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Authors: Stina Leicht

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BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain
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Six shots remaining.
The demon looked up at him and grinned. Joseph fired twice more, hitting the creature again in the chest. It laughed. Someone screamed. Father Jackson hurled himself at the thing. Unwilling to risk being controlled or shooting Father Jackson, Joseph lifted the barrel of the Browning and dropped behind the balcony wall. He scurried in a crouch to a new position and peered over the ledge.
Father Jackson had brought the thing down with a full body tackle. He lifted a fist and punched the demon in the face. The fallen angel didn’t resist. It laughed as its blackening face smoldered. Father Jackson hit it again and again. Its laughter didn’t cease even as the smoke thickened and dark red embers flickered underneath its cracking skin.
Joseph scanned the area. Unable to spy any other targets, he decided it was safe enough to risk leaving his position.
Something is wrong.
He sprinted as fast as he could. By the time he reached Father Jackson the demon was a pile of stinking ash and burned clothing. Father Jackson knelt in the dust, blistered hands clenched around fistfuls of filthy rags.
“Father?” Joseph asked. There were three doors along the wall to his left and two more on the right. He needed to secure them, but he was worried about Father Jackson. “It’s gone now. Dead. Father?”
Father Jackson turned and wiped his face with a wince, leaving a smudge of foul ash on his wet cheeks. His eyes were distant. He blinked.
“Father?”
Father Jackson’s eyes began to slowly focus. “Joseph?”
“Yes, Father. It’s me.”
Father Jackson blinked again. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes.” He coughed and sniffed and wiped his hands on his shirt. Again he flinched. “Have you secured the perimeter?” He stumbled to his feet. The mask of professionalism had shifted back into place. His clothes were thick with dark grey dust but not burned. Apparently, the only skin affected was in direct contact with the demon.
“No, Father. I—”
A loud crash from the original passage caused them both to turn. The thump-thump of heavy footsteps were accompanied by the rattle and clink of military-grade weapons and equipment. “Father Drager? Father Jackson? Are you here?”
“Here!” Father Jackson attempted to slap the dust off and winced with a hiss of pain. Gazing down at himself, he sighed. “Help me see to Father Drager.”
Joseph nodded.
They use your weaknesses to control you.
So he’d been told. Now he knew.
Four Guardians emerged from the passage. Two rushed to treat Father Jackson’s burned hands and help with Father Drager while the others began a search of the area. It took some time, but they were finally able to get Father Drager free without hurting him. His arm was badly broken, and he’d suffered a number of bad cuts. None appeared bad enough to account for the state of catatonic shock, however. He stared, sightless into a distant past or a horror-filled future, alive but unresponsive. A stretcher was sent for and brought in. One of the others presided over Father Wright, giving the mangled corpse the Last Rites. While Father Drager was being tended, Joseph decided to help investigate the other rooms.
