Incomplete
Chapters:
24/?
Focus:
Cillian MacDuff & Owen Hayes
Story:
Magic and murder go hand in hand, if you're a blood witch. Cillian MacDuff is certainly not one. But when strange symbols start showing up alongside ever-increasing mangled corpses...
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November 22, Sunday
It had been a week since the last murder scene, but Cillian had not contacted Owen about another one, and it was all that he had been able to think about at mass that morning. When the last of the people filed out, he was all too eager to change into something less formal and be on his way to the druid's apartment.
Leo caught him on his way out.
"Visiting the witch?"
"Yeah," Owen said. Then, suspicious, he asked, "Why?"
"You should invite him for our Thanksgiving dinner here, since they don't celebrate it in Ireland."
Owen frowned. He processed the information, then realised exactly how ridiculous it was that he'd assumed it to be an international holiday. "Right. They wouldn't. You sure?"
"I'm sure," Leo replied. "He's oddly compelling and I'd like a chance to talk with him again."
Owen nodded. "Okay. He probably won't turn down an offer of food. I'll ask. See you later."
"Have fun," Leo replied somewhat sarcastically, waving him off.
It was a little less than half an hour to walk to Cillian's, which gave Owen plenty of time to think. It also gave him plenty of time to make himself nervous about meeting Cillian's friend. He'd said she was from Ireland on a school visa, but hadn't told Owen much more than that.
Getting up to the door to Cillian's penthouse, Owen hesitated to knock. He wasn't sure if he should have brought a gift for her, though he had no idea what would impress a girl from across an ocean that he'd never met and whose name he didn't know. Sighing, he nervously rapped his knuckles against the wood. He heard shouting in Gaelic from behind the door, and then it was wrenched open so violently Owen wondered how the hinges didn't give out.
The girl in front of him was about average in size, shorter than Owen but taller than Cillian. She had short, bright red ringlets styled in a way that rather suited her youthful face. Bright blue eyes looked up at him from beneath her bangs, and a smattering of freckles dusted her fair cheeks like cinnamon on cream. She was, objectively, one of the prettiest girls Owen had ever seen.
"You don't look like a priest," she said in an accent very nearly as thick as Cillian's.
"That's because I changed my clothes before coming over," Owen said, hoping it was the right answer.
It seemed to be, because she laughed and he liked the way she smiled.
"Cillian!" she shouted, followed by something Owen didn't understand.
Cillian came to join her at the door moments later. There was flour in his hair and on his black clothes. "You can let him in, Ais."
The girl looked at Owen, and then at Cillian. "He looks just like Diarmuid."
