Read And Blue Skies From Pain Online
Authors: Stina Leicht
And Blue Skies From Pain (5 page)
“Then I’ve a question for you as well.” Sceolán continued on a few paces before saying anything. “I’ll not go against Bran or you in this peace agreement of yours. But I will say you two have far more belief in it succeeding than I do.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye. Well, I wasn’t staring down the honor of meeting an Inquisitor when we first discussed it, was I?”
At least not without the monster to even the odds if needed,
Liam thought. It’d been the main reason he’d argued with Father Murray. Dangerous as it was, Liam didn’t like the idea of going in without the ability to shape shift. However, he couldn’t always control himself when he became the Hound and that had been the very reason why Father Murray had insisted on keeping the hypnotic muzzle in place when it’d proved to work.
At least not without the monster to even the odds if needed,
Liam thought. It’d been the main reason he’d argued with Father Murray. Dangerous as it was, Liam didn’t like the idea of going in without the ability to shape shift. However, he couldn’t always control himself when he became the Hound and that had been the very reason why Father Murray had insisted on keeping the hypnotic muzzle in place when it’d proved to work.
Sceolán stopped where he was. “Are you saying you don’t trust your friend, the priest?”
“I trust him.” Liam paused. “For the most part, but there are about a hundred different ways this thing could go wrong. Not the least of which is me ending on a dissection table or in the Kesh.”
“You don’t have to give yourself over to them. We can call the whole thing off.”
Liam watched his uncle navigate around a cowpat in the pitch black field—a thing no mortal could’ve done—and was reassured. Not being the only one who could see in the dark made him feel normal. “Terms of the truce. Better me than one of you. I’m half mortal. Father Murray says the Inquisitor will show restraint for that reason alone.”
“Are you certain of that?”
Nervous, Liam paused and combed his fingers through his hair. “To tell you the truth… well… no.”
“Then don’t do it.”
“The Church must have their proof that the Fey are not one in the same as the Fallen. Without that, they’ll never stop the killing. Think of the weans they’ve murdered.”
My own included.
Liam wanted to be angry, but nothing came. He sensed a whisper stir in the back of his brain. Whether it was the spark of rage or the beast in its uneasy rest he couldn’t be sure. He felt odd.
Too distant.
The emptiness was disconcerting.
My own included.
Liam wanted to be angry, but nothing came. He sensed a whisper stir in the back of his brain. Whether it was the spark of rage or the beast in its uneasy rest he couldn’t be sure. He felt odd.
Too distant.
The emptiness was disconcerting.
“Was this insanity your idea or the priest’s?”
Best get this done with,
Liam thought. “Father Murray’s.” He stole a glance at his watch and began to walk faster.
Liam thought. “Father Murray’s.” He stole a glance at his watch and began to walk faster.
“I don’t like it.”
“He’ll be with me the entire time. Wouldn’t agree to it otherwise.”
“What good will that do? It’s not as if the man has any authority among them.”
“True enough,” Liam said. “But he can summon my father and therefore, the rest of you if it should happen that I’m not able to do so myself. I don’t think the Bishop would want the Fianna showing up for Sunday mass ready for a fight.”
Uncle Sceolán looked thoughtful. “They could quietly get rid of you both while you’re in their hands. Catch your Father Murray unaware. Wouldn’t take much to make it look like you killed the priest. Problem solved. No need for inconvenient truths or admissions of guilt. Everything back to the way it was. Simpler.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”
“Aye, well.” Uncle Sceolán hefted his spear. “I been at the warring a long time, you know?”
Taking a route parallel to the Ballynahatty lane and through fallow hay fields, Liam followed Sceolán to the northeast edge of the Giant’s Ring—the agreed-upon meeting place. It consisted of a flattened hill with a four-meter-high earthen ridge running in a two hundred-meter circle around the top. The grass was worn bare around the inside and close to the ancient ridge where the local people had held horse races in the 1800s. According to Uncle Sceolán, the Fey still did so. Near the center was a small tomb formed from standing stones. The Ring was bordered on the outside by a few trees, the hay field, a car park to the east, and a small but dense wood to the south. The place fairly vibrated with power. Liam could feel the tingling of it radiating through his feet and his skin, and the air grew heavier the closer he came.
Shouts echoed across the empty field.
“Sounds like they started without us,” Liam said.
“We’d best get there before the fighting breaks out.” Uncle Sceolán winked. “Didn’t think Cathal was going to lose that bet this soon.”
