of time. I hesitated at the stone bridge, unable to proceed. My hands trembled, and I reminded myself that the battle scene was imagined. And yet, the six decapitated heads impaled upon the stone spikes centuries ago whispered in unison, “O’Donnell Abú.” Their resounding call to arms rose with the howling wind. “O’Donnell Abú.” Their rallying cry rang through the greenwood.

I squeezed my eyelids shut, refusing to acknowledge the ghostly apparitions. When the car thumped over the last tumbled stone, I dared a glance over my shoulder at the verdant forest staring back. The mist had wandered away, and the sun blinded me.

When I pulled onto the road, I saw only the farm tractor hauling a load of turf. When I arrived at the crossroads, I sank deeper into the bucket seat, seeking the anonymity I had sought when landing at the airport.

And yet there I was, traveling to Donegal town, obliging Colm O’Donnell his raincheck. I had dallied in front of the mirror. Black leggings or cropped blue jeans? The leggings won out, topped with the camel-colored canvas work shirt I had found hanging on Dermot Sweet’s back porch. Washed and tumble-dried, the long shirt added an extra dimension to my simple wardrobe. I mused over Colm’s anxious voice, insisting he pick me up.

My mind wandered with every twist and turn of the winding road. Somewhere along the way, I engaged the roof and drove through Ardara with the top down, the salt breeze taking away the last horrors.

Thoughts of him slammed into me—two encounters with that man, and I had lost myself completely. He had teased me and taken me to the brink of pleasure. Butterflies danced in my stomach, and bees hummed overhead. That was my kind of office gossip.

I pulled into Donegal town with my head on a swivel and found a parking spot in a public lot near the GPS location I had plugged into my phone. I slung my bag over my shoulder, hurried my steps, and realized I had arrived too early.

I stood on the sidewalk, admiring the quaint town. The cobblestone diamond intersecting the roadways surpassed Ardara’s in terms of scale. Despite the absence of market vendors, the plaza was alive with chatter. People occupied every bench, engaging in lively conversation. I listened to the warm Irish lilt and smiled.

I left my imaginings behind and followed the sidewalk toward the castle looming in the distance—Donegal Castle, the O’Donnell’s Castle. I recalled Colm’s conversation. His ancestors had once resided within that fortress. I passed by the tearoom and the many cafes spilling onto the sidewalk. I pressed my face against a glass window and gazed at all the lovely tweed. I waited for the streetlight and crossed the road with a melee of other looky-loos. I walked beyond the gatehouse and peered through the iron rails, searching for a view of the castle grounds.

They had restored the Tower House to yesterday’s grandeur with steep gables and bartizan turrets. The ruined English Manor house sat roofless, the stones blackened with empty mullions staring into a manicured yard.

The gatehouse beckoned, offering entry for a fee. I passed through the turnstile, lingering behind a group of children on a school field trip. Their guide explained how the site once housed a Viking fortress—later developed by Sir Hugh Roe O’Donnell, The O’Donnell of his clan and King of Tyrconnell. He had built the O’Donnell castle on a bend in the River Eske, where sentries could guard against invaders approaching from Donegal Bay.

I followed the chattering group, taking in all the castle once was. Stunning gothic-style doors led underfoot across fifteenth-century cobblestones into a shadowed stone-and-mortar storeroom, where only half of the barreled stone ceilings remained. I hugged my chest, a shiver passing through me. Relics of the past stared back: barrels and baskets, crockery, stuffed fowl hanging on the walls.

I ran my fingers along the ship’s mast, leaning against the ancient stones—the O’Donnells were called the Kings of the Fish. I studied the O’Donnell coat of arms, on display beside the Brooke coat of arms—the captain in the British forces awarded the castle for his service to the English. Hmm.

Spiral stone steps led to a banqueting hall with beamed ceilings and white plastered walls. The ornately carved Jacobean fireplace told a story of opulence and celebration. I climbed the wooden staircase to the great hall, where magnificent beams arched the ceilings and displays showcased the history of those ancient times.

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