When Irish Eyes Are Haunting: A Krewe of Hunters Novella by Heather Graham

regularly. It wasn’t just church—it was where the villagers gathered and enjoyed one another’s company.
    There were lovely old side altars—many with tombs of a revered knight, perhaps, or even more modern warrior—one who might have died in the pursuit of independence for the Republic of Ireland.
    The main altar was very simple, marble in structure, and while he knew there were secular colors for each season, St. Patrick’s was now decked out in green. Beautiful tapestries with scenes of the days of Ireland’s patron saint covered the massive windows and the altar itself—even the runner that led from the front door to the altar.
    His eyes had barely adjusted when he saw a figure walking toward them. At first, in the shade of the church, he appeared to be some kind of a wraith, a fantastic creature of myth and legend bearing down upon them. Rocky quickly realized that he was a man in the long dark robes of a priest.
    “Hello, welcome to St. Patrick’s!” Father Flannery said in greeting, a soft, pleasant brogue causing a roll to his words.
    “Father Flannery,” Devin said. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I’m Kelly Karney’s cousin from America.”
    “Indeed, lass, aye, of course!” the priest said. He was a man in his mid-forties, Rocky thought, lean and tall, with sparkling blue eyes and sandy hair. His smile seemed sincere—as did his expression as his smile faded and he said, “I’m so sorry you’ve come at troubled times for the family, but, glad indeed that you’re here for them at such a time.” He turned to Rocky. “And, you, sir, are Mr. Craig Rockwell, husband to our Devin.”
    “I am,” Rocky said.
    “Truly, we’re so pleased that you’re both here,” Father Flannery said.
    “It’s a loving family,” Devin said. “I’m glad to be here.”
    “What do you think, Father Flannery?” Rocky asked. “There’s talk of banshees coming for all the Karney family.”
    “I’m a priest, young man. What do you think I think?” Flannery asked him, shaking his head. “I’m from County Cork and believe me, we have our tales there as well. We’ve created some of the world’s finest writers and storytellers—all because it’s nearly impossible here to grow up without learning about the Little People and our races of giants and, of course—our banshees.”
    “So—”
    “I think poor Collum was taken at the time our great Father above decreed, and that’s the way of life,” Father Flannery said.
    “A heart attack—plain and simple?” Rocky said dryly.
    Father Flannery sighed. “Brendan is just not convinced his brother died of natural causes. They were friends as well as brothers. Imagine a family where those not first in line for an inheritance don’t seem to give a whit—and just help out? Brendan can’t deal with the loss, and I’ve done my best to counsel him. That’s a reason many of us are so glad that you’re here—some American reason into the mix!”
    “Well, thank you,” Rocky told him.
    “Have you visited your uncle’s grave?” Flannery asked Devin.
    She glanced at Rocky before answering. Collum hadn’t really been her uncle .
    “No, I haven’t,” Devin said.
    “Come, I’ll take you out,” Flannery told them.
    They left the church by a rear door, heading along a stone path into the vast field of tombs and gravestones.
    There were modern markers in bronze and granite, ancient stone cairns, mausoleums and vaults. Rocky realized that Devin did know where they were going and that they were headed through the maze of memorials of the dead toward the far, westward edge and a vault built into a rise of rolling land.
    A chain of keys dangled from a belt at his robe and he opened the massive iron gate to allow them entry into the vault.
    Rocky wasn’t sure what he was expecting—perhaps shrouded corpses decaying upon dust-laden shelves.
    But that wasn’t the case. Fine marble covered all the graves. There were two large sarcophagi in the