Liam sighed again. That hurt worse, and he let out a hiss of pain. He was exhausted, his legs were officially trembling, and he’d be lucky to get back to his bed before falling flat. He was well and truly out of time. If she was here to murder him there’d be fuck all he could do about it. “Come on up.” He stumbled to the hearth, using the wooden plank as support.
Eirnín cautiously entered the room and took in her surroundings. He couldn’t help noticing how graceful she was. Her hair was loose and reached down to her hips in waves. He fought an urge to touch it.
“Is this the best your da can do for you?” She sighed. “Clan Baíscne are worse off than I thought.”
“Are you here to criticize my fine accommodations or talk?” Liam asked and settled back down into his bedding with another pain-filled hiss.
Concern flashed across her features. “How bad is it?”
“I’ll do,” Liam said. “Talk already, will you?”
“The clans must cooperate with one another. The fighting has to stop.” She sat on the floor next to the fire and out of his reach.
“And exactly how do you propose to do such a thing?” He sorted his blankets. It suddenly came to him that he was feverish.
Maybe she’s only a fever dream? Well, if I’m dreaming I’m fucked. Aye?
“We could make an appeal to the High King.”
Liam let out a grunt of disbelief from the back of his throat. He was so tired. “And if Cairbre Lifechair is half the arsehole in person as he is in the stories, that will go far.”
“Do you have any better suggestions?”
He laid back and relaxed for a moment. The room attempted a slow and nauseating roll to the left. Now the blankets were too warm. His face itched. He wanted and needed a shower and a shave. “Let me think on it.” The short trip to the doorway had taken its toll. His eyelids grew heavy. He reconsidered resting and peered through half-closed eyelids at Eirnín. His mind drifted. He found himself wondering what a merrow would look like naked. They were not much different than mermaids from what his aunt had told him.
Except they wear a red feathered cap to help them breathe under water.
Would she have scales and fins under those clothes?
Quit that, now.
“Well, don’t think too long,” she said and then made a face. It did little to mar her good looks. “This place stinks.”
“No plumbing.”
“It’s cold too. And dark.”
“Energy efficient. No heat. No electric.”
She pointed up at the hole in the roof. “I can see why you chose this place.”
Staring up at the cloud-drenched sky, he said, “That? It’s my wee observatory. I like to study the stars in my free time.”
She shook her head. “You should come with me. You’ll freeze to death here.”
“No.” He shivered. Now he was cold again.
For fuck’s sake.
His mouth was dry. Where was his father?
“Why? You already know I won’t harm you.”
He gave her a look. “I’ve my reasons.”
“Fine.” She got up, offended. “I’d best go before your da gets back.”
I have to know.
“One last question,” he said, the words slipping out before he knew it.
The fever talking, no doubt.
“If—if you don’t mind.”
She turned in the doorway to face him. The warm firelight did wonderful things to her complexion. Her eyes were big, dark, and wide. Her wavy black hair was pushed over her shoulders, and a bright red hair clip was fastened on each side of her head. She was wearing a blue coat over a sweater and skirt combo with white tights. He tried not to stare at her legs.
“You don’t look like any merrow I heard of. Where are your webbed fingers?”
“And you don’t look like a six-foot rabbit named Harvey. What’s your point?”
“I’m only half.”
“Half what?”
“Half púca. Half mortal.”
“So am I,” she said, smiling a little. “Half merrow, that is.”
“You are?”
She rolled her eyes. “I said so, didn’t I?”
“So, I’m not the only half-breed?”
“Of course not, you idiot,” she said. The smile stayed in place on her full lips. She wasn’t wearing lipstick. She didn’t need to. “In fact, you’d be hard pressed to find a family in Ireland that didn’t have Fey blood somewhere. Your da and uncle, they didn’t tell you that either?” And with that, she ran down the stairs and outside.
Chapter 16
Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
December 1977
F
ather Murray sat propped up in a hospital bed with its worn, thin sheets and anemic white blankets, staring at Father Thomas in stunned silence.
“Joseph? Should I get the nurse?”
“That depends,” Father Murray said, attempting to keep his voice low to prevent the others in the ward from overhearing. “Did you say Father Conroy is convinced?”
An elderly woman in the next bed said, “That’s what he said, so he did. My legs may not work, but there’s nothing wrong with
my
ears, Father.”
Father Thomas’s puffy face grew red.
Stifling a smile, Father Murray said, “Thank you, Mrs. Coogan.”
“You’re welcome, Father,” she said.
Father Thomas stood up and then pulled his plastic chair as close as possible to Father Murray’s bed. The steel legs let out a piercing squeak as they were dragged across the linoleum. Then he yanked the privacy curtain closed. With that done, Father Thomas bent nearer and whispered in Latin, “Those precise words weren’t used but—”
“He discovered a discernible difference between the anomalies and… previously collected data?” Father Murray asked, keeping his voice low and praying that Mrs. Coogan didn’t have any Latin.
“His exact words were that there are anomalies that haven’t been encountered before. They can’t be attributed to a… genetic inheritance from the… mother. I asked.”
Gerry couldn’t categorize Liam as entirely human or Fallen,
Father Murray thought.
Father Thomas continued. “He suggested further investigation. The recommendation has already been approved by the Prelate’s secretary.”
“The truce will be extended?”
Nodding, Father Thomas gave him a small smile.
“What about… His Holiness?”
“Bishop Avery is scheduled to visit Rome during the second week of January.”
