Chapter 6
I woke alone the next morning, sunlight streaming through windows Rafferty had forgotten to close in our haste last night. A note on the pillow beside me explained his absence:
Had to leave early. Family business. Back in three days. Stay at my place if you want—mi casa es tu casa. Keys on the counter. -R
P.S. Sorry about your shirt. I’ll make it up to you.
I traced my fingers over his messy scrawl, trying to ignore the disappointment settling in my chest. Three days without him felt unexpectedly bleak, which was ridiculous given that I’d only known the man for two weeks.
And yet, here you are, in his bed, already missing him, my traitorous mind pointed out.
After a shower—during which I confirmed that Rafferty had indeed left several impressive marks on my neck and hips—I dressed in yesterday’s clothes minus the ruined shirt.
Luckily, Rafferty’s closet provided an alternative.
I selected a flannel that was comically large on my frame but smelled like him, which was oddly comforting.
His apartment felt strange without his overwhelming presence filling it.
I wandered through the open living area, taking in details I’d missed during our more…
energetic encounters. Photos on the wall showed Rafferty with various people who shared his auburn hair and green eyes—family, presumably.
Bookshelves held an eclectic mix of Irish literature, cookbooks, and to my surprise, several academic works on Celtic mythology.
But it was what I found in his home office that truly caught my attention.
The door wasn’t locked—why would it be, when the entire apartment was private?
Inside was a small room with a desk, computer, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
But unlike the casual disarray of the rest of his living space, this room was meticulously organized.
Leather-bound volumes lined the shelves, many looking ancient enough to make my historian’s heart skip a beat.
And there, on the center shelf, protected by a glass case, sat a book that looked older than the town itself. The cover was weathered leather, the binding cracked with age. Even from a distance, I could see the embossed symbol on the front—a wolf’s head surrounded by a Celtic knot.
This had to be the O’Sullivan family record Rafferty had mentioned—the one containing the original accounts of the Guardians.
I approached reverently, professional instincts overriding any concerns about privacy. This book could be the key to understanding Cloverton’s legends… and perhaps to understanding Rafferty himself.
My fingers had just touched the glass case when a sharp voice cut through the silence.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I spun around to find a woman standing in the doorway. She was tall and willowy, with the same auburn hair as Rafferty, though hers was styled in a sleek bob. Her green eyes—so similar to his—regarded me with cool assessment.
“You must be the professor,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’m Siobhan. Rafferty’s sister.”
“Dr. Eliot Byrne,” I confirmed, stepping away from the bookcase with what I hoped was casual nonchalance. “I was just…”
“Snooping?” Her smile was sharp. “Raff said you were curious. He didn’t mention you’d go through his private things while he was away.”
Heat crept up my neck. “I wasn’t—that is—Rafferty said I could stay here.”
“In his apartment, yes. Not in his office.” She entered the room, her movements graceful and predatory in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of her brother. “That book you were so interested in? It’s a family heirloom. Very old, very valuable, and very private.”
I cleared my throat. “I apologize. Professional hazard. I’m a historian specializing in folklore, and when I saw—”
“I know who you are and what you do.” She cut me off smoothly. “The question is, do you know what you’re getting into?”
There was something in her tone—a warning, perhaps, or a test. I straightened, meeting her gaze directly.
“If you’re referring to my relationship with your brother, I assure you it’s consensual and—”
She laughed, the sound startlingly similar to Rafferty’s booming laugh despite her slighter frame. “Oh, I’m well aware of how consensual it is. The entire town can practically smell you on each other.”
I blinked, thrown by her bluntness. “Then I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
Siobhan studied me for a long moment, her head tilted slightly as if listening to something I couldn’t hear. Finally, she sighed, some of the tension leaving her posture.
“Raff asked me to check on you. Make sure you were comfortable.” Her smile softened slightly. “He didn’t mention you’d be wearing his clothes.”
I glanced down at the oversized flannel. “He ruined my shirt. It seemed a fair trade.”
“I’m sure he did.” Her eyes flicked to the marks visible above my collar, and her smile turned knowing. “Full moon brings out the animal in him.”
Before I could respond to that loaded statement, she was turning toward the door. “Come on. I’ll make you breakfast, and you can tell me how a rational academic ended up in my brother’s bed.”
