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“I’m Father Sullivan,” he said, pulling a metal folding chair out from behind the table and collapsing into it with a groan. He must have been in his sixties, maybe seventy. “Been on me feet all week. Got bunions the size of onions.” He smiled weakly. “Once ya check in, head inside and grab yourself some dinner from the kitchen. We got enough lamb stew and soda bread to feed an army, so don’t be shy.”
“Thank you, Father.” I bowed my head, not knowing what exactly was expected when speaking to a priest. I hadn’t stepped foot in a church since Ma’s funeral. “Before I go, may I ask you a question about someone who used to live here?”
His smile faded. “That someone wouldn’t happen to be Darby Donovan, would it?”
“How did you know?”
“She’s the only person from Glenshire anybody’s ever heard of outside of Glenshire.”
“Did you know her?”
“Aye.” Father Sullivan narrowed his cloudy eyes at me. “Yer the spittin’ image of her, ya know. I didn’t think she had any children, but … everybody’s got their secrets, don’t they?”
“Oh. No. I’m not her daughter. Just a fan. Her biggest fan. I was hoping to see the places she wrote about while I’m here. With the war and all, I don’t know if … if I’ll ever make it back.”
“That makes two of us, dear.” Father Sullivan’s face twisted into a heartbreaking frown. “The whole congregation’s headin’ up to Shannon tomorrow to see if we can get on one of those boats or planes to Boston. This might be the last night any of us spends in Glenshire.”
Father Sullivan’s eyes lifted to something over my shoulder, and his entire demeanor changed. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was Damien. I could feel the warmth of his massive body, sense the magnetic pull that had drawn me to him that night in the sea.
“Father Sullivan”—I gestured toward the man behind me—“this is—”
“The Devil himself,” he hissed, clutching the cross around his neck as he shot to his feet, knocking his metal folding chair over in the process.
“Sorry?” I sputtered, watching in bewilderment as Father Sullivan’s wide-eyed stare darted from Damien to me, along with the cross that he wielded like a weapon.
“I’d know those demon eyes anywhere.” He took a step back, nearly tripping on his overturned chair. “And you.” His accusing stare landed on me. “No wonder ya look just like her.”
I shook my head as Damien’s arm slid around my waist protectively. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
Father Sullivan took another step back. The hand holding the cross was visibly shaking now. “He should be burnin’ in hell for the things he done. If he’s here and you’re here with him, that means you’ve forsaken the kingdom of heaven to spend eternity in purgatory with this sinner.”
He had dementia, poor fella. Or perhaps he was having a nervous breakdown from the stress of the war and the responsibility of evacuating an entire village. Whatever was going on with him, it still scared me. I didn’t like it when men got angry.
I glanced around, hoping to find someone who might be able to help. People were beginning to stare, but no one came forward to check on the old man.
“Father Sullivan, maybe you should sit.” I was going to walk around the table to right his chair, but he thrust that cross in my face before I could take a step.
“He’s a demon. A murderer. Killed a man of the cloth in that very house.” He pointed a knobby, shaking finger at a small white house at the back of the cemetery. “Don’t ya see, child? He corrupted ya in life, and now, he’s done so in death.” Spittle flew from his mouth as he banged his fist on the metal table. “They say he haunts these woods, waitin’ for ya to return, but you never left, did ya? Ya turned your back on God to stay here with this Devil.”
The ghost of Glenshire. Of course. He thinks Damien is Kellen Donovan’s ghost, which means he must think that I’m—
A spatter of water splashed across my face without warning.
“Vade retro Satana!” Father Sullivan shouted, slashing a small vial of holy water through the air.
Turning his body to shield me from the spray, Damien snatched the vial out of the old man’s hand and slammed it on the table, leaning toward him with a growl.
“Back, Devil!” he shouted, stumbling backward and nearly falling. “Back to the forest with ya! Keep yer evil away from my congregation. Yer not welcome here!”
With my heart pounding and a sudden lump in my throat, I pulled Damien away from the table and practically sprinted through the cemetery. I couldn’t get away from there fast enough.
“That’s right! Back to the forest with ya!” The raving old coot shouted after us. “May God have mercy on yer soul!”
Gripping my hand, Damien matched my pace, but his stride was longer and much less frantic than mine. I wished the nonsensical ravings of a madman didn’t upset me as much as they did, but I couldn’t help it. In my experience, when a man raised his voice at me, his hand usually followed.
But Damien wouldn’t let that happen.
My pace slowed. My breathing slowed. Damien was there.
