Page 101 of Bonetide

“I don’t fucking know what I know,” I blurt, then I cover my mouth with my hand, eyes wide. “Sorry, didn’t mean to swear.”

“Aye, hen, you swear as much as you need to.”

I sigh and run my hand over my face, shaking my head. “This is going to sound crazy but…I discovered a box, and inside the box was a key, and the key opened a room upstairs, and in that room…”

“The paintings,” she states simply.

I blink at her in surprise. “You know about the paintings?”

“Your Effie was a great artist. She took great pride in her art, even those paintings she made of her neighbor. When I’d come to Tigh-na-Mara over the years, she would have them all over her walls. She didn’t let many people in, mind you, but she did me from time to time. I knew of her fascination with him. Couldn’t blame her, really.” She takes another sip of her tea and lets out a long sigh. “Then, the last time I came over, when she was doing poorly health-wise and we knew she’d have to get proper care soon, I noticed the paintings were no longer on the walls.”

Suddenly I’m picturing the walls around my bed clearly. The paintings that were gone, the blank spaces left behind. Those paintings had been there. She had Alasdair watching her as she slept.

“I just figured that those paintings had to go somewhere.”

“But…the paintings are all of him.”

“Aye.”

“They’re dated,” I say, hoping she’s picking up what I’m putting down.

“They are,” she confirms. She has that same way of direct answering that Alasdair does.

“He’s the same in every one. Every single one. From the sixties onward. He looks the same. You understand that’s crazy, right? He looks the fucking same.”

A long beat. She takes a nibble of her shortbread and gently wipes the crumbs from her lips.

“Aye, hen. He is the same.”

I take a breath.

“It’s not possible.”

“Many things aren’t until they are.”

Helpful.

“I want to know who he really is, what he really is,” I tell her.

She nods slowly.

“All right, hen. Ask away and I’ll tell ya. It’s better this way.”

Here I go. “He’s a vampire, isn’t he?”

She chuckles, which is a bit of a relief. “Good heavens. No. No vampire. Not sure they exist really, and if they do, I’ve never come across one.”

I never really thought Alasdair was a vampire. To be honest, I never really thought he was anything other than possibly an eccentric at best, and a serial killer at worst. I mean, he doesn’t have fangs, he walks about in broad daylight—as broad as it gets here—I’ve seen him eat garlic, and I’ve felt his heart beat. He’s not undead.

“Is he a…merman?” I ask next, because that’s also been nagging at me, the fact that he’s always swimming, even though I’m almost smiling as I say it because it sounds so ridiculous.

She shakes her head. “No, hen. There are no such thing as mermen. Mermaids, sure, though I’ve never seen ‘em. Rumor has it they died out a long time ago, or migrated to other parts of the world.”

“Uh. Okay. Selkie?” I mentally rummage through every mythological or supernatural creature.

“Selkies are real,” she confirms, “but he isn’t one. Selkies come up out of the sea, shed their skin, and walk about as men and women. They are beautiful and they are not safe, but they don’t drown women. They integrate, and marry, and break the hearts of the people they leave behind.”

I throw a hand up. “Okay, so what the hell is he then? Just…an immortal? Someone who sold his soul to the devil?” I pause. “Oh, I know! He’s Dorian Grey!”