I followed her out of the office, closing the door firmly behind me. As we moved to the kitchen, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just passed some sort of test—but what the parameters were, or whether I’d succeeded or failed, remained unclear.
Siobhan moved through Rafferty’s kitchen with familiar ease, pulling out eggs, bacon, and bread for toast. I sat at the counter, watching her work.
“So,” she said, cracking eggs into a bowl, “you’re writing a book debunking our Guardian legend.”
“That was the original plan,” I admitted. “Now I’m not so sure what I’m doing.”
She shot me an amused glance. “Because of Raff?”
“Partially.” I hesitated, then decided honesty was the best approach.
“And partially because some things about this town don’t add up.
The legend is too consistent across generations.
The timing of certain historical events aligns suspiciously well with lunar cycles.
And then there’s your family’s connection to it all. ”
“Observant,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, louder, “Most outsiders don’t look that closely.”
“Most outsiders probably aren’t trained historians with a specialization in folklore analysis,” I pointed out.
She laughed again, sliding a plate of perfectly cooked eggs and bacon in front of me. “Fair point. So what’s your theory, Professor? What do you think is happening in Cloverton?”
I took a bite of eggs, buying time while I organized my thoughts. “I think there’s a kernel of truth behind the legend. Perhaps an organized group that has protected the town throughout its history, using the werewolf mythology as cover for their activities.”
“A secret society of wolf-costume-wearing vigilantes?” Her expression was carefully neutral. “That’s your rational explanation?”
Put that way, it did sound ridiculous. “I’m still working on the details.”
“Mmm.” She took a seat opposite me, cradling a mug of coffee. “And where does my brother fit into your theory?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I admitted. “Rafferty is…” I trailed off, unsure how to articulate the contradictions that made up the man I was increasingly infatuated with.
“Complicated?” she supplied.
“To say the least.”
Siobhan studied me over the rim of her mug. “He likes you, you know. More than liked, actually. I haven’t seen him this way about someone in… well, ever.”
The admission warmed something in my chest. “The feeling is mutual,” I said quietly. “Which makes his secretiveness all the more frustrating.”
“He has his reasons.” She set down her mug. “Some secrets aren’t just personal, Eliot. They affect others. Families. Communities.”
“You sound like him.”
“We were raised with the same values.” She leaned forward. “Let me ask you something. If you discovered that the Guardian legend was true—exactly as it’s told, with actual werewolves protecting the town—what would you do with that information?”
It was a hypothetical, clearly. A test of character rather than a genuine question. Still, I considered it carefully.
“Academically speaking, it would be the discovery of a lifetime,” I began slowly. “The confirmation of supernatural existence would revolutionize multiple fields of study.”
Her expression cooled. “So you’d expose it. For fame and academic glory.”
“I didn’t say that.” I met her gaze steadily. “Academically, yes, it would be significant. Personally? I’d have to consider the consequences of such a revelation. The impact on the town, on the… individuals involved.”
“On Rafferty,” she said pointedly.
“Yes,” I acknowledged. “On Rafferty.”
She nodded, seemingly satisfied. “He’s coming back tomorrow night.”
I blinked at the sudden change of subject. “He said three days.”
“He’s motivated to return early.” Her smile turned sly. “Can’t imagine why.”
Despite myself, I felt a flush creeping up my neck again. “Good to know.”
Siobhan stood, collecting our empty plates. “You’re welcome to stay here until he returns. Or come to the pub—I’m covering for him. Either way…” She fixed me with a look that was suddenly intense. “Stay away from the hills tomorrow night. Festival preparations and all that. Not safe for outsiders.”
The warning in her tone was unmistakable. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“See that you do.” She rinsed the plates and placed them in the dishwasher. “Raff would never forgive himself if something happened to you.”
With that ominous statement hanging in the air, she gathered her purse and headed for the door. “Lock up if you leave. And Professor?” She paused, hand on the doorknob. “Sometimes the simplest explanation isn’t the rational one. Sometimes it’s the one staring you right in the face.”
Before I could respond, she was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a growing suspicion that I was missing something obvious about Rafferty O’Sullivan and his family’s connection to the Guardians of the Green.