Free The Last Killiney by J. Jay Kamp Page B

jealousy and so inviting an unnamed protector to defend Elizabeth from his abuse.
    “‘Whichever the real story, what is certain is how Lord Launceston died. He bled to death. The seventeenth-century rapier reputed to have delivered the fatal wound now hangs on the wall at Wolvesfield House, the identity of its owner having never been determined.’”
    David snapped the book shut. “And the rest just goes on about James’s travels in Honduras,” he said, stretching his arms, “but that’s all there is about Elizabeth and Killiney. Christian, on the other hand—”
    But Ravenna wasn’t listening. Her host chattered on about Christian’s picture in the National Gallery, about the shortness of Christian’s life, and all the while Ravenna let her thoughts wander. There was something here that begged to be noticed. It was the way David punctuated his sentences with heavy, swift gestures and stabs of his fork, the comfortable sprawl he displayed at the dinner table. As he went on talking, it persisted, this something, unnerving and familiar, coursing through her attention until she couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore, only how he was saying it: “We gave the National Gallery that painting, so why did they take it upon themselves to decide what year it was painted? And Christian, he wasn’t a furniture maker. I don’t know where…”
    His voice , that’s what it was. Laced with complaining and subtle anger, it stirred something in her. She found herself welcoming it, calling it forth. Suddenly she had the strangest impression—that a transparent photograph had been laid over David, his own picture, a portrait of him dressed in eighteenth-century clothes. It slipped over his features with ease, not quite matching, almost aligning, until finally he looked up and the full strength of his soul pierced her like a knife.
    The picture aligned itself perfectly then. Seeing his blond hair dusted with powder, his gray eyes sharp with insatiable need, she realized they were Christian’s eyes, Christian begging her not to forsake him when all the world pressed him to be something he could not .
    She gasped softly. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Her cousin Alia had said people reincarnated in groups, but had the diary and her imagination gotten the better of her senses?
    Then she realized he’d asked her a question. “I’m sorry,” she offered, shaking herself out of her transfixed condition. “What did you say?”
    He almost smiled when he averted his gaze. “I said, do you want to go to Dublin tomorrow? To Swallowhill? Find out who’s filling Killiney’s shoes?”
    For a split second, she heard warning bells—this man, this stranger , wanted to take her on an overnight trip? She’d known him for barely an afternoon. It wouldn’t be the smartest thing, and yet she remembered Alia’s words: Everything happens for a reason, Ravenna.
    * * *
    Their hotel outside Dublin was not much to look at. It sported a gorgeous sea-facing view, but more important was its location in Dalkey: On the same stretch of road, taking up a large portion of what Ravenna’s map called Sorrento Point, Swallowhill loomed above their accommodations.
    Surrounded by modern houses, Killiney’s former residence seemed the last remnant of a bygone Ireland, a fortress complete with all the trimmings. Perched above the Irish Sea at the edge of a rocky precipice, ancient towers of undressed stone rose from the water’s edge. The battlements and arrow loops, along with the height at which the few, small windows stood against the timeworn walls, revealed the extreme age of the fortification, for it wasn’t a nineteenth-century romantic reproduction. It certainly wasn’t Sleeping Beauty’s castle at Disneyland. Swallowhill was the pristine home of the ghosts of Killiney’s ancestors.
    Gazing up at its towers, shielding her eyes from the constant drizzle, Ravenna nudged her travel escort. “I thought this was a house? You said this was a