And Blue Skies From Pain (14 page)

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Authors: Stina Leicht

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain
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“I don’t believe that assigning a nurse with no oversight power is enough, Your Grace.”
“All right.” Bishop Avery paused. “He’s well aware that as a doctor he lacks patient rapport. I can cite that as the reason for the change to Monsignor Paul. Then whoever is assigned as medical technician will be placed under your supervision. Is that enough?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“All right,” Bishop Avery said. “Your demands are granted.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you given much consideration as to what happens once your friend leaves the premises without being declared completely human?”
“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”
“The Order is aware of Mr. Kelly’s existence. He’s been categorized as a potential threat. Your position within the Order shielded him in the past. Now…” Bishop Avery said and shrugged. “Now is a different situation entirely.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I don’t intend it as such. With the Grand Inquisitor present… you need to be aware how your status affects Mr. Kelly—should it continue as it is.”
“You want me back in, is that it?”
“Joseph, listen—”
“I told you I’m no good to you as a Guardian.”
“Please listen,” Bishop Avery said. “We need you every bit as much as you need us. I’m aware of it, if you aren’t. You won’t make much headway if your loyalties are being questioned at every turn.”
“That doesn’t change my feelings on—”
“I understand your misgivings. They’re perfectly valid. However, does this mean you aren’t willing to use maximum force in the field, if it should be required?”
Father Murray swallowed and thought about the moments before the Bishop had arrived. “Ah, no.”
“I thought not,” Bishop Avery said and paused to blow air out of his cheeks. “There are consequences to your having resigned. For example, the weapons registered to you must be turned in. You’ll be defenceless, as will your charge. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“If you remain outside the Order, I can’t help you—much as I wish otherwise. I’ve already much to explain to the Prelate.”
Liam muttered in his sleep. He looked distressed. Certain it was another nightmare, Father Murray put a hand on his shoulder to reassure him, but Liam cried out and jerked away. The stained paper cover on the examination table crackled beneath him.
What else can I do?
Father Murray thought.
We need the Church’s resources. But returning to active service will grant the Church authority over me and my actions. If forced to choose, would I side with the Church? Without the Church, what can I believe in? What chance do we have? Two against thousands?
“All right.”
“Good. As of this moment you’re reinstated as a Guardian.”
“But I can’t promise—”
“You have independent status and a special assignment,” Bishop Avery said. “Liam Kelly and the Fey are to be your sole concern. Report directly to me. Father Thomas will stand in as needed from time to time, and I recommend keeping him informed. He will be signing your requisitions, after all. However, I want regular reports. Recommendations too. You’re the only one who can gain their trust. You’re the only one we’ve had close enough.”
“And Monsignor Paul?”
“The Grand Inquisitor reports solely to the Pope himself. You know that.” Bishop Avery held up a hand. “I’ll keep him directed elsewhere as much as possible and for as long as I can.”
“Thank you.”
“Do what you can. Convince the Fey to continue working with us. But remember there isn’t much time.”
“They aren’t going to like what I have to report.”
“They’re soldiers, and they’re at war as we are,” Bishop Avery said. “I suspect they’ll understand.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Chapter 6
 
Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
November 1977
 
 
 