Trotting to the northern-most entrance, Liam passed through the break in the earthen bank. A camp table was set up near the rock tomb and a few papers rested in a neat arrangement on top. At the moment both table and papers had been abandoned and men were shouting and gesticulating at one another to the side. It took Liam several seconds to spy Father Murray in the cluster of modern Catholic priests surrounding two ancient Irish warriors. He was standing in the middle of the verbal fray with his hands held out as if shielding the two Fey warriors behind him. In spite of the stated agreement of no more than three representatives to each side, Liam counted no less than twelve heavily armed priests in addition to Father Murray and the Bishop.
Fucking typical, that,
Liam thought.
Liam thought.
However, it was obvious that the Fey had kept their word. Liam’s father, Bran, stood at the center of the mob, back to back with a member of the Fianna Liam didn’t recognize. Liam wasn’t sure who Father Murray thought he was attempting to protect—whether it was the Church’s assassins or the Fey warriors. Either way, Liam had the feeling Father Murray was going to end up on the bad side of it. Sometimes Liam wondered if the priest had any sense at all.
He attempted to make himself heard over the shouting. “Have you signed the truce already?”
Father Murray turned. “Where have you been? I began to think you’d changed your mind.”
“Needed to clear my head. Went for a short run. Got turned around on the way back, but Uncle Sceolán set me to rights,” Liam said. “Although, it would’ve been easy enough to find you by the ruckus. It’s a wonder the Fallen, the British Army or the RUC haven’t turned up too.” Not that Liam had much faith in the RUC. The Royal Ulster Constabulary operated more like bully boys than police in Liam’s experience.
One of the priests burst from the group surrounding the Fey. He was short and had an ugly scar across the bridge of his nose. Limping, he drew a long dagger. Liam remembered the Kalashnikov in time to bring the rifle to bear. Several priests scurried out of the way. Others shouted warnings. There came the clatter of weapons being drawn as the others prepared for the fight. Spotting the rifle at last, the limping priest came to an abrupt stop. “Demon!”
“Evening, Father Dominic,” Liam said. “How’s the leg?”
Father Dominic muttered something very un-priest-like.
“Liam!” It was Father Murray. “Put down that rifle!”
“Be happy to.” Liam poked the barrel of the Kalashnikov at Father Dominic. “However, I wasn’t the one who drew first.”
One of the other priest-assassins muttered, “As if a blade warrants an automatic weapon.”
“Poisoned blade. Therefore, I beg to differ,” Liam said and then paused. “Then again, when assessing the danger I should’ve factored in who was wielding the bloody thing.” He shouldered the rifle.
The insult took several heartbeats to register on Father Dominic’s face. He growled and charged, raising the dirk. Liam stepped out of the priest’s path at the last instant. Father Dominic shot past before stumbling to a halt. He prepared for another charge.
“Bernard!” An older man who Liam assumed was Bishop Avery pushed his way through the protective circle of priests.
Father Dominic’s face contorted with rage. “This… creature maimed Father Christopher.”
“You ambushed me,” Liam said, feeling his anger rise. “I could’ve killed you, and I didn’t.”
“Everyone, please,” Father Murray said. “This is no way to begin. I thought we agreed to a peaceful meeting?”
Bran stood at the ready, bronze-tipped spear in hand. “It is they who have not kept to their word. Your holy man brought yon army.”
Bishop Avery gaped. “Too many times we’ve been met with treachery—”
“Not at the hands of the Fianna,” Uncle Sceolán said, edging his way past angry priests to take his place at Bran’s side.
Father Murray sighed. “Look, we’ll get nowhere like this. There must be something we can agree upon. Anything?”
“Is there?” Bran asked.
“Ireland will be lost if we refuse to cooperate with one another,” Father Murray said. “Can we at least agree to that?”
“We are the Fianna,” Uncle Sceolán said, “and we’ll not be defeated.”
“Then why are you here?” Father Murray asked.
Uncle Sceolán looked to Bran, opened his mouth and then shut it.
Bran straightened. “We are here because there is need. We cannot fight two wars at once.”
Uncle Sceolán harrumphed.
The ghost of a smile brushed Bran’s lips, and his eyes glittered with what might have been a red reflection. “Well, not with ease.”
“And Your Grace?” Father Murray asked.
Bishop Avery sighed. “The situation could be better.”
“There. We agree on something. So, please, everyone. Stay calm,” Father Murray said. “We’re here to talk.”
