Eternal by V. Forrest (new reading TXT) 📗

darned sight better on her Internet site and on the hand-painted nameplate on the door.

“Lot of people here, Fee,” her mother called after her. A lot of people wanting to know what you’re going to do about this.

Fia tried to ignore the hint of accusation in her mother’s voice. After all, she hadn’t actually spoken the words out loud.

“You got something quick to eat, Ma? Special Agent Duncan and I need to get some sleep. We want to be back on the preserve by dawn. We get any rain and evidence out there will be washed away.”

“No rain in the forecast. I’ve got a fresh chicken salad I can put in a wrap or I can make up a nice plate with some fruit.”

“Either would be fine, Mrs. Kahill.” Glen followed her up the steps.

“No big-city formalities, here,” Fia’s mother said, cutting her eyes in her daughter’s direction. “My guests just call me Mary Kay. Would you like me to set you a place at the dining room table, Special Agent Duncan?”

“It’s Glen. The dining room would be—”

“Just have one of the boys send it up, Ma,” Fia interrupted. “Glen probably wants to grab a shower. It’s been a long day.” In the front hall, she dropped her car keys in the basket on the marble-topped table, an old habit, and made a beeline for the grand staircase that wound its way to the third floor.

“Thank you, Mary Kay,” Glen said, taking his cue to follow Fia up the stairs.

“Be sure to come down for a nightcap, Glen,” Mary Kay called.

Fia made the first turn on the staircase. The thoughts of the sept members in the rooms below echoed louder between her ears than their voices. Everyone was scared. Angry. Why were they angry with her? “Early start in the morning, Ma.”

On the third floor, Fia pointed to the door marked THE BLUE GILL ROOM. “Key’s in the door,” she told Glen. “Mom will send one of my little brothers up with a tray. Stay clear of the iced tea unless you want to be awake for the next three days. She brews it strong.”

He rested his hand on the doorknob to his room. “You going down tonight?”

She looked up as she pushed open her door. “You?”

“Nah, I’m beat. I think I need to clear my head before I start interviewing again. You’ve got some odd characters in this town, Fia.”

“This town?” Somehow she managed a chuckle. “What about this house?”

“Night.”

She waited until he entered his room and closed the door, then slipped into the room heavily decorated in a seahorse motif and made a beeline for the shower.

It was after midnight and even though Fia hadn’t partaken of her mother’s killer iced tea, she couldn’t sleep. She lay in the dark, in the queen-sized bed, surrounded by ruffles and pillows with sea urchins embroidered on them, thinking of all the times she and Mahon had had a good laugh over a pint at the Hill. In Ireland. In the days before the mallachd.

Mahon had been special to her. He had known Ian, maybe even called him his friend. It was Mahon who had locked her in the root cellar that horrific night. Saved her life for certain because Fia knew with all her heart that she would have faced Ian, had she been able to get to him.

Sometimes, just before she fell asleep, or in that moment before she became fully awake, she liked to think that Ian would have set her free that night if he had come upon her. Or she would have faced him, accused him, but her love for him would have kept her from killing him. But she knew the truth, just as Mahon had known the truth the night he had forced her through the hole in the ground and closed the hatch over her head. Either she or Ian would have died that night. Possibly both.

As she thought of Mahon and her last conversation with him only ten days ago, images of Joseph’s face began to appear superimposed over his. The two men had been nothing alike, and yet she thought they would have liked each other, had they met.

The idea was absurd, of course. She didn’t even know what made her think of it.

She wondered where Joseph was now. Why he hadn’t returned her calls. Had he thought better of his decision to return to the Philadelphia area?

She doubted it. It wasn’t like him to give in so easily.

Fia rolled onto her side, pushing her fist into her pillow, making a dent for her cheek.

It had been after eleven before the downstairs had cleared and people had said their good nights. Her mother had only locked the front door half an hour ago, but she knew she and Fia’s father were already sound asleep, lying stiff and still beside each other in the double-sized bed. The two could barely stand the sight of each other after fifteen hundred years. Fia didn’t know why they didn’t at least get a king-sized bed.

An unidentifiable sound in the hall caught Fia’s attention and she rolled onto her back, gazing at her door. She listened. The house was quiet. No footsteps. No creaking floorboards.

Had she imagined the sound?

She thought about Bobby and Mahon. No matter how she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew two beheadings weren’t a coincidence. They were not random acts. Someone had known what both men had been, known how to kill them.

She wondered if Bobby or Mahon had heard their attacker approach. Had they known what was coming? Mahon must have. There had been obvious signs of struggle, and then there was the four-foot stake driven through his torso to pin him to the ground.

She heard a sound outside her door again and in a single fluid motion, she rolled onto her side, grabbed her firearm from the bedside table and rolled onto her back to face the intruder. As she rolled, the doorknob turned and two men burst through