T
he sky above Queen’s University had brightened to a dull grey by the time Father Murray stepped onto the cement walk outside the Order’s Belfast facility. Pulling his black wool overcoat tight, he breathed out white clouds that vanished an instant after forming. Several army vehicles thundered past. He turned up his coat collar and missed the gloves he’d forgotten in his rush to find Sceolán. The wind was up. A stray bit of newspaper rode gritty wind gusts, whirling like a lonely
céilí
dancer abandoned by his partner. Father Murray’s chest ached with the bitter cold. The sharp scent of winter reminded him that it’d be December soon—the Christmas season, a time filled with love, hope and anticipation for some, isolation for others.
He scanned the empty street where Sceolán had been last captured by the Order’s expensive surveillance cameras but didn’t see anyone. The Fey came and went for reasons of their own. That much was consistent with the old tales. Father Murray had recently observed that, unlike the Fallen, the Fey seemed reluctant to frequent city environments—although he couldn’t have said why. When left with no alternative, they tended to restrict their visits to terse whispered messages in empty gardens or church yards. In his experience, they didn’t make actual appearances in the city. If Sceolán had spent two days haunting a busy street, it was worth noting.
Not wishing to disturb the sleeping neighborhood, Father Murray waited twenty minutes before resorting to the only method he’d known to work. “Sceolán,” he said in a loud whisper. “I’ve news of your nephew. We must speak.”
A fresh blast of night air rustled down the street, setting the battered bit of newspaper on another forlorn dance.
“What is it, priest?” the question floated on the wind in a hollow echo.
What are the Fey? Are they specters that mirror centuries of legend? Earthbound ghosts trapped into echoing traumatic events in specific places?
Father Murray thought.
Will we ever know?
“Something has happened.”
The street remained empty.
“If speak we must, then speak,” came a quiet reply that could have easily been mistaken for the wind.
Father Murray reached inside his overcoat and under his shirt, tugging at the leather thong hanging around his neck until the ordinary-looking river stone looped on it emerged. He held the stone up to his right eye and scanned the area through the hole in the center while keeping his back to the surveillance camera. He spied Sceolán in front of a university building across the street. He was dressed as he’d been in the Bishop’s photo, casually leaning against a brick wall as if it were perfectly normal for a student to loiter on the street at this hour. He didn’t seem much bothered by cold or wind. His anorak gaped open, revealing the front of a dark t-shirt. The words
Wish You Were Here
were visible in large pink letters across the front.
No, not spirits tied to the past,
Father Murray thought.
If that were so, would Sceolán know of Pink Floyd? Or does he? Is it merely a disguise he puts on to pass for mortal when the need arises?
“Ah, now, that’s hardly playing fair,” Sceolán said. His lanky frame straightened, and he tapped his cheek below one eye with an index finger.
“I prefer to see the person I’m addressing,” Father Murray said and put away the holey stone. “Besides, I’d rather not wake those in much need of rest with unnecessary shouting.”
“Fair enough.” Sceolán shrugged and crossed the street.
Father Murray noted how solid Sceolán appeared for someone who’d been invisible but moments before.
“Well, then?” Sceolán asked.
“Let’s walk a bit.”
“You wish to speak unobserved, is it?” Sceolán punctuated his question with a nod in the direction of the camera. “You should be careful, priest. You’ll have me thinking you’ve no trust in your own.”
Father Murray wondered how it was Sceolán knew the exact location of the hidden surveillance camera but decided not to ask. “To be honest, I don’t. Not entirely.”
Sceolán laughed and shook his head. Long blond hair was blown over his shoulders and into his face. Looping wayward strands behind an ear, he paused and then winked. “In that, I can’t say as I blame you.”
Father Murray turned his back on the wind, hunched inside his coat, and proceeded down the walk. He used the silence to further consider how he was going to break the news. They passed several parked cars and then strolled past a wee grocer’s on the corner. The street was oddly vacant of troops. Father Murray wasn’t sure what that might mean. The moment they were out of the camera’s view the humor in Sceolán’s expression vanished and fierce danger glittered red in his eyes.
“How bad is it?” he asked. “He’s not dead. I’d know. And we’d not be talking, priest.”
Father Murray blinked. He’d seen the same flame in Liam’s eyes, and it never boded well when he did. For a moment Father Murray wished he hadn’t abandoned the Order’s security support. “How did you know?”
“I can smell his blood on you,” Sceolán said.
“And how is it that you know he’s alive?”
Sceolán gave him a sour smile. “We have our ways. And if I believed you wouldn’t inform the others of your kind, I’d consider telling you.” He shrugged. “As it is, I’m here to get answers not give them.”
“You have just cause for anger,” Father Murray said. “Liam’s shoulder was broken, but he’s been given proper medical treatment. He isn’t in any pain and is resting well.”
“He’s drugged and unable to leave of his own accord, you mean.”
“I’ll take responsibility. But let me explain—”
“It should prove an interesting listen, priest. However, the dawn is nearing. His father will be here soon, and my brother won’t be nearly as patient and understanding as myself,” Sceolán said. “You’d best get on with your excuses.”
Father Murray took a deep breath and decided to tell the whole truth, against what Bishop Avery would no doubt feel was his better judgment. It was possible the Fey were already aware of the effect demons had on humans, anyway. “Humans—”
“Mortals.”
“Mortals… are susceptible to demonic influence. The Fallen can use our weaknesses against us—psychological weaknesses.”
Sceolán looked bored.
“Demons can’t control hu—mortals. But they’ve been known to observe their victims, invisibly. They’ve used that knowledge to influence our actions.”
“Aye?” Sceolán asked. “And this has to do with our Liam how?”
“A security team attacked your nephew. They were under the influence of a demon. The team was removed. Liam is safe now.”
“Safe? If you’re here, who is watching over him?”
“Father Thomas. I trust him, or I’d not have left him alone with Liam.” Sceolán gave him an incredulous look. “Demons, you say? Of course you do. And with no proof of such, who is to say otherwise?”
“Liam,” Father Murray said.
“Aye? Would he, now?” Sceolán asked, shaking the hair from his face in defiance. “It’s a wee bit inconvenient for you that he’s been drugged senseless then, isn’t it?”
“Liam said he smelled something wrong. That the men stank. Does that mean anything to you?”
Sceolán paused. “He smelled the influence of the Fallen on mortals?”
Father Murray nodded. “I must know. Is that… normal for your kind?”
Again Sceolán hesitated. “I wouldn’t say normal. Not exactly.” Unease flashed across Sceolán’s face, and he seemed to come to a decision. “The Fallen cannot use us the way they use mortals, but they can change their visage. So done, we can’t know them for what they truly are until they reveal themselves. Only mortals have the power to sense their presence—and not all mortals at that. Those who can claim that ability say it comes to them in small ways. Even they’ve been known to miss the signs. Even so, such a thing, unreliable as it is, is better than none at all.”
“Interesting.”
“Such things run in mortal families. It’s one of the many reasons worthy mortals are brought across and counted among our numbers. When a child is born of one of us and a mortal who holds power—any sort of power… well… there’s no knowing how it might come out. But sometimes he’s gifted with talents from both parents.”
“I see,” Father Murray said. “Wait. From both parents, you say?” Sceolán nodded.
“Mrs. Kelly. I remember something Bran told me once. He said she had prevented him from seeing his son. That Mrs. Kelly had put a geas on him. I thought he’d meant only that she’d extracted an oath from him. There was more to it?”
“Powerful, she is,” Sceolán said with a smile. “Much to my brother’s frequent consternation. Keeps him on a tight lead, that one.” He shook his head. “It isn’t only the love that does it, you know. Otherwise, he’d have stolen his son from this place long ago. No matter the wishes of the mother. The mortal world holds great danger for our kind. There is a balance to such things. This place holds no love for that which does not belong, even if it once did. Much sorrow can come of it.”

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