Who Buries the Dead by C. S. Harris EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: C. S. Harris
- Language: English
- Genre: Historical Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Sunday, 21 March 1813
They called it Bloody Bridge.
It lay at the end of a dark, winding lane, far beyond the comforting
flicker of the oil lamps of Sloane Square, beyond the last of the
tumbledown cottages at the edge of a vast stretch of fields that showed only
black in the moonless night. Narrow and hemmed in on both sides by high
walls, the bridge was built of brick, worn and crumbling with age and
slippery with moss where the elms edging the rivulet cast a deep, cold
shade.
Cian O’Neal tried to avoid this place, even in daylight. It had been
Molly’s idea to come here, for on the far side of the bridge lay a deserted
barn with a warm, soft hayloft that beckoned to young lovers in need. But
now as the wind tossed the elms along the creek and brought the distant,
mournful howl of a dog, Cian felt the hard, pulsing urgency that had driven
him here begin to ebb.
“Maybe this ain’t such a good idea, Molly,” he said, his step lagging.
“The barn, I mean.”
She swung to face him, dark eyes shiny in a plump, merry face. “What’s
the matter, Cian?” She pressed her warm, yielding body against his, her
voice husky. “You havin’ second thoughts?”
“No. It’s just . . .”
The wind gusted up stronger, banging a shutter somewhere in the night,
and he jerked.
To his shame, he saw enlightenment dawn on her face, and she gave a
trill of laughter. “You’re scared.”
“No, I ain’t,” he said, even though they both knew it for a lie. He was a
big lad, eighteen next month and strong and hale. But at the moment, he felt
like a wee tyke frightened by old Irish tales of the Dullahan.
She caught his hand in both of hers and backed down the lane ahead of
him, pulling him toward the bridge. “Come on, then,” she said. “How ’bout
if I cross first?”
It had rained earlier in the evening, a brief but heavy downpour that left
the newly budding leaves of the trees dripping moisture and the lane
slippery with mud. He felt an icy tickle at the base of his neck and tried to
think about the sweet warmth of the hayloft and the way Molly’s soft, eager
body would feel beneath his.
They were close enough to the bridge now that Cian could see it quite
clearly, its single arch a deeper black against the roiling darkness of the sky.
But something wasn’t quite right, and he felt his scalp prickle, his breath
catch, as the silhouette of a man’s head loomed before them.
“What is it?” Molly asked, the laughter draining from her face as she
whirled around and Cian started to scream.
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