“Yes!” Father Murray forgot himself and threw his left arm up—or rather, tried to throw his left arm up. His enthusiasm was sharply hampered by the IV drip. His broken arm protested as well. “Shite!”
“Joseph, please. You’re hurting yourself.”
“That’s brilliant news! Brilliant! Better than I’d hoped for!” Father Murray didn’t care about the pain. They were about to achieve something he’d thought impossible. Father Murray looked again at Father Thomas’s face. His expression was withdrawn, his lips were thin, and he was definitely sweating. He switched back to Latin. “All right. What’s the catch?”
“I think we should focus on the positive right now,” Father Thomas said. “You must concentrate on healing.”
“Declan, you can’t win,” Father Murray said. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll only call Thad and get it from him.”
Father Thomas slumped, paused and then settled into his chair. “I had hoped this could wait until the situation stabilized.”
“You mean, until I’d located Liam.”
“He telephoned by the way.”
“He did?” Father Murray felt a rush of relief.
Thank you, Mary and Joseph.
“He’s safe then?”
Nodding, Father Thomas said, “I gave him your message as you’d asked.”
“Thank you. Did he say where he was?”
“He didn’t,” Father Thomas said. His expression acquired a sly quality.
Father Murray nodded.
He didn’t ask. That way neither of us has to lie. And who is going to be curious about such things but—
A chill ran through him. “Monsignor Paul.”
Father Thomas looked away.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Father Murray asked, thinking again of Father Stevenson’s warning.
“He has demanded a private interview,” Father Thomas said. “With your Mr. Kelly.”
“Shite,” Father Murray said. “We can’t allow that.”
“We’ve no choice, Joseph.”
Father Murray shook his head. “There’s always a choice.”
“If we don’t, Monsignor Paul will find him without our help, and he’s capable of doing so. You know he is. You also know no one wants that. Especially your Mr. Kelly.”
“I’ll have to discuss it with Liam beforehand.”
“Do what you feel you must.”
Father Murray sighed. “Let me think on it before I give an answer.”
“Agreed.” Father Thomas got up. “You should rest now.” He walked to the end of the privacy curtain. “Should I leave it?”
Shaking his head, Father Murray whispered, “You needn’t bother. It’ll save Mrs. Coogan a death from overactive inquisitiveness.”
When Father Thomas had gone Father Murray laid his head back on the flat hospital pillow and closed his eyes.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Father,” Mrs. Coogan asked from her perch. “What was the good news?”
“My sister Agatha had twins. Girls.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Coogan shot him a disbelieving look. “That’s… lovely, Father. May Mother Mary and Saint Gerard bless your sister and her wee girls.”
“That is kind of you, Mrs. Coogan. Thank you.” Father Murray pretended to fall asleep before she could ask their names. He felt guilty for lying to the poor woman, but it wasn’t as if he could tell her the truth, and he knew better than to say he couldn’t tell her. It would only pique her interest. She’d worry at him until he lied anyway which would make matters worse because the lie would have to be bigger and more complex. An old hand at dealing with the likes of Mrs. Coogan, he knew the small boring lie was best. Anything more elaborate would mean he’d have to lie to others—the nurse, a doctor, any number of others that Mrs. Coogan would share the news with. Father Murray told himself he’d seek forgiveness in the morning at confession. So, he feigned sleep, and after a while, one of his fictions became a fact.
“Do you mind explaining how it is that my son was found lying in a street with a bullet in him?” While Bran’s face was set in a patient expression, his eyes glittered red.
“Is he alive? Is he safe?”
“He is.”
“Thank the saints,” Father Murray said, glancing around him. He wasn’t sure where he was or how he’d gotten there. The hospital was gone. His right arm was still in its heavy cast and sling, and he was dressed in his red plaid pajama bottoms and a hospital gown. Instead of the bed, he was sitting on the soft grass inside a circle formed of several three-foot-high stones. Huge oaks bordered the ancient stone circle. A full moon rode a cloudless night sky. It took him a moment to recognize the place.
Raven’s Hill. I’m on Raven’s Hill.
“This is a dream.”
“Aye,” Bran said.
“Liam was shot? That part is real?”
Bran nodded.
“How bad is it?” Father Murray asked.
Bran shrugged, unconcerned. “He will be fine in a day or so. He heals slower than most of our kind, but he recovers fast enough.”
“Do you know who did it?”
Frowning, Bran said, “That isn’t important.”
“Isn’t it? He’s your son.”
“Do you think me unaware of that fact?” Bran folded his arms across his chest and the red glint in his eyes flared, filling his irises entirely. “You’re avoiding my question.”
“Security at the facility was compromised by the Fallen. We weren’t aware that it was the case until it was too late.”
“So my brother tells me. That is troubling,” Bran said. “No matter. My son’s blood will be paid for.”
Father Murray knew there was no point in arguing or pleading for mercy. He’d made a promise, and it’d been broken regardless of who had broken it for him. That was how the Fey operated in the stories, and he was fairly certain that much was true. Honor meant everything to civilizations that didn’t rely on paper contracts or lawyers. The Fey weren’t the only people whose culture functioned that way—certainly not historically and not even within modern Ireland. “I understand.”
Bran’s expression underwent a subtle change. “Interesting.” The tone of his voice changed. His expression softened. “I believe you do at that, priest.”
“Does it make a difference to you that I did my best?”
Seeming to think, Bran paused. “To me it does. It will not change the consequences, however. I’m afraid there is nothing to be done about that.”
Father Murray nodded.