Blood

I remember being young and someone telling me—or perhaps I just overheard it—that it always rains or snows on the day of a funeral because the angels up in heaven are crying for the dead. If that really is true not even Justin’s mother has a tear to shed at his passing since the sky is as clear as the water in a brook.

As the preacher reads from a little black book, one of his alter boys puts a torch to the oil covering the pyre, lighting it with a whoosh and a crackle, like breaking bone.

Within seconds I’ve lost sight of my brother’s body.

Not that it makes a difference, he’s dead after all. Dead at my own hand.

Spirits save whatever dark and shrivelled soul I may have.

Even as the air picks up the smell of burning flesh, it still doesn’t feel real. How can Justin Fionn, thief of hearts, be dead?

And yet here it is. I killed him, and then I tried to kill Lorna Owens as well. Yet my father still doesn’t seem to see how truly retched I am.

When he came home, Justin dead and me with a kitchen knife half buried in my wrist—I must be some kind of fucking coward to have not used my iron knife—he’d been upset of course. I mean, he wouldn’t have been human if he wasn’t, but he hadn’t been upset with me, when he should have shot me. Instead he told me that I was being selfish and took the knife away.

So I’m not surprised when my father claps my shoulder as he walks past, trying to give some comfort, but it makes me feel even more ill than I had before.

I tell myself that I have to look away from the pyre if I want to stay sane. Nobody else is still focused on it, like I am. Once the preacher stops talking, everyone’s back to gossip and frivolities, same as it has gone at every funeral I’ve ever been to.

Most of the Island’s here, as only makes sense. Half of the girls are ones Justin had bedded, then the rest would have come out of courtesy, well, other than George. George has made up his mind that he hates me completely now, just like everyone else should have.

I don’t know how the Island found out what happened on Sunday, but after four days, I don’t think there’s an Islander that doesn’t know.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone on Faer is a horrible gossip, but other than my father and I…I mean, there was Lorna, but she doesn’t seem the type. Mind you, I’d thought she’d been the type to kill me when she had the chance, and she didn’t.

The worst part about the Islanders knowing isn’t what one would expect, either. If they were bloody sane, they would all look at me even worse than they had before, but a good third of them think I’m some kind of damned hero. What kind of people love you for killing your own brother?

“Mal,” says a woman’s voice beside me. For little more than a second I’m terrified that it’s Lorna, until I recognise Cynthia Quigley’s voice.

I glance at her and try to think of something to say. I can’t. Think of something to say, I mean.

Cynthia rests her hand on my arm. I shiver without meaning to. On one hand I hope she doesn’t notice, but then she shouldn’t be touching me. Why would she want to touch me after I killed the father of her baby?

“Mal, you have nothing to be sorry for,” she says, “Nothing at all.”

I think I glower at her for the briefest of moments before I’m able to get my face under control.

Cynthia shakes her head. “You think Justin would have wanted you to blame yourself for what this…this…thing did to him?” she sounds like she’s about to cry.

Yes, I think, If only he had have known…

But instead I just shrug.

“Mal,” she starts to say.

And this is when I realise that I’m being cruel to her. “I’m sorry,” I say, although I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to say. I can’t tell her I’m sorry for her loss and I don’t think I can apologise for being a jackass either.

Cynthia’s forehead wrinkles. “I just told you not to be sorry.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“You could ask about my baby,” she suggests.

I force myself to smile. “How’s your baby?”

“Fatherless and grumpy,” she says, smiling slightly.

I frown. I don’t know what kind of reply she wants.

But Cynthia just smiles bigger. “You’re too serious, Mal.”

Don’t mourn their death, celebrate their life. That was what the Islanders preached after you lost someone.

Cynthia rolls her eyes. It looks unnatural with them being so red and swollen. “And I suppose it would be too much to ask you to lighten up, wouldn’t it?”

I shrug, looking back towards my brother’s pyre.

I shouldn’t feel like I do. I should be rational and understand that the faerie that had stolen his body has like as not killed Joanna Hather, that even if I had been able to get my brother back they would have likely hung him for murder since there’s little to no chance the woman will be getting better. I wish I could feel like that…then again, I don’t really deserve to feel right. I mean, it’s not just my brother and my father and Cynthia and George that I’ve hurt. I have been absolutely terrible to Lorna as well.

I look back at Cynthia

“Alright,” She says. She’s looking at something over my shoulder, but then looks back at me. “But there is something I want to ask you.”

I know I’m supposed to respond, and so I search my mind for what would be polite.

Cynthia continues before I can find it. “You said to Justin and me that you’d be our baby’s godfather.”

It’s both a question and a statement. The question is if I remember, if I meant it. The statement is that I did, that my brother is now dead and thus responsibility for the child has now shifted to me.

So I say, “I meant it.”

Cynthia smiles, sadly this time. “Good.”

She hugs me, which is a bit confusing. I understand that she’s grateful that I’ll look after her and her boy, but it’s also my fault that she didn’t already have someone.

Cynthia pulls away and says, “You’re a good man, Mallory Fionn,” before walking off, either to talk to someone else or head back to the house.

After a funeral, it’s customary to have some form of gathering either at the pub or someone’s home. Seeing as my father hasn’t been to the pub in a few years, he decided to have the funeral party at our home.

I don’t know if I can take it all.

At least there’ll be a lot to drink.

I glance around myself and meet a number of eyes for fractions of sections, eventually falling upon Lorna Owens.

Fucking shit.

This is going to be a night to forget.