He entered the remaining unchecked room and regretted it almost at once. The stench was terrific. Coughing, he struggled to maintain control over his stomach. Four children blinked up at him from the darkness, their frail hands held up to shield their eyes from the abrupt invasion of light. They appeared to range in ages from four to twelve or thirteen. Starved, half-naked, filthy and bruised, it was almost impossible to tell boys from girls. Each was chained to the wall by the ankles. He would’ve mistaken them for human but for the predator’s eyes reflecting the light pouring into the tiny room with a reddish-yellow glow. He was about to turn away when he spied a silvery sheen to the third child’s eyes. Thinking it might be a trick of the light, he looked closer. It was subtle and could’ve easily been missed, but the silver glint remained. He studied and compared the other children.
“The light hurts,” a six-year-old said, shying away.
“Shhh. I’m sorry. It will be all right. I need to see your eyes,” Joseph said.
“Don’t you believe him,” the oldest boy said, lisping through broken teeth.
Father Murray discovered that three of the four children’s eyes reacted in the same odd way—again, only if he searched for it and only if the light struck their irises at a particular angle. However, the last child’s didn’t.
Interesting. I wonder if anyone has noticed this before?
The boy with the broken teeth appeared to be the oldest, and he stared back at Joseph with a face filled with hate.
They aren’t human,
Joseph thought, knowing full well each of their bruised faces would be with him to the end of his days in spite of that fact.
But does that excuse what was done to them?
As if in answer to the questions rising in Joseph’s mind, one of the other Guardians spoke behind him. “Demon spawn. All of them.”
Jesus Christ, look at them,
Joseph thought.
Does it matter what they are? They suffer. They feel pain.
The Fallen had been present in this place. So it had been reported.
But the creatures weren’t in charge. Who could knowingly do this to them? And beneath one of our own orphanages?
He was about to voice his objections when the doorway darkened.
“What is that trainee doing here?”
Joseph turned to face an angry Guardian with greying brown hair, a thin nose and square face. The accent was definitely Limerick. The Order of Milites Dei operated in secrecy. Therefore, there was no such thing as a uniform for Guardians nor recognizable markers of rank. The priest’s attitude was enough to command respect, however.
“I’m Probationary Guardian Joseph Murray, Father,” Joseph said. “I’ve been assigned to Guardian Jackson.”
The priest from Limerick glared at him. “Benjamin?”
It took several minutes, but Father Jackson finally appeared. Both of his hands were swathed in thick bandages.
“Yes, Monsignor Paul,” Father Jackson said.
“Why did you bring a trainee into a combat area?” Monsignor Paul asked.
Joseph watched Father Jackson’s face for some clue as to his fate.
I disobeyed my orders. Will I be barred?
“With respect, Monsignor Paul, I don’t believe that now is the appropriate time or place for this discussion,” Father Jackson said.
“I understand he was ordered to stand guard at the entrance to the root cellar,” Monsignor Paul said.
Father Jackson lowered his head. “That was the original order given. However, circumstances—”
“Did you order him to leave his post?”
Father Jackson sighed. “He took it upon himself to do so.”
“Very well,” Monsignor Paul said. “We will address this issue later. For now, Probationary Guardian Joseph Murray, you will be placed on suspension. Upon completion of this field assignment, you will report to the facility in Waterford for an examination and a tribunal. Understand?”
Joseph felt the blood drain from his upper body down into his feet.
A tribunal?
“With respect, isn’t that somewhat harsh? He saved my life as well as the life of Father Drager.”
“Enough,” Monsignor Paul said. “We will discuss this later. For now, he’ll assist with the clean up.” With that, Monsignor Paul turned and walked away.
“Father, I don’t understand—”
Father Jackson lowered his voice. “Joseph, there is more going on here than you know.” He sighed. “We’ll discuss it later. Try not to worry. For now, we’ve much to do.”
 
