The Shamrock Killer

Chapter Thirteen: Jealousy

I woke up Monday morning at 6 a.m. (which was really early for me) with a blistering headache. I peeked my eyes open a crack, and the world began to swim before me, a kaleidoscope of colors. My hands groggily picked the sleep out of eyes and my nose felt like a crustacean. Well, a shower and some moisturizer would fix out.

The cold air heralded the turn of the seasons, and my bedroom was not the exception. The cold had started creeping underneath the door and through the window after midnight, and when I awoke that morning, it was as cold as a tomb. 

I jumped out of bed and into the shower quickly and scrubbed my scalp furiously with my magnolia scrub, trying to figure out just how I would tell Declan and Rory. I could just see it:

Um, guys, so like there's a reason I keep finding the dead bodies. And it has to do with Morrigan, the Goddess of Death, who keeps appearing to me and like, oh, Rory, I saw Patrick. He's doing well, I mean he's dead, but like-

Yeah. Not looking forward to it. They wouldn't believe me, probably call me crazy, and definitely walk away. 

I finished rinsing my head and stepped out of the shower. Steam had all but encompassed the bathroom, and the mirror was dripping with condensation. I wrapped myself in my towel and stepped forward to wipe my hand across it. When I was younger, I had always drawn faces in the mirror and looking at the blank canvas, I was tempted. 

But finding dead bodies changes a person and I settled for just clearing the mirror.  A few swaths later and I was staring at myself. At least my skin had some color back in it and I no longer looked like the corpses I had been finding recently. My dark blue eyes didn't look lifeless anymore either, instead I saw a spark of well, something at least, in them. My black hair was starting to dry and curl at the bottom, and I figured I would just let it dry naturally. It would probably be dry before I left the house anyway. 

I turned to grab a towel to put my hair up and something flashed in the corner of my eye. I froze, staring at my panicked eyes in the reflection of the mirror, counting the drips of water coming from the faucet, waiting for the jump scare that never came, and scanned the room quickly but there was nothing. 

Then I felt the careless whisper of feathers on the exposed skin at the back of my neck. I jumped, struggling to keep my towel wrapped around me and swat at the back of my neck at the same time. I gritted my teeth. I was starting to hate birds. 

The skin at the back of my neck was dry and itchy, as if it was cracking, but that was impossible. I had just gotten out of the shower. At the most, it should be wet. I craned my head and neck to see what was there, if anything. Maybe some lotion would fix it. if I angled just right, maybe, I could see the back of my neck in the mirror.

Yes, victory! With a little finagling, I rotated my shoulder sharply so I could see and-

What. The. Hell.

A dark green, almost insipid black, shamrock was sketched on the back of my neck. Dead center. Almost has if it had been purposely tattooed on. On the back of my neck. 

A shamrock, identical to the one I had found on Patrick and Grandpa. 

The sudden remembrance brought back the feeling of when I had first found their bodies. Both had been cold by the time I had reached them. My spidey-senses had failed me. 

My mind raced to form conclusion and weigh the implications of this. On one hand, it meant I was closer to finding the killer, but on the other, it meant they were coming to kill me next.

I mean, that had to be it, right? Unless one of the triplets just tattooed me in my sleep for funsies...

I shivered deeply and gripped the edge of the porcelain sink. The cold was starting to sink into my bones and my hair, still unbound, dripped water all over the bathroom floor.