The Devlin Witch: Books 1 - 4 of the Devlin Legacy Series Paranormal Women's Fiction

by Bernadette Walsh

Genres: Paranormal; Women's Fiction; Witches

Synopsis

THE DEVLIN MAGIC CAN BRING YOUR HEART'S DESIRE -- BUT AT WHAT COST?

Mary Devlin accepted her fate years ago, to serve Slanaitheoir, the powerful demon and lord of the mountain who saved her ancestors from the Irish Famine. Like generations of Devlin witches before her, the hauntingly beautiful woman submitted to His every caress, His every humiliation. But when His lordship threatened her family, Mary broke the agreement with the vengeful demon and now Mary and her progeny must pay the price.

Mary and each succeeding Devlin witch — fiery Orla, fragile Fiona, pragmatic Annie and seductive Rita — will try and best Slanaitheoir in a battle of wills and magic. Each Devlin witch must decide how far she will go to protect her children from Slanaitheoir. Not every Devlin Witch has enough power and magic to fight Him and win -- those that fail risk His endless torment.

"Loved this series and the way its so different – the edge of darkness it contains is so realistic and certainly keeps reader on the edge of knowing what will happen, holding breath to see who escapes and who is trapped. I'm going for the full five stars."

Release date: December 14, 2014

Publisher: Bernadette Walsh

Print pages: 393

Sample

CHAPTER ONE: CAROLINE

When the doctors told me I’d never have children, I thought I would die. I thought it was the worst thing that could happen to me.

I was wrong.

But, as I sat on the steps of Old St. Patrick’s Cathedral that September afternoon willing my newly straightened hair not to frizz, my only concern was the priest was late, still in with the couple whose wedding was to follow ours. Bobby, effortlessly handsome with his new hair cut, squeezed my hand.

I looked at the still unfamiliar Cartier watch Bobby had given me that morning as a wedding gift. “I told the restaurant we’d be there by six.”

“We’ve plenty of time,” he said in the soft Dublin brogue that had captivated me seven months earlier.

“But...”
Bobby shut me up me by kissing me on the lips. He smiled. “We’ve plenty of time.” A group of students from neighboring NYU sauntered past us, the girls in skimpy tank tops reveled in summer’s last gasp. Bobby stretched out on the church’s stone steps, legs spread out like a cat soaking up the sun. He twisted the strange ring on his right hand, a family heirloom shaped like twisted branches. Aside from his mindless twirling of the ring, Bobby looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. My mind of course raced with the hundreds of details a wedding entailed. To be honest, organizational skills had never been my strong suit, and I couldn’t for the life of me remember whether I had sent the final check to the florist.

There was no word from the priest as we wilted in the sun, although I was the only one who minded. My mother, wearing her highest heels and brightest lipstick, chatted with Bobby’s father and overdressed stepmother. Bobby’s sister, Orla, her hair dyed a particularly aggressive blonde, wiped her two-year-old son’s face as she and her husband laughed with two of my brothers. I think the Irish relatives, both Bobby’s family and my mother’s, were happy to have an excuse to make a trip to New York and they seemed to enjoy the West Village street scene. Even my father’s family seemed less miserable than usual.

But not my father. He stood apart from everyone and leaned against the church’s ornate doors. After more than thirty-five years of marriage, any evidence of my mother’s Catholicism and her Irishness still made my Methodist, dyed in the wool WASP father cringe. Being the child of what my mother referred to as a “mixed” marriage, my religious observance over the years was admittedly spotty, but there was no way my mother’s only daughter was going to get away without a church wedding. The minute we announced our engagement my mother flew into overdrive and planned the entire thing in two months. When my father grumbled about footing the bill for an extravagant Manhattan wedding, in a Catholic church no less, she told him in her still strong County Kerry accent, “Hush, now, there’s no pockets in a shroud.”

The priest came out. “Come in, please. I’m sorry I was delayed.”

