Chapter Fourteen
Taking her leave from this so-called investigation—or, witch hunt, as I prefer to call it—Lassi stormed out of the rectory. She trekked past the heather and bog rosemary on the narrow sidewalk next to the rectory. Then, instead of following the path back to Great-Aunt Roberta’s cottage, she turned toward town.
A man-made pond lay at the edge of the rectory yard, complete with a waterfall tumbling over rocks. Seashells surrounded the pond.
She moved closer to get a better look.
A glint of something gold sparkling near the waterfall caught her eye. She crouched, finding a small circle of gold embedded in a smooth stone, almost like a fossil. Squinting, she ran her fingers along the time-worn surface of the limestone. It looks like a wedding ring. How did it end up embedded in stone?
When her fingertip landed on top of the gold, a jolt of electricity shocked her. She yelped. Holding her hand before her face, she stared at it for a few seconds, as if it wasn’t part of her body.
“Oh, Jesus, this can’t be good. Whatever it is, I’d best leave it alone.”
Rising to her feet, she followed the path through a small copse of trees. When she pushed through the foliage, the church was directly in her line of sight, a couple of yards away. The trees shielded the rectory from view.
She scanned her surroundings, spying the clearing encircled by trees Cillian had shown her before sending her on the shortcut path to the cottage—the place where she thought he would kiss her. In fact, from what she could see, this whole hillside adjacent to the village was crisscrossed with worn paths, like it was trodden upon by deer, sheep...or maybe Father Ward and his mysteries.
She eyed the church. “Maybe he’s in there.”
She trekked toward the ornate front door, wrestled it open, and entered. Once more, the exquisite silence of the hallowed space mantled her. Light filtered through exquisite stained glass. Candles burned on the altar. Banners depicting Christ and his disciples hung from the walls. The ceiling loomed overhead in high-beamed arches.
She scanned the pews.
Cillian, dressed in his usual black priest attire, sat in the first row, his head bent, perhaps in prayer, perhaps in exhaustion.
Softly, she shuffled toward him, expecting him to turn and acknowledge her.
He stayed in the same statue-like position.
She closed the gap between them with heavier footsteps, waiting for him to turn around.
He sat utterly motionless, like a petrified human. Is he dead? Her heart clenched. Maybe he’s meditating? She stood next to him, waiting for him to look at her, to tell her to go away.
He stayed in the same “still as stone” repose.
“Father Ward,” she whispered. “Cillian.” Her mouth formed a crisp rosette at his comatose behavior. Is he asleep? She studied him for signs of a pulse, his chest rising and falling—anything to indicate life.
She slithered down to crouch on the cold stone floor directly in front of him. She peeked up at him. He even looked like a statue.
His face was smooth and unlined, as if recently carved from clay. His eyes were closed.
Sharp prickles of fear stabbed her insides. Is he on drugs? In some deep sleep state only priests know how to attain? She cleared her throat, hoping to snap him out of his funk. All kinds of red flags began to wave inside her head at his complete lack of response. Come on, Cillian, we’ve got things to do. There’s an investigation going on! She slipped into her professional Nurse Lassi persona and gave his knee a gentle shake.
“Cillian,” she said.
Nothing.
“Cillian,” she said, her voice louder. She gave him a stronger shake. When he still didn’t budge, she called, “Cillian! You’re starting to freak me out!”
His eyelids drifted open in a strange, robotic fashion. A flash of green glimmered from his eyes, then, disappeared. He blinked a few times but didn’t seem to see her.
“Are you with me, Cillian?”
He stared straight through her.
Every hair on her head stood at attention. She inched closer, wriggling between his legs, resting her hands on his knees. “Cillian, you’re pissing me off!”
She drew her arm back, prepared to slap him awake, when a huge smile split his face. “There you are,” he said.
Relief filled her. She lowered her hand. “Here I am. But, where were you?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
The phrase hung between them like freaky tea droplets. It seemed loaded with meaning. Or maybe I’m tired and still hallucinating. Lack of sleep and no tea can do things to a girl’s mind.
He extended his arm and snaked a finger along her cheek in a warm, soothing caress.
She closed her eyes, pushing into his hand like a cat.
“So beautiful. So bewitching. My Lassi.”
His hand slid behind her neck.
She opened her eyes and studied him, captivated by his eyes.
Looking at Cillian was like considering a vast ocean—a sea of possibilities and wonder.
She’d crushed on boys before. Even thought she might be in love a time or two. But whatever it was she felt for Cillian was beyond reason, unparalleled. He’s a priest, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. Her face pulled tight in scrutiny.
The softest, sweetest smile she’d ever seen appeared on his face. He stroked her neck with his thumb, regarding her tenderly. His other hand reached for her waist. For a second, she hung suspended in some vast, timeless place of infinite wonder.
He let out a long, slow breath, like a decision had been made.
