Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) by Jodi McIsaac Read Free Book Online

Why had she returned? Going to Mick’s funeral had been a bad idea. Too many memories. Too many reminders of everything that had been lost. They’d shared so much, the two of them, both blazing with hatred and the driving need for revenge. The fact that Mick had died so ignobly—in a pub brawl, of all things—would have been laughable if it weren’t so sad. He’d have hated to go out that way.
    Her eyes found an inscription on a nearby plaque that read, “To Ireland’s Glorious Dead.”
    “That’s shite, so it is,” she whispered to Eamon’s grave. “I’d rather Ireland be enslaved and you be alive.” She felt guilty for saying that. Most of Ireland was free now, but that had only been achieved out of the blood of its sons and daughters. Would she really prefer for the entire island to be back under the thumb of the British Empire, for her people to be dispossessed and landless and starving to death by the hundreds of thousands?
    All the same, she wished she could take Eamon’s place. If only there were more like him: softhearted, intelligent, and peaceful. Eamon would have been able to tell her what to do.
    She wiped at her eyes and rearranged the lilies she had brought in a silver vase, leaning them more securely against the stone. “I wonder what you would think of these strange dreams I’ve been having.” She tried to imagine what he would say. He’d think they were interesting, to be sure. He’d press her for details and then discuss all the possible meanings with her. He wouldn’t laugh at her. He’d probably say God was trying to speak to her.
    Maybe he was, but if so, she didn’t have a clue what he was trying to tell her. She could still picture the gray-haired man’s face clearly, and she could hear the sound of his voice as he begged her to come help him. He had told her to go to Kildare. To Brigid. But would he be in Kildare? Besides, hundreds of Irish women were called Brigid—how was she to know which one to look for? None of it made any sense.
    Which is why you should just forget it , she told herself.
    Dreams had no meaning in real life. She picked up some dirt from the ground and let it run through her fingers. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. This is all we are.
    A breeze blew behind her as she left the cemetery. Years ago, she’d sold the family home and bought a tiny flat near the center of the city. She rented it out most of the time, but it was between tenants at the moment. She let herself in, turned on the telly, and cracked open a beer. She sank into one of the two chairs in the living area and sighed. Bare-bones furnishing and a single suitcase of clothes—this was what she had to show for thirty years on the planet.
    She changed the channel to the news and immediately regretted it. Pictures of a ruined police station flashed across the screen. The stern-faced newscaster appeared beside the carnage and announced, “Today’s bombing killed two police officers, Sergeants Elizabeth Law and Stephen Mitchell. No one has yet claimed responsibility for the attack, but it brings into question the ongoing talks regarding a possible cease-fire.”
    She ran to the toilet and threw up.
    “Ballix!” She fumbled around for a cloth beside the sink and wiped her mouth. Then she stared up at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks flushed. “Can’t I get away from you?” she whispered.
    She brushed her teeth, then phoned for a cab.
    The doorman looked up at her in surprise as she stomped past him, her one suitcase in hand. “Hiya, Nora. Where you off to, then? You’ve only just arrived back.”
    “Anywhere but here,” she said, pushing open the glass door and heading out to the street, where her cab was waiting. “Central Station, please,” she said as the driver put her suitcase in the back.
    At the station, she bought a one-way ticket to Dublin. It wasn’t as far away as she would have liked, but it was far enough. For now. Besides, her aunt was