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Authors: Stina Leicht

And Blue Skies From Pain (9 page)

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain
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“You recognized him? Who was it?”
Bishop Avery sipped his tea. “Bran. I’m certain of it.”
“Then why let others force us to abandon the spirit of what we’re doing before we’ve even begun? Why put Liam Kelly through any of this, if the decision is already made?”
“Don’t worry. Nothing has been formalized. As you say, we have no solid information—only fiction and myth, which makes this study vital. We must take advantage of the opportunities we have. However, I don’t wish you to be disappointed should the ultimate outcome not be exactly what you hoped.”
“Your Grace, I’m not the one you should be concerned about disappointing. It’s the Fey. We don’t want the Fianna for an enemy.”
“I’ve no intention of making them so,” Bishop Avery said, taking a sip of tea. He changed his tone as if he were starting an unrelated conversation. “I’ve held a leadership role within the Order for some time. Some might say… too long.”
Father Murray froze, his cup halfway to his lips. He felt a chill. “Are you considering retirement?”
“We both know that choice isn’t always a factor,” Bishop Avery said. His gaze was intense over the edge of his cup.
The warm tea didn’t dispel the cold. A long silence stretched out, leaving a void occupied only by the ticking of a clock.
Bishop Avery cleared his throat and returned to the previous subject. “Change is possible, but the Church does not make rapid change. Some would say it is our greatest virtue.”
“Others would say it is a deadly flaw.”
“Take courage, Joseph. We aren’t beaten yet. We have more than a few allies among the College of Cardinals. I merely wished to be as forthright as you have been with me,” Bishop Avery said. He finished his tea and placed cup and saucer on the tray. “The security detail will remain in place. However, restraints will not be used—provided there is no further trouble from your Mr. Kelly.”
That’s something.
Father Murray said, “Thank you.”
“As for the procedure schedule… Have you considered that pre-knowledge might allow Mr. Kelly to affect the data results?”
I should have thought of that.
“I will devise a double-blind test to check for such a response first.”
“Meet with Father Stevenson tomorrow. He can help.”
“Thaddeus is here?”
Bishop Avery leaned back in his padded leather chair and folded his hands across his stomach. “I thought you might feel more comfortable working with someone you could trust, given the circumstances.”
“Thank you.” Father Murray finished his tea and set the empty cup with the other tea things.
“Once you’re certain the test results won’t be tampered with, I’ll have Declan provide a list of procedures,” Bishop Avery said.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Father Murray paused a second time, uncertain how to proceed. “May I ask an unrelated question?”
Bishop Avery nodded.
“Was anyone killed or injured in that suite recently?”
Bishop Avery froze. Father Murray had worked with the Bishop for most of his career. He knew him well enough to know for the most part when the man was lying or hiding something—or in this case, surprised. Father Murray had to admit it was one of the reasons he liked working for him. In a profession where much depended upon intuition, it was a relief to work with someone who was easy to read.
“A week ago a spawn of the Fallen was brought in for observation as a trial run for your experiment,” Bishop Avery said. “The demon killed the assigned observer and four of the security staff before we were able to put it down.”
Ah, that explains it,
Father Murray thought.
“How did you know?”
“Liam smelled the blood.”
“He did what?”
“He has an extremely keen sense of smell, Your Grace.”
“I see.” The worry line deepened between Bishop Avery’s eyebrows. “Does he have any other unusual… talents we should be aware of?”
“He has inherited certain qualities from his father, Your Grace. However, I’m unaware of anything beyond what I’ve listed in my reports.”
“Anything that might prove a security problem?”
“He isn’t dangerous. I’d bet my life on it.”
“You are,” Bishop Avery said, “and I don’t like it.”
“We’re doing the right thing, Your Grace. You must trust me.”
“I do. It’s one of the reasons I’m giving this harebrained idea of yours a chance,” Bishop Avery said. “Your instincts are impeccable. One hundred twenty-three demon spawn processed with minimal human casualties and property loss. No other Guardian has had a record like that in a hundred years.” He glanced at the photos of the dead lining the wall. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to return to active service?”
One hundred twenty-three dead. And I’ll never know for certain if all of them were demons. Babes, most of them. Babes and children. The unborn.
Father Murray swallowed. “No, Your Grace. Thank you, but no,” he said. “I’ll serve as my conscience will allow. But I can’t return to my former role.”
“Our loss. And God’s.”
“The peace agreement is more important, Your Grace.”
“I hope you’re right. One more thing,” Bishop Avery said. “Security reported activity outside this facility half an hour ago.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a black and white photograph. He turned it and then pushed it across the desk. “Do you know who this is?”
Father Murray looked down at the surveillance photograph and recognized the man in the image at once. He was a little surprised that Bishop Avery didn’t, since Liam’s uncle, Sceolán, had been present at the negotiations only a few hours before. Six foot two inches tall with thick shoulder-length blond hair, Sceolán was difficult to miss. However, in the grainy photograph he was dressed in a wool knit cap, flared jeans, a Pink Floyd t-shirt and a dark anorak. He could’ve passed for any number of university students who roamed the area but for the silver glint in his eyes. In the photo he was staring directly into the camera, a knowing smile on his face that spoke of mischief.
“He’s Bran’s twin brother,” Father Murray said. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at the moment. But security is keeping an eye on him.”
I’m sure Sceolán is keeping an eye on them too,
Father Murray thought.
And with better success.
“We’re prepared for trouble,” Bishop Avery said.
“I wouldn’t expect any. He’s probably only keeping watch over his nephew. The Fey demonstrate strong family ties. There were no provisions made against a presence outside the facility. Expect him to remain until Liam is returned,” Father Murray said. “Would you prefer if I spoke with him? If he were more discreet, it might prevent trouble—”
“There’s no need,” Bishop Avery said. “It’s late. You should go to bed.”
“One last request,” Father Murray said. “Liam will need access to an exercise yard or a track. He prefers to run in the mornings.”
“Impossible.”
“Exercise reduces stress. If you insist on keeping him under lock and key, I’d recommend allowing him freedom to vent his anxiety in a positive manner. He has claustrophobic tendencies. It’s only a matter of time before the pressure will become too much.”
Bishop Avery paused, obviously giving the matter some thought. “All right. There’s a private track located on the roof. I’ll arrange for access. But you will be escorted by guards, and you will remain with him at all times.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Chapter 4
 
Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
November 1977
 
 
 
L
iam found himself in a field edged with ancient oak trees and carpeted with soft grass. A half moon drifted in the cloud-tattered sky, and soft mist obscured the ground. Getting to his feet—
paws
—he had a strange feeling he’d been in the place before.
But when?
A northern breeze shoved its way through the woods, bringing with it a deepening cold, the rustling of leaves and the warning scent of early snow. His senses were sharper in wolfhound form, and the intensity of perception was as intoxicating as ever. Breathing deep, there came a rush of information in subtle layers. Something wrong in the wind caused him to hunch inside his own fur. Mixed among the sharp pepper and cinnamon of green things rooting in the dirt and the musk of animal spore, he detected a fragile aroma that didn’t belong.
Memories of safety and acceptance surfaced.
Love.
He knew it then for soap set off by the warmth of mortal skin—and not just any soap, a particular brand. The spectre of deep grief stirred within his chest. Filled with dread, he waited for details to emerge, but was distracted by another combination of olfactory clues more easily identified: stale cigarette smoke, gun oil, greasy chips, and the acrid scent of heroin—or at least, the acid that heroin was so often cut with to make it mix with water when heated.
The monster growled within Liam’s skull.
Detective Inspector Haddock.
All at once, revulsion fought with need. It’d been at least eight months since heroin had surged through Liam’s veins. Eight months of forced sobriety, mind-numbing fear and nightmares. Eight months of yearning. The monster raged from the darkest corners of his mind in a series of machine gun thoughts.
Find Haddock. He’ll have the smack. Rip his throat out. We’ll take what we want. Think of it. A fix. We need it. We can kill him. Kill him now.
Liam licked his lips.
Heroin will keep the pain
—grief—
away.
Catching himself before he could yield, he shook his head.
I’m done with the killing. Done with the smack. Done with you too, you fuck.
The monster didn’t answer, but Liam knew the creature waited in smug silence. That the monster was awake again was bad enough. What was much worse was the queasy knowledge that this wasn’t the first time he’d run across Haddock’s scent in recent weeks.
Can’t be,
Liam thought.
I did for him. Haddock is fucking dead.
A sigh whispered on the back of the freshening wind. Liam’s ears pricked. The snap of a twig brought him to sharp attention. Sensing movement to his left, he turned and spotted a large white shape as it flitted behind a tree trunk.
The monster whispered,
Prey,
and the word sent a shiver of anticipation through Liam’s body.
A low, mournful horn note stretched across the night sky and then dissipated, leaving a residue of foreboding. Liam sensed the white shape in the woods as it started and then froze. Liam and the monster inside him joined in the listening. When the call wasn’t repeated Liam dared edge sideways, moving in silence until he spied a beautiful white doe—the largest he’d seen in his life.
She was graceful and delicate regardless of her size. Her eyes, nose and hooves were an inky black, and her coat darkened at the tips of her ears and at her hooves. Wary, the doe stood twitching—perched on the edge of flight. He held his breath, listening to his heart slam inside his chest. When there came no new sign she relaxed and resumed grazing. He inched a wee bit closer while the monster whispered a susurrus of bloodlust, restless for the pursuit. Determined to keep control, Liam set his jaw. The desire to lose himself in the giddy freedom of speed built up in his muscles.
In the distance the horn sounded a second time.