Bobby scanned the street. A fire engine roared past.
“Do you want us to wait for her?” I said over the piercing siren.
His mouth tightened. The siren faded into the distance. “No, no. Let’s go in.”
I smoothed one of his errant curls. “Maybe her flight was delayed?”
He shrugged, his shoulders slightly hunched. “Maybe.”
His sister Orla came up behind him and took his arm. “Come on now, brother. I told you she wouldn’t show. Don’t let it ruin your day.”
Bobby said nothing as we walked into the church.
Thirty minutes later, after the priest told us where to stand and what to do, our group spilled out of the church and walked the two blocks to the Italian restaurant I’d booked for the rehearsal dinner. I was laughing at Orla’s son, Brendan, when a woman walked toward us.

She was tall, slim, with black wavy hair that hung down her back. Her skin was clear with a hint of rose at the cheeks. Her eyes, even from a distance, were an unearthly green. They almost glowed in the late evening sun.

My mother stopped so suddenly that I bumped into her. “Draiodair Mna,” she whispered.

“Ma, what is it?”
She pointed at the woman and then said louder, “Draiodair Mna.”
“Ma, what are you saying?”
My normally bossy, confident mother looked at me with the eyes of a terrified child.

“The witch. His witch. The mountain’s whore.”
I turned to Bobby. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. Who is that woman?”

Without looking at me, he said, “That’s my mother.”

**********

We stood there for a moment. It was little Brendan who broke the silence by running to the dark-haired woman. “Nana!”

“My little man.” She scooped him up into her arms.

Orla quickly took her son from her mother and said in a clipped tone, “So you made it then, Mam.”

She kissed Bobby “Yes, I’m sorry I’m late.” She turned to me. “You must be Caroline. I’m pleased to finally meet you.”

“Me too.” I kissed her cheek.
Behind me my mother growled, “And I’m her mother.”
Bobby’s mother held out her hand. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Mary Connelly.” “Don’t you mean Mary Devlin? Mary Devlin from Devil’s Mountain?”
Mary peered into my mother’s face. “Nellie? Nellie Collins?”
“Who else? Or are you surprised I’m still alive, not crushed by a bus like my poor Jimmy.”
Mary looked like she’d been slapped. “Nellie, no. I’m surprised is all. It’s been a long time.”
“Not long enough!”

We blocked the narrow sidewalk and a giggly crowd of students pushed past us. My father held out his hand to Mary. “I’m Caroline’s father. We’re so glad you could join us. Please, the restaurant is right down the street. Let me show you,” and with that my sour, introverted father gallantly offered Mary his arm and led her through the throng of happy hour revelers to the restaurant.

I took my mother’s arm. “Come on, Ma. Let’s go.”
“She’s spinning her web already,” my mother spat.
“Ma, please. I don’t know what’s up with you and Bobby’s mother but you have to calm down.”
She looked up at me. “It’s not too late, Caro. You can still call it off.”
“Call what off?”
“You can’t marry into that family,” her voice now trembling. “It will be the death of you.” I dropped her arm. “Cancel the wedding? Are you crazy?”
“Caroline, please. Please listen to me!”

My father’s sister turned to look at us. I whispered in my mother’s ear, “I’ve heard enough. For God’s sake, get ahold of yourself.”

When we reached the restaurant I practically ran to its small bar. As I gulped down my drink, I berated myself for caving into my mother’s demand for a big wedding. I was thirty and in the past two years I’d attended close to twenty weddings. They were boring and expensive and I had more pouffy bridesmaid dresses than I could count. A big wedding was the last thing I wanted.

Bobby, too, was hesitant to put his family through the stress of a wedding. From what little he’s said, his parent’s divorce three years ago was both unexpected and devastating. Mary found her husband kissing his secretary in a local pub. It fractured the family, with Orla taking the father’s side and Bobby taking the mother’s. His father ran off to London with his secretary for a quickie wedding as soon as the ink was dry on their divorce. Mary, who was stunning, really, and looked years younger than her age and certainly younger than the chubby new wife, returned to her childhood home in Kerry, to Devlin’s Mountain. Bobby was so thrown by it all he accepted an offer from an investment bank in New York and emigrated soon thereafter. The four of them, well I guess five if you include the new wife, hadn’t been in the same room since Bobby left Ireland. The last thing he needed today was my mother’s antics.

Tina, my best friend since the second grade and maid of honor, joined me at the bar. “Why is your mother crying?”

“Oh, Jesus! I seriously thought I’d kill her last week over the seating chart debacle, but this, this is too much.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I have no idea. Apparently my mother knows Bobby’s mother from Ireland and she doesn’t seem to like her.”

Tina lit a cigarette and ignored the waiter’s disapproving look. “Did she say why?”

“She said she’s a witch, but you know how my mother likes to exaggerate. Mary probably stole her hair ribbon or tripped her in the schoolyard. She doesn’t want me to marry into that family.”

“What? I thought your mother was so into the wedding. Too into the wedding you said.”

“Yeah, she was. Now she wants me to cancel it.” I held up my martini. “Hence the need for alcohol.”

In the middle of my second drink the maitre‘d asked me whether I wanted them to serve the appetizers. “Sure,” I said with a sigh, “might as well get this show on the road.”

Tina rubbed my arm. “It’ll be fine. You know that, right? Every wedding has its hiccups.”

“Tina, the florist sent the wrong color flowers at your wedding. My mother’s accused the groom’s mother of being a witch. Not exactly the same thing.”

Tina smiled. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Ignoring her carefully constructed seating plan, my mother sat as far away from the Connellys as was possible in the small restaurant. The two-piece band Bobby hired played during dinner and upon my instructions the waiters made sure no one’s glass was empty. Everyone began to relax. Even Bobby. The strained look he’d worn ever since his mother arrived faded.

In between courses I circulated among the tables of our friends and relatives. A few of my mother’s relatives danced on the makeshift dance floor. As I chatted with my Aunt Dorothy, I thought to myself, “Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe it will all settle down.”

And then I saw her.

My mother had cornered poor Bobby on his way to the bar. From the expression on his face, it didn’t look like they were talking about the food.

Aunt Dorothy was mid-sentence when I stormed over to the bar.

“Bobby, you’ve been in my house, what, at least a dozen times,” I heard my mother say. “I don’t understand why you never mentioned your people were from Kilvarren. What were you hiding?”

“Honestly I never thought of it. I grew up in Dublin. You know that. Sure, everyone in Dublin has family down the country. My father’s family is from Roscommon. I didn’t tell you that either.” Bobby’s delivery seemed a bit slick, even to me. His voice had the slightly false bravado I had only heard him use when he’d taken me out to dinner with his clients, the same tone I imagine he used when he was trying to close a deal.

My mother’s face was scarlet at this point. She grabbed his jacket and hissed, “You’re lying. My daughter may buy this, but I’ll tell you, my little jackeen, I do not. You knew. You knew that if I knew who your family was, what your mother is, I would never permit my daughter to marry you.”

I grabbed her arm. “Permit me? Since when do I need your permission? I’m a grown woman. If you’re not careful, Mother, you’ll find yourself uninvited to this wedding!”

Aunt Dorothy came up behind me. “Bobby, love, you’ll have to excuse us. I think these ladies have a case of wedding jitters. Come on now, girls, let’s head to the ladies and fix our makeup. Bobby, dear, could you ever go over and make sure that husband of mine’s not boring your poor father to tears?”

With a vise-like grip, Aunt Dorothy dragged me and my mother into the bathroom. The door hadn’t closed before she lit into my mother. “For God’s sake, Nellie, what the hell is going on?”

“Tell her, Dotty. Tell her about that family. About that woman.”

“Mary Devlin? Why she’s one of my best customers. She comes in every Tuesday for her groceries. She’s a lovely woman.”

“What are you taking about?” My mother was crying at this point. “Tell Caroline. Tell her about the Mountain.”

“Nellie, would you ever cop onto to yourself? No one believes in those old stories any more. It’s 1997. Ireland’s changed since you left. It’s a different world now.”

“It’s not that different.”
Aunt Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know? You haven’t been back to

Kilvarren since Daddy died.”
My mother wiped her eyes. “It’s a cursed place, Caro. Ever since the Famine. It’s cursed

and it’s evil and it’s ruled by those Devlin women. Look at her. How old does she look to you? If I didn’t know better I’d say she wasn’t a day over thirty-five. But, Caro, Mary Devlin’s five years older than myself. How do you think she got that way? It’s His doing. Sure, Dorothy, wasn’t her mother the same? I’m telling you, Caroline, if you marry into the Devlin family, you’ll rue the day. That I promise you.”

Aunt Dorothy’s expression softened and she touched my mother’s shoulders. “Nellie, love, how many years has it been? Thirty-five at least. You’ve a lovely husband, a lovely family. You need to let Jimmy go.”

Ignoring her, my mother stared at me. “I know what I know, Caro. If you go through with this, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I love him, Mama. I don’t care...”

 

The door swung open and little Brendan barreled in, followed by the harried Orla. “Hiya, ladies. What a fantastic place, Caroline. The food is beautiful.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
Orla noted my mother’s red eyes. “Oh, sorry, are we interrupting?”
I took my mother’s arm. “No, not at all. We’re done here, right, Ma?
“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “We’re done.”
The restaurant was hushed as we walked in from the bathroom, with everyone’s eyes on

the small dance floor. The band played an old Irish love ballad. Bobby’s mother and father danced alone. Paul Connolly held Mary close as their bodies swayed to the music, Paul’s face buried in Mary’s silky black curls. The air was charged with their emotions making it impossible to look away. The song came to an end. Paul lifted his face out of Mary’s curls, tears streaming down his face.

Fiona, Paul’s new wife, banged her drink on the table, grabbed her pack of cigarettes and stomped past the couple and out onto the street. Paul didn’t notice, his eyes never left Mary’s.

***********

The air was cool, crisp even, and the sky a sparkling clear blue when the limo deposited us outside the church. My father offered me his arm, and smiled even, as we walked up the stone steps.

We were early, the church still quiet, with only the florist there arranging the altar’s enormous flower displays. My mother, who seemed reconciled to this wedding going forward, once again became the efficient mother of the bride and led me into a small room off the entranceway to fix my veil, which she told me was crooked, and my lipstick, which she told me was too light.

The florist, who for some reason had failed to deliver mine and the bridesmaids’ bouquets to my apartment as ordered, had deposited them in this room. My soon-to-be mother-in-law was holding my bouquet in her hands.

“Mary,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“My cab dropped me off early and I thought I’d fix my face before everyone got here. I was looking for the bathroom and I saw these. They are beautiful.”

My mother grabbed the bouquet from her. “And the wrong color. I ordered deep blush roses, not pale pink. Oh, Caro, these won’t do. These won’t do at all!”

“Leave them, Ma. They’re fine.”

“You look lovely, Caroline,” Mary said in her soft, lilting brogue. She touched my veil. “I’m happy I was able to come. My son is a lucky man.”

“Thank you, Mary. We’re glad you made it,” I said, almost meaning it. After her dance with her ex-husband last night, the mood changed. Orla ran after her stepmother, who came back to the restaurant with red eyes. Orla and Bobby argued in the corner, my mother and Aunt Dorothy kept disappearing into the ladies room, and Paul continued to stare at Mary like a lovesick schoolboy, despite Fiona’s glares. After dessert was served, guests made their excuses and the rehearsal party ended more than an hour early. I couldn’t help thinking that the night would’ve gone much smoother had Mary stayed up on her mountain.

My mother was a woman possessed as she plucked the deeper pink roses out of the bridesmaids’ bouquets and stuck them in my own. She was almost done, when she pulled out a small purple flower.

“What is this, Mary?”
“I, uh...”
“I’ll ask your again. What is this?”
“Just a little something for luck, Nellie.”
My mother tore through the bouquet, petals scattered at her feet. “What else, you she

devil? What else did you put in here?”
“Nothing, Nellie. ‘Twas nothing.”
“Nothing?” My mother held a small mud-colored heart in her palm. “Then, what is this?” “Please, Nellie,” Mary pleaded. “Only a charm. For luck. Please leave it there!”
My mother threw the small heart to the floor and crushed it beneath her new Jimmy

Choos. “I’ve had enough of your charms. I’ll not have you interfering with my daughter. Keep your black magic and His evil powers to yourself.”

Mary deflated before us and for the first time I could almost see her sixty years in her green eyes. “I meant no harm. Truly I didn’t. I’ll leave you now.”

Without another word, my mother reconstructed the bouquets and they were almost as good as new. She fixed my lipstick and my veil and I was ready to go.

Years later I’d often wonder what would’ve happened if my mother hadn’t disturbed Mary’s charms.

CHAPTER TWO: MARY

Though my mouth was dry, I couldn’t face the strong tea offered by the stewardess and I dared not stop on the way home from Shannon Airport. I tore across the country in my battered Ford Fiesta, the only thing I took from Dublin after the divorce. The weak morning sun shined through a light mist. In the distance I could almost make out Devlin’s Mountain. My Mountain now.

Well, not quite my Mountain, as his lordship would quickly remind me. It was almost nine-thirty. I said a quick Hail Mary, for what it was worth, and prayed He was still asleep. Three days. If I reached home before ten then I’ll have been away only three days. Surely, the price for being away three days wouldn’t be that high.

I slammed on my brakes as a lorry turned onto the N-23. The lorry heaved up the small incline and my little Fiesta crawled behind. Damn, if he doesn’t turn off soon I’ll be late.

I can’t be late.
Thanks be to God, he turned off at the cross. Quarter to. I might make it.
The hedges seemed to have grown overnight and almost blocked the small pitted lane that

led to my cottage. Seamus had cut them back the week before I’d left. I’ll have to tell him to cut them again. Anyone else would be astounded by their rate of growth, but not Seamus Griffin. The Griffins were one of the five families. He knew.

A branch tore the side of the car as it groaned up the steep incline. The road was dark. A giant cloud had suddenly appeared and covered the top of the Mountain, blocking the morning sun.

He must be angry.

As I neared the cottage, the lane was quiet, devoid of all life. Even the birds seem to have scattered. There was nothing around. Except Him.

The yellow eyes of the old pucan1 glowed beneath the shadow of a hawthorne tree. I drove the last few minutes home, stopped near the shed, and shot out of the car, leaving my bag in the boot. If I can get into the enclosed garden, within the protection of my beds of foxglove, angelica, bettony and nettle, I’ll have a few hours to myself. After some sleep and some food, I’ll be able to face Him.

But I was too late.
The pucan blocked the gate. “My love.”
“Sir.” I bowed deeply.
“I’ve missed you, my love.”
Willing my voice to remain steady, I said, “I’m sorry, but Orla’s baba was sick. She

needed me in Dublin.”
A wind ripped across the back field, blowing grit into my eyes. The pucan looked at me

as I rubbed my poor eyes, tears streaming down my face. “Did she?”

1 a male goat

 

 

The wind continued to assault me. I lifted my hand to shield my face. “Yes, but it’s only been three days.”

The pucan stared at me, His eyes glistening. The wind stopped. “That it has. Isn’t it amazing how far one can travel in three days.”

I wiped the last of my tears with my sleeve and forced myself to smile. “Sure, with the new road to Dublin I’m up and back before I know it.”

“So you are. And how is the lovely Orla?”
“Fine. The same.”
The pucan came closer, His hoof almost crushing my toe. His breath, the same in every

apparition, smelled of moss and damp. It smelled as old as the earth. “Did she enjoy New York?” Sweat dripped down my back. “New York?”
“Ah, love, I always know where my children are. Even those who have left me.”
I said nothing. I stared at the ground, praying it would swallow me. But that would be too

easy a fate for a Devlin woman. It would be bad, it would be bad tonight no matter what I did now. I looked up. “You knew then?”

“I knew. I’ve known for a while. However did Bobby found one of his own in a big place like New York? What are the chances?”

My stomach dropped. So it wasn’t a coincidence after all, my Bobby falling in love with Nellie’s daughter. It never occurred to me He would have had something to do with it. But how? Why?

I feigned disinterest. “She’s a lovely girl. That’s all that matters to me.”

“That she is. It makes me happy when two of my children find each other. I told your mother you’d have been happier with Seamus. With someone who understands, who shares the blood. You wouldn’t listen.”

I looked at my cozy cottage, guarded by the foxglove. How I longed to be within its protective walls. I turned to the pucan. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“You’re together now, in a way.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seamus lumber over from the back field. He must’ve seen me with the pucan, because he stopped, crossed himself and spun around.

“We are, yes.”

“My love, you must be tired after your long journey. Go in and rest yourself. I will see you tonight.”

I bowed low to the ground, “Yes my lord.”
When I raised my eyes from the ground, He was gone.

                        ************

Only three days away and yet a hint of mildew still seeped through the cottage’s cold stone walls. Seamus had left me a stack of peat. I tossed two blocks into the ancient stove. A few moments later the fire sputtered to life, the tang of the peat replacing that of the mildew.

I filled the kettle and threw two tea bags into my mother’s chipped blue tea pot. Later, I would drink my mother’s special tea, a combination of the fennel, nettles and borrage I grew in the back garden. Fennel for strength, nettles for protection, and borrage for courage and fortitude.

It was the same recipe her mother drank and her mother before her. A poor arsenal against Slanaitheoir, but it was all I had. All any of the Devlin women had ever had. Strength and fortitude. I would need both tonight.

Seamus left a loaf of his wife’s brown bread on the kitchen table. I cut a think slice and slathered it with butter. As I bit into its nutty sweetness, my stomach settled. The strong tea warmed me. Consoled me. I was home, and for the next few hours at least, safe.

The clouds burned off and a strong midday sun greeted me as I opened the cottage’s heavy wood front door. The birds had returned to my garden as had a few fat bees burrowed in the foxglove blossoms. Despite myself, I smiled. My years in Dublin had offered me freedom, respite from my fate, but at a price. Our four bedroom semi-detached in Rathfarnham, my husband’s pride and joy, had always made me feel closed in, cut off from God’s green earth. I guess I’m an old countrywoman at heart, for better and for worse.

Seamus’ old cat was the only creature to accompany me to my car. I nuzzled his ears before I opened the boot and retrieved my bags. I brought them inside and hung the sensible navy blue dress I’d worn to Bobby’s wedding in the wardrobe. Next to Nellie’s sparkly mother- of-the-bride dress, I looked like a poor relation. But I didn’t want Him to get suspicious if He heard I was shopping at Nolan’s Dress Shop in town. Fool that I am, I shouldn’t have bothered. I should have worn what I wanted. I’d pay the price tonight anyway.

But despite Him I escaped to New York to see my beautiful Bobby and his plain wren of a bride. Plain, but good-hearted. Unlike the mother. Please God, they’ll be happy together. And safe.

I wrapped the navy pumps in paper and placed them in an old shoe box. Those shoes likely won’t go further than Kilvarren town now. Well, at least they got a chance to dance in New York. To dance with my son and my sweet, sweet Paul. My Paul, and only mine. Nothing He does to me tonight can take that away. Nothing.

The bed my grandfather had made for my grandmother as a wedding gift beckoned me. I suddenly felt very tired. And old. No matter what He and the magic have done to my face, to the outside of my body, these sixty year old bones get tired. I slipped under my mother’s eiderdown and released myself to the sweet oblivion of sleep.

**********

I pulled the long red cape close to me. Its ancient wool protected me from the strong damp wind that whipped along the fields. My mother’s shoes pinched as I made my way along the pitted lane. In the distance I could hear the mournful lowing of Seamus’ brown heifers. A black rook flew before me, beckoning me along the lonesome path.

I turned right into the copse of trees and followed the narrow path. The thicket blocked all but a trickle of light. The dark woods that had frightened me as a young girl enveloped me, embraced me now in their cold arms.

In the clearing before the foot of His cave was a fire and beside it a carved table. On the table was a roast pig and two goblets filled with an amber liquid. Behind me a rush of wind lifted my cloak.

“My love.”

 

I turned around. Slanaitheoir took my hand in His strong one. The blood roared in my ears. This apparition, Slanaitheoir’s most beautiful, most cruel. He stood over six feet, His broad shoulders draped in a golden silk tunic. His bright green eyes danced with desire and malice.

Despite myself, my cheeks burned. I lowered my eyes, suddenly shy, unable to face Him. “My lord.”

“Come, my love. See what I have prepared for you.”

He led me to the fire and removed the cloak from my shoulders. I covered my chest, aware that my grandmother’s thin silk sheath offered little protection from His probing eyes. He laughed.

“You hide yourself from me? My sweet child. Please, sit down. Eat. I know you haven’t feasted in many days.”

How? How does He know my every move? With my stomach in knots since I left for New York, I hadn’t eaten more than tea and toast for days. Suddenly ravenous, I devoured the meal before me.

The meat, succulent and unlike anything to be found in Dorothy Collins’ butcher shop, almost called to me. Its sweet juices ran down my chin, and I, like an animal, tore the pig’s flesh. My lordship joined me as we cleared the table of meat and mead.

When we were sated, He led me to the fire and we sat on the finest furs.“My love, I’ve missed you. Tell me, tell me about your trip.” His eyes, soft now and tender, glowed in the firelight. His fingers burned my skin as He stroked my hand.

And I told Him. Everything. How Nellie called me a witch, how my sweet Paul held me in his arms and cried. The beautiful creature before me entranced me, bewitched me, and I burned with love for Him. With desire.

He laughed softly, “My love, why do you leave, when you know the world will only cause you pain? I am all you need.”

The buzzing in my ears grew louder, and all I could think about was His strong arms. His musky scent, as old, as old as the earth. Why do I leave Him? Why do I fight Him? I fell into His eyes and could see our past, the past of all the Devlin women. My skin was on fire and I didn’t stop Him when he ripped the thin sheath from me, my grandmother’s pearl buttons scattering onto the ground. He parted my lips and I yielded. I closed my eyes. I love Him. Oh, God forgive me, how I love Him.

He pulled my hair and His lips left mine. I heard before I felt the tear of my cheek’s tender flesh. I opened my eyes and could see His hand was now a claw. Warm blood fell onto my breast.

He dragged me to the entrance of the cave. He smiled. “It is time, my love.”

**********

Seamus’ cat licked my face. I tried to open my eyes, but they were slits. I didn’t need to see where I was. I knew He had left me under the hawthorne tree. Every inch of me screamed in agony. The wool cape, carefully draped over my naked body, was like lead, heavy with the early morning rain. And my blood.

 

I struggled to sit up. The cat meowed at me in concern. My arms, too weak to support me, collapsed and I fell back into the mud. The morning drizzle continued, as if to cleanse me from the prior night’s sins.

The cat cried, as did I, as helpless as a kitten. When I could cry no more, I slept.

The ground shook from the distant rumble of the cattle. The sharp bark of the dogs erupted above the mournful lowing of the cows. I opened me eyes and in the distance saw a tall figure. I croaked out a greeting.

“Move on, you whore,” Seamus shouted to an errant heifer. I called out again and he turned towards me, his green eyes, eyes common to the Mountain families, shined through the gloom like a beacon.

He strode through the mud. I groaned in agony, and relief. Seamus gathered me in his strong arms, unsurprised to see me in my usual spot, unfazed by my injuries and my nakedness.

“You poor woman,” he murmured as he carried me through my garden gate. “You poor, poor woman.”

Devil’s Mountain by Bernadette Walsh