Brigid slid down into her chair and looked out the windows. “He died when I was five.”
“Tell me about your step-father, then.”
Brigid stared out the windows. The shadow of a large bird swooped down in front of them. An owl? She heard a sharp squeak and knew that some tiny creature had just become dinner. “My step-father died when I was ten.”
“He was killed. In front of you.”
Brigid still stared into the dark night, imagining the razor-sharp talons of the owl tearing into the tiny mole or mouse. “Unfortunately.”
“Why unfortunately? If he were in front of me now, I’d kill him.” Brigid looked up in surprise, but Anne only shrugged. “Human shrinks aren’t allowed to say things like that, but then, I’m not human, am I?”
“I suppose not.”
Anne waited for her to speak again, but she didn't know what to say, except that this session wasn’t turning out the way she thought it might.
“You said, ‘unfortunately,’” Anne continued. “It’s not unusual in cases of long-term abuse for a child to confuse abuse and love. It’s very common and nothing to be ashamed of. From a young age, you were conditioned—”
“I had no love for Richard. I never did. I hated him. I always knew what he did was wrong. I knew by the look on my mother’s face when she found him in my room the first time. I know he was a sick bastard. I know that I wasn’t at fault, so don’t think that I regret he’s dead.”
Anne fell silent, and Brigid could hear the wind whistling around the old house on the edge of the sea.
Finally, Anne said, “Then why—?”
“I said ‘unfortunately’ because I’m still angry he killed him.” Brigid’s head ached as she sifted through the tucked away childhood memories. The dread of the creaking door and the place she went in her mind when she heard it. It was the same. The same every night he came. Then, one night… it wasn’t. Lights pouring in. No place to hide. Unexpected footsteps and her mother’s soft sobs. A shock of auburn hair and a small pop as Richard crumbled to the ground in front of her.
“Why then, Brigid? Why were you angry he died?”
“Not angry he died.” She turned to Anne. “I only wish he hadn’t killed him, because I wanted to do it.”
Chapter Five
Snowdonia, Wales
September 2006
Carwyn murmured the last of his prayers, made the ancient sign of the cross, then rose from his knees. He walked to the closet where he kept his vestments to dress before left the house and went to the small church he’d tended for hundreds of years. It was Friday evening, and in the small town in North Wales, that meant that the Father would be there to hear confession if he was in town. Carwyn didn’t know if it was the silence and peace of the tiny church in the mountains, or the safe cloak of darkness, but Friday nights were often his busiest nights when he was home.
Well, if you could call three or four parishioners “busy.”
He looked in the mirror to make sure his collar was straight, then hastily brushed back his thick red mop of hair. Sister Maggie would say he needed a haircut, but the nights were growing colder, and Carwyn had never much cared for hats. He grabbed a coat and walked down the hall.
Maggie was baking in the kitchen and looked up. “Down to the church, then?”
“Yes.”
“Friday night. Do you think you’ll be long?”
“Last week there were four parishioners, Sister.” He chuckled. “The week before, there were two. What do you think?”
She gave him a rueful smile. “I’ll have dinner waiting, then.”
“No, don’t bother. I’m in the mood for a hunt later.” A hard run in the hills was just what he needed to burn off energy.
“Fine then. No stew for you.”
He gave the old nun a quick squeeze around the shoulders and headed out the door. “I’ll see you later, Maggie.”
“Bye now.”
Carwyn sped out the door and down the mountain, enjoying the whip of wind around his face as he moved effortlessly through the hills. Their ancient energy fed his own, and he had to resist the temptation to take off his shoes and dig his feet into the living soil that called him. He could have stayed lost in the mountains for hours, recharging his amnis and taking comfort in his element, but that was not his purpose that night. His purpose was to offer comfort, not take it.
The small town nestled in the isolated valley had been his tiny province for over five hundred years. Like Deirdre and Ioan’s people, the villagers never asked any questions, knowing that something otherworldly dwelled among them. They offered seclusion and secrecy and, in turn, Carwyn took care of them. The father who lost a job found another in a nearby town. The child whose parents couldn’t afford braces received them. It was a fair trade, in Carwyn’s opinion. They were his people, as small as the community might be. He had watched families form and break apart, much to his sorrow. He christened and buried the faithful. He celebrated the weddings and mourned the lost. The town was his, but as the years passed, even Carwyn had to admit things were changing. His parish was slowly shrinking. More and more young people left the town and stayed in the city. Fewer and fewer children were born.
It was the way of things, he supposed, even if the thought filled him with sorrow at times.
When he entered the sanctuary, his keen, immortal eyes spied only two women. One was as faithful as the clock in his library. The other, though, was a surprise.