The orphanage was evacuated, the staff removed for questioning, and the evidence in the dungeon below destroyed. So it happened that an hour before dawn, Joseph stood exhausted in the field outside and watched the orphanage burn. He tried not to think of the blood on his hands or the faces of the ones laid to rest. The
Gardai Siochána
, as the constabulary were called in the south, would report the victims as casualties of a tragic fire caused by faulty electrical wiring.
It was a mercy,
Joseph reassured himself. Upwind from the smoke, he breathed in clean sea air and struggled with doubts.
A mercy.
Movement in the flickering semi-darkness caught his eye, and he spotted a wounded boy fleeing the burning building. The boy stopped, his singed face reflecting the flames of terror and hate. Joseph looked into the lad’s eyes and recognized him as the oldest boy from that tiny room. It was then that Joseph understood something about himself. They stared at one another for seven heartbeats—the boy, poised to sprint for his life, and Joseph, waiting for some sort of sign from God. At the last, Joseph was unable to stand the thought of another murder. He looked the other way while the boy escaped into the open field.
Joseph told no one, but every night he dreamed.
Chapter 1
 
Somewhere Outside Ballynahatty,
County Down, Northern Ireland
November 1977
 
 
 
L
iam Kelly stood in the middle of a starlit dooryard with his hands in the air and cursed the day he’d met Father Murray.
“What are you doing here?” the farmer asked from shadows cast by the light pouring out of an open cottage door.
As threats went, the hayfork in the farmer’s palsied hands could be categorized in the vicinity of worrisome. In Liam’s specific case, however, it could be argued whether the real danger was in the old iron used by four generations of farmers or the remote possibility of tetanus. Regardless, both risks were considerably outranked by the three hastily dressed men lurking in the shadows near the barn—three men who obviously didn’t belong on a farm.
“Sorry to be disturbing you. I lost my way, is all,” Liam said, again cursing Father Murray, not that the situation was actually the priest’s fault. Liam was the one who’d decided to get some air. Naturally, he’d been in a rage at the time. He’d argued with Father Murray about the current plan to forge a peace agreement between the Catholic Church and the Fey. At the last, Father Murray had been giving him shite about how he, Liam, needed to take control of his life and stop running from one bad situation and into another. Now that Liam had cooled off he was beginning to rethink matters.
The presence of deadly weapons tended to do that to him.
“On your way somewhere, is it?” the youngest of the three asked and stepped into the shaft of light. It darkened his features and outlined his form in gold. He held a Kalashnikov at the ready and was wearing a long brown leather coat with a fur collar the likes of which would’ve easily fit in on an American television program featuring pimps named after affectionate ursines. The lad looked to be about sixteen.
Which,
Liam thought,
would explain the atrocious taste in outdoor apparel.
For fuck’s sake, he hasn’t outgrown the spots on his face.
“Do we know you?” the spotty boy asked. His accent made Liam think of Derry.
“Don’t think you do,” Liam said.
At least, I fucking hope not,
he thought.
Things are complicated enough as it is.
Although Derry had been home for most of his life, he’d been away for five years if one counted the prison time. He hoped that absence, combined with the new beard and punk-cropped hair, would serve as a sufficient disguise in the darkness.
Against his better judgment, he gave the men closer scrutiny. He didn’t recognize any of them, which was good. It was a cold night, but he could see that one of them was barefoot and the second hadn’t had time to button his shirt and coat. The third, the speaker, was fully dressed and alert.
The sentry,
Liam thought.
“And what is your name, then?” The spotty boy’s voice cracked with the tension, making him sound about twelve.
Although there was little in the way of light, Liam made out part of a tattoo on the tallest man’s chest. It appeared to be a banner. The script scrawled inside was impossible to read—half concealed as it was, but Liam decided to bet his life that if it contained a date, that date was Easter 1916 and not July 1690. Liam addressed the two men in the shadows and attempted to use the Belfast in his voice to camouflage the Derry. “I’m Liam from Andytown.” Liam was a common enough name among Catholics, and Andersonstown was a Nationalist estate.
“You’re a long fucking way from West Belfast, son.” It came as no surprise that the older, more authoritative voice came from the taller man with the tattoo. His tone was hard and neutral with a hint of disapproval but that was to be expected.
There’ll be more of them. All are sure to be armed,
Liam thought.
So, where are they?
“Aye. So what?”
“And what’s your business here, Liam from Andytown?” the authoritative man with the tattoo asked. His clipped Derry working-class dialect matched the kid’s.
The real question was, what were the three men doing here? Were they paramilitaries or were they smugglers? They weren’t Loyalists otherwise they’d have shot him dead the instant he’d revealed himself for a Catholic. On the other hand, the likelihood of a Republican recruit getting the piss knocked out of him for dressing like an American pimp was high—too high to make either the Provisional or even the Official IRA a sensible option. Liam glanced again at the boy in the fur-collared coat. His face was set in a determined expression.
BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain
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