“Okay,” he said, in a husky voice. “Okay,” he said again. He pulled her close, locking his lips to hers.
At first, she resisted, keeping her mouth shut. Don’t forget—he’s a priest. As heat built inside, she stopped caring about labels and let go into the kiss, responding with hunger and need. He’s more than a priest to me. She sucked on his tongue, and he moaned into her mouth.
He made circles with his head, grinding his lips to hers. He peppered her lips with butterfly kisses. He kissed her slow and deep. His mouth ravaged her. He made his kisses feather soft.
She found herself absorbed into him, being drawn into a passion so deep she thought she’d disappear. She pulled away from the kiss and faced him, panting.
He bore the kind of lust-filled, satisfied expression she expected from a hot, experienced lover, not a priest. His arms stretched wide along the pew and his legs did a man-spread maneuver, like he was the king of the fecking world, not a servant of the Lord’s kingdom.
She blinked at him, her mind racing. Her body, however, was stoked by the feral hunger flashing in his sea-green eyes. I should repay the favor he bestowed on me with that fantastic orgasm. She reached for his pants, tugging at the placket of his waistband. Her fingers seemed like fat sausages as she fumbled with his zipper, the way they had when Jonny O’ Cleary had tried to get her to go down on him in secondary school. Oh, so, that’s why I’m thinking my fingers are like sausages. Jonny had a prick like a knockwurst. I could barely get my mouth around it. And, come to think of it, it kind of tasted like a sweaty sausage.
Having managed to unzip Cillian’s fly, she shook those thoughts from her head. Cillian won’t taste like a sweaty sausage. Cillian will taste like heaven.
His cock, heavy, weighted, and throbbing, fell free from his britches.
A priest going commando? She gulped. And, a priest with a cock as big as a stallion’s? Shouldn’t it be withered from lack of use?
He rocked his hips forward. His glittering eyes and expressive grin surprised her. His expression suggested wildness, like an unfettered animal, acting without reservation.
A wicked looking scar snaked upward, from the base of his penis, disappearing under his shirt.
Hernia? She pondered it for a second, and wrapped her hands around his thick erection, gripping him tight, aware Jesus hung watching her from a couple of yards away. She hoped her actions didn’t set his wooden representation on fire. This was wrong on so many levels. But, when had she let right and wrong guide her actions? She and Cillian shared some strange, undeniable destiny. Still, she paused for a second, searching his eyes for signs of hesitation.
“What if we get caught? I already have a wing picked out in Hell but you, Father? What about your soul?”
“The name’s Cillian.” He smirked, like this was merely a teenage prank and the benefits far outweighed the risks. “We’ll have to see what happens, won’t we?”
Drawn in by his lusty expression, she dropped her head and placed her mouth over the head of his cock.
His head fell back and he let out a low laugh. His legs spread even wider.
Her awareness heightened, listening for the opening of a door or the tramp of footsteps. Her core ached and burned like being dipped in the fiery basin of a volcano. And her mouth—When have I ever experienced this much pleasure from sucking a guy’s cock?
Cillian tasted like sea and shore, wind and savage weather—If such a thing had a taste. She pictured the relentless wind whipping her hair about her face, like she sucked him off on top of tempestuous waves, battered about by the sea. As her mouth worked up, down, and around, she kept uttering strange melodic mewling noises. She seemed to be making some odd new song in her throat. It came unbidden, like it was timeless and she’d sung it before.
Cillian’s hands gripped her head. He uttered short bursts of Gaelic which made her crazy with desire, especially when he groaned a “Lassi” here and there.
Her whimpers grew more frantic as his cock pulsed inside her mouth. Her fear of being caught added to her arousal, making her movements frenetic. I could come by sucking him.
With a roar, he climaxed in hot bursts.
She took him, all of him, swallowing his release like it was the most nourishing food on the planet.
His cock pulsed in her mouth, letting go a lifetime of desire. At least I hope it’s a lifetime and he doesn’t defile the Lord on a regular basis. I hope this is merely a one-off. She gave one last tug with her mouth and let him pop free. She started to wipe her face off on his black pants and caught herself, using her sleeve instead.
“Oh, Lassi,” Cillian uttered, in a deeply satisfied growl.
She refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she busied herself with tucking his waning cock in his pants, and zipping and buttoning his trousers. When she was done, she patted the placket of his pants, like a good nurse, and pushed herself to standing. “Well....”
“Well?”
She finally met his gaze, chewing her lip. “I don’t suppose the confessional is open.”
He smiled, licked his lips, and shook his head.
His expression brought joy to her heart, even though she’d sinned in a place of worship. “You look happy.”
His smile transformed into a grin. “You’re the one who brought the cheer to my soul. It’s been a long, long, long time since I ever felt this good.”
A flood of relief rolled through her at his words. At least it’s not a weekly thing...or even bi-annual.
