Page 31 of The Scald Crow
He turned away, his rigid jaw telling me our discussion was far from over.
I gazed at my shaking hands, unable to process what had happened. I closed my eyes and calmed my mind. When I opened them, I noticed a sparkling sequin stuck in the folds of my sweater.
* * *
Saoirse
I turned my back on him, avoiding eye contact as I walked across the red carpet. The fireplace beckoned. I stirred the coals with the iron poker and added another briquette, stepping back as the embers popped. My ears pricked at every rustle of his clothing and every squeak of the barstool. He shouldn’t be here.
I blamed myself for what had happened those years ago—a love spell meant to bond Ciarán’s love to mine instead sent him into the land of the dead: the wrong moon, the wrong crystals, my inexperience. I mistook the signs, and the power of my spell took off like a mad cat, spitting energy in all the wrong directions. And because of my mistake, the black forces took my love away.
The way his hair fell across his brow reminded me of Ciarán.
“I’m surprised to see you, Colm.” I watched him back, my lips freezing into a tight smile.
Even then, I couldn’t control my reaction to Colm O’Donnell. A cutting edge lurked beneath the surface, concealed by his welcoming smile. I likened it to a grenade about to explode.
“You don’t mind, do you?” He rested his palms on the counter, his gaze piercing.
Like I had any choice, now, if he caused a disturbance, that would be another matter. And yet, I doubted anyone would question him, being who he was and all. More than likely, I’d be blamed. More gossip. More side-eye glances. And what of it? I told myself I didn’t care. I studied him with the same hard glare. He had left the force. He held no official title. He was just Ciarán’s brother.
“Mind? No, why would I mind? It’s open-mike later if you’d care to join in.” I nodded toward the corner where speakers and microphones sat waiting. The pub should crawl within the hour with patrons—the calm before the storm.
“Me? Sing? Jaysus no. The place looks good, Saoirse.” He played with the bristles on his chin.
Somehow, I didn’t feel like smiling. The arrogant prick had dragged me over the coals too many times.
If they knew the truth, I would be burned at the stake.
“Thanks.” I wiped the counter with a bar cloth, rubbing one water ring after another. If I rubbed hard enough and concentrated on all my energies, could I make Colm O'Donnell disappear?
“I’m not a copper here, Saoirse. I have no jurisdiction in these parts, not anymore.” His voice held a slight tremor, piquing my interest.
“Will ye have a pint, Colm?” I ran my hands down the sides of my black jumper. I saw no issue profiting from his visit.
“Whisky. The good stuff.” He tilted his head toward the premium bottles on the high shelf and slid twenty euros toward me.
“Whatever you say.” I poured a generous measure into a glass, relishing fragrant notes of smoky peat and subtle hints of seaweed. I left the bottle on the counter.
“What cauldron was this brewed in?” He sniffed the aged whisky but studied me.
The O’Donnell's gaze could scorch the earth.
I leaned on the bar rail. I had learned one thing—killing with kindness didn’t hold water with an O’Donnell. I’d rather throw salt in the wound and be done with it.
“The distillery up the road? Brings back the local traditions some.” I met his steely gaze. He could read the label, couldn’t he?
“Aye, I thought you might be building love potions again.” His lips twitched, and he almost smiled.
I threw him a stony glare. His comment didn’t deserve a reply. It would take one incantation to rid myself of that arrogant bastard.
What Calla saw in him, I’d never understand. Yet she had mentioned his name more than once, a hint of longing lingering in her voice. Sure, he was handsome. The O’Donnell men were drop-dead gorgeous, and every one of them was single. How they managed bachelor status in such a small town was beyond me.
I sighed, turning from him lest he see the tears welling in my eyes. He noticed everything, the cheeky sod.
It would have been different if Ciarán hadn’t disappeared. We belonged to one another. The Claddagh ring on my left hand served as a daily reminder. The emerald set in the gold band exuded warmth, some days more than others.
“It’s the bottle. It’s so you.” He lifted the hand-crafted bottle from the bar top, smoothing his thumb over the long gooseneck—still, his focus didn’t waver.
