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

there, and she needed to see a friendly face.
    When she arrived, she checked into the first hotel she found and collapsed onto the bed. She was both relieved and depressed that absolutely no one knew where to find her.
    She had the dream again that night for the first time since leaving Darfur. They were standing in a barren courtyard this time, surrounded by high stone walls. The ground at their feet was stained red.
    Her pulse quickened as he grabbed her hands and pulled her close. “Nora,” he said, his eyes flickering. “You must not delay. You must come at once. Please, I beg you.”
    “I still don’t understand why . . . or how,” Nora said, unable—unwilling—to look away. “Where are you? Who are you?”
    But there was a roar of gunfire, and they both fell to the ground.
    Nora sat upright in bed, awoken by her own scream. She listened, but the night was silent around her. Five a.m. Determined to shake off the dream, she took a shower, then grabbed her coat and umbrella and headed out onto the streets of Dublin.
    Kildare was only an hour away. She’d come this far, all the way from Sudan . . .
    She shook her head. It was just a dream.
    But was it? The very night the stranger had told her to go to Kildare, she’d found out about Mick’s death, which had drawn her back to Ireland for the first time in several years . . .
    Don’t be daft.
    She went to a café and waited until it was a reasonable hour, then pulled out her cell phone and rang her aunt Margaret.
    “Hiya, Auntie Margaret, it’s Nora.”
    “Nora, love, how are ye? Where are ye, I should be askin’?”
    “I’m in Dublin, actually. Mind if I pop round for a visit?”
    “Do you even have to ask? Come on over; I’ve got the kettle on. Do you need me to collect you?”
    “I’m grand, ta. I’ll take the bus. See you soon.”
    Twenty minutes later Nora was enveloped in the warm embrace of her father’s younger sister. Margaret’s salt-and-pepper hair was pinned up in a loose bun, and her dark eyes sparkled as she held Nora at arm’s length to inspect her.
    “You’re as skinny as ever, child. You look like a Biafran!”
    Nora flushed. “We don’t really use that term anymore, Auntie.”
    Margaret raised a dark eyebrow. “No? Well, whatever you want to call it, you need feeding. Have a seat while I fetch us some scones and tea.”
    Nora relaxed into the sofa. Black-and-white photographs stood on the mantle over the fireplace. Jesus smiled benignly at her from a frame on the wall. Years had passed since Nora’s last visit, but her aunt’s sitting room hadn’t changed since she was a kid.
    When Margaret was twenty, she had met and married a man from Dublin. Nora and Eamon had visited her a few times as kids, but the relationship was strained by Margaret’s disapproval of her brother’s politics. After Nora’s da had been killed, the visits to Margaret had stopped altogether. But even though they weren’t close, Nora had always been interested in this stately woman, who always wore her hair up and made the best scones Nora had ever tasted.
    “Where’s Uncle Peter?” Nora asked when her aunt came back into the room. She gratefully accepted a cup of tea and a scone.
    “He’s down to the races today,” Margaret said. “I’ll not be expecting him back ’til after tea. So what brings you to Dublin? Last I heard you were in some war zone in Africa.”
    “Sudan. I’m on ‘rest and relaxation.’ It’s mandatory every few months for humanitarian workers. Helps us keep our sanity.” She attempted a smile but ended up grimacing into her teacup.
    “Ach, aye, I can imagine. Have you been up home, then?”
    “Just for a couple of days. A friend of mine died, so I went home for the funeral. But there was another bombing, and . . .” She hesitated, not sure how to explain her abrupt flight from Belfast. “I don’t know. I just felt like getting out.”
    Margaret nodded soberly. “I understand. I felt that way when I was