“I can’t say I’ve ever felt this good,” she said. Or, this guilty. “What do we do next?”
She scanned the nave. Still quiet as stone, it was as if the church simply held witness to their actions, without reproach or judgment. She pivoted to eye Jesus. He still looked sad with his head hanging along his chest. Well, who wouldn’t be sad if he was nailed to a cross, betrayed by his people?
Cillian got to his feet and stepped next to her. He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze, sighing. “We need to get back to the rectory and see how the investigation is going.”
His words shot an arrow through her buzzing pleasure, flattening it like a balloon.
“Do we?” She looked up at him.
“We do. But first...” He inclined his head and gave her a gentle kiss. He released her. “Thank you,” he uttered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Okay,” she said, tongue-tied.
He turned and began to stride down the aisle.
Wordlessly, she followed him, keeping a fair distance behind.
He waited at the entrance, holding the massive door open for her.
She slipped out and strode ahead of him, following the path to the rectory.
As they approached the rectory yard, a forensics team could be seen working in Ailis’s yard near the stone wall.
A body hung over the wall.
Without waiting to see which direction Cillian would go, she beelined it toward the new crime scene.
Ailis hung halfway over the stone wall which separated her house from the rectory. Blood splattered the granite-paved path beneath her. A bloody handprint was clearly visible on the stones, as if Ailis had tried to scramble across the wall to get away from her killer.
Lassi skittered around the stone barrier.
“Hey! This is a crime scene,” a portly, older man yelled.
Ignoring him, she pushed past the men and women, cloaked from head to toe in blue forensics attire. Two of them leaned a ladder against the wall. Others placed little yellow flags in places throughout the yard.
“How do you suggest we lower the body? We’ll need to perform an autopsy and we don’t want to do further damage,” a portly man said.
“As gently as we can,” a stern looking woman said. She looked up as Lassi pushed through them.
“Miss!” the portly man called. “Miss! You can’t be here. This is a crime scene.”
She ignored him and kept on with her trajectory.
Ailis’s once pretty face was now grotesque. Her entire mouth had been ripped off.
Lassi’s hand flew to her own lips. “Oh, dear God.” She pulled up short, nearly falling to her knees to retch.
She began patting her face, over and over. A strange, keening voice slithered from her throat.
Ailis might have been bitchy, but she wasn’t evil. She might have just been sad, desperate, and bored out of her mind in this backward village life.
Lassi had seen awful, horrible scenes in the emergency room. Nothing was more heartbreaking than when a baby died before it had a chance to live. But, nobody deserved to die like this, terrified and mutilated.
“Miss!” the same man called. “You can’t be here.”
She lifted her hand. “I’m going, I’m going.”
Her feet wouldn’t budge.
“Lassi, come here,” Cillian said, stepping around the wall. “You shouldn’t be looking at this horrible sight.” He strode toward her and put his arm around her.
Inspector Brown stalked from Ailis’s house, followed by Conway. Her beady-eyed gaze skewered Lassi. Then she turned to Conway, and they began to whisper.
Lassi tried to pull away from Cillian but he tightened his grip—hard. She tried again to tug free, but his fingers dug deeper into her shoulders, until it hurt.
Her heart lurched in fear. She side-eyed him. Is he the killer? Is that part of his mysteries?
Held tight against him, her body pounded with arousal. She closed her eyes for a second. What’s wrong with me? What’s happening to me? I’ve never liked to be bossed around and manhandled before.
Perhaps sensing her doubt of him, he released her.
She stepped away, brushing herself off, while keeping her gaze on Conway and Brown.
They kept their attention on her while their whispers continued.
Panic drove her heartbeat into a mad flutter. She stepped further away from Cillian.
“Father Ward. A word please,” Brown called.
“Of course,” he said, smoothly. “I’m at your service.”
He strode past her.
To her right, the forensics team worked to lower Ailis from the wall.
Lassi scurried toward the rectory, away from the madness. Her insides were knotted with anxiety and confusion. She glanced around wildly, unsure what to do next.
Her attention landed on imprints of footsteps embedded in the ground. They didn’t yet have the little yellow crime tags the forensic team had placed around the yard. Her heart skittered to a complete stop as she stared at them. She tried to look all casual-like as she followed their path. They were man-sized. They came from a door leading from the rectory, hidden from plain view by vines and foliage. And, they led straight for where Ailis hung.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
Brown and Conway were grilling Cillian on the other side of the stone barrier.
She took the opportunity to appear easy-going and unconcerned as she trampled the footsteps, grinding them into indiscernible shapes in the mud.
Nothing about this situation was good. Not the murder or the mutilation. Absolutely not the fact she was under suspicion for crimes she had nothing remotely to do with. But certainly not the fact she was falling hot, hard and heavy for a possible murderer.