Chapter 13 The Lavender Heir

Aislinn’s Heir

The wrecked car was towed back the next afternoon, and Sasha stood at the edge of the driveway watching as the battered shell was lowered from the truck. The twisted metal, shattered glass, and caved-in rear bumper turned her stomach. She reached out and let her hand rest on the cold steel, a shiver running through her.

We should be dead, she thought, fingers trembling.

Patrick came up behind her, the weight of his hand on her shoulder steady but brief. He had already packed for London—his chapel restoration project was calling him away for the week. “I hate leaving you here like this,” he murmured.

“You’ll only be gone a few days,” Sasha said, trying to sound lighter than she felt.

Eamon’s expression was grimmer. He pulled Sasha aside as Patrick loaded his bags. “Don’t you dare go near Cian or that castle until Patrick’s back. There’s no telling what he’ll do if he catches you snooping.”

“I won’t,” she promised. But even as the words left her lips, she felt the pull, like invisible fingers at her sleeve.

That night, when the rain tapped lightly at the windows and the house had fallen silent, Sasha woke to find her breath misting in the air. Aislinn was standing at the foot of her bed. Drenched, pale, unblinking. Her hand was outstretched, pointing toward the castle.

Sasha rose without a word, her heart thudding like a drumbeat. She slipped into her boots and coat, fumbling with the buttons, and followed Aislinn across the wet grass, the ghost’s dark silhouette leading her through the night.

The castle’s rear entrance groaned as the cellar doors swung open, and the damp, rank air that spilled out made her gag. She followed the faint glow of Aislinn’s presence down the stone steps, past crumbling walls slick with mildew, until they reached a narrow chamber closed off by rusting iron bars.

Aislinn lingered by the bars, her eyes hollow pools of sorrow. Sasha’s torchlight swept the chamber and caught on a section of loose stones. Something inside her knew, and her hands trembled as she pried the first one free. Then another.

Bones spilled out. Tiny bones.

Sasha recoiled, a gasp strangled in her throat. She stared at the small remains—there were so many. Bits of decayed cloth clung to the brittle skeletons, rusted charms lay among the rubble. She picked one up with shaking hands and saw a name etched into the tarnished metal.

Ellen.

She found another. Maeve.

Every trinket bore a girl’s name. There were no boys.

Sasha turned slowly, her stomach heaving, and found Aislinn staring at her with such grief and fury it rooted her to the spot.

“Who did this?” she whispered, her voice breaking, though she already knew. “Cian…”

Aislinn raised a trembling hand and pointed upward.

Sasha followed the gesture but saw only darkness, endless halls she didn’t dare wander. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Aislinn didn’t answer.

Sasha stumbled from the barred chamber, the image of the bones burned into her mind. Her torchlight shook wildly as she followed a narrow corridor up toward the main castle. The silence pressed on her ears, broken only by the hammering of her own heart.

She slipped into a shadowed room and found an old wooden cupboard against the far wall. Without thinking, she crawled inside, curling up among the moth-eaten coats. The air was stale and suffocating, but safer than the open halls.

Her body was exhausted, her mind a blur of horror, and at some point, she drifted into a restless half-sleep.

—

The sound of footsteps dragged her back to consciousness.

Sasha held her breath, straining to hear. The heavy tread of boots echoed down the hallway, then came a low, furious voice she recognized instantly.

Cian.

Peering through a narrow crack in the cupboard door, Sasha froze.

In the dim torchlight of the hallway, a small boy—five, maybe six years old—was being dragged by the arm, his heels scraping the stone floor as he struggled.

“No—please!” the boy cried, his voice high and terrified.

Sasha’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Cian yank the child forward and strike him hard across the back with a leather belt. The boy screamed, curling in on himself, tears streaking his pale face.

Sasha bit down on her knuckles to keep from crying out. Her whole body trembled as she watched Cian’s arm rise and fall again, the belt cracking against fragile skin.

Finally, Cian shoved the boy to the floor. “You’ll learn,” he snarled, before turning and disappearing down the corridor.

The boy lay trembling, shoulders shaking with muffled sobs.

Sasha pressed her forehead to the cupboard door, tears spilling silently down her cheeks. Her heart ached so fiercely it felt like it might burst.

She didn’t understand how or why the child was here, but she knew one thing with cold certainty: he was alive, and he was in terrible danger.

If Cian discovered she had seen him, she might not live long enough to save him.

But Sasha knew she had to try.