“Put away the blade, Bernard. Now,” Bishop Avery said. “Come here.”
“Yes, Bernard,” Liam said. “Do as you’re told.”
“Liam, quit it,” Father Murray said.
Father Dominic leaned close enough for Liam to smell the whiskey on his breath and whispered, “I’ll sort you out later, demon. Best watch yourself.” He sheathed the dagger and went to the Bishop.
“Liam, the gun,” Father Murray said, holding out a hand. He looked angry, and Liam couldn’t help being a wee bit glad.
Bran said, “Best do as he says, son.”
“Are you?” Liam asked his father.
Bran glanced at Bishop Avery and then put his spear on the ground. “We are here to negotiate a truce, not start another war. If your Father Murray feels the Bishop is here in earnest, I’ll not refuse.”
Not seeing another choice, Liam handed the rifle to Father Murray.
“All right, then,” Father Murray said once he’d placed the rifle under the table out of easy reach. “Let’s begin.” He picked up the papers and distributed copies to both Bishop Avery and Bran. “The Roman Catholic Church agrees to a temporary cease-fire between Herself and the Fey for the duration of one week within the confines of the Diocese of Raphoe, Derry, Down and Connor, Armagh, Dromore, Clogher, Kilmore, Ardagh and Clonmacnoise, and Meath.”
Bran frowned at the paper in his hand. “What is this? The truce was to include all of Ireland for a month.”
“Bishop Avery is only authorized to make this offer for the Archdiocese of Armagh,” one of the Church clerks said in a thick Kerry accent.
“I’m giving you my son,” Bran said, dropping the agreement onto the table in disgust. “You ask me to risk him for this?”
Father Murray laid a hand on Bran’s arm. “A lasting trust is built with small steps.”
“He’s my son. I’d hardly count that a small step.”
“Then have another take his place,” Bishop Avery said. “We are offering a hostage in exchange. Father Franklin will go with you. That’s all I can offer.”
For a brief moment, Liam wondered if he’d be consulted at all or if they’d continue to discuss him as if he weren’t present.
Father Murray lowered his voice. “Liam will be safe. I swear it.”
Bran turned and gave Liam a long look. “It’s your neck. You’ve the last word. What do you say?”
Here’s your chance,
Liam thought.
Tell them all to sod off.
He held his father’s gaze and thought of Mary Kate, Oran and everyone else who’d suffered. He thought of the baby that would’ve lived. Mary Kate’s baby.
Our son.
It was easier, somehow, to summon up Mary Kate’s smile on a child’s face.
Daughter. We could’ve had a daughter.
That ghost of a feeling stirred again inside his chest. It took an instant to recognize it at last, and suddenly nothing else mattered.
Liam thought.
Tell them all to sod off.
He held his father’s gaze and thought of Mary Kate, Oran and everyone else who’d suffered. He thought of the baby that would’ve lived. Mary Kate’s baby.
Our son.
It was easier, somehow, to summon up Mary Kate’s smile on a child’s face.
Daughter. We could’ve had a daughter.
That ghost of a feeling stirred again inside his chest. It took an instant to recognize it at last, and suddenly nothing else mattered.
“I’m in,” Liam said.
Bran nodded, went to the table and signed the truce with the pen Father Murray offered. Looking up from the agreement, Bran stared at Bishop Avery. “If anything happens to my son—if he’s harmed in any way, you’ll not make old bones. I’ll see to it myself. I don’t care where you hide. Me and mine will find you. Do you understand me, Robert Avery, priest?”
Bishop Avery swallowed. “I do.” And with a nervous pause, he signed the document.
Chapter 2
Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
November 1977
November 1977
“ R
emove your clothes,” the Church Inquisitor said.
emove your clothes,” the Church Inquisitor said.
Liam bit down an urge to tell the man to go fuck himself and settled on a hard stare instead.
It was small relief that the Inquisitor looked nowhere near as intimidating as his title implied. He was average height, small in build and although he’d tucked it behind his ears, it was obvious he hadn’t cut his hair in months. A stained lab coat partially covered his clerical shirt and priest collar. The black badge pinned above the right pocket was engraved with the name “Father Gerard Conroy, MD” in white block letters. His freshly shaved face was carefully set in an expression that could at worst be described as professional curiosity. There were no blood-red hoods, hot pokers or thumbscrews in evidence. However, a quick inventory of the medical tray the man was holding caused Liam to revise his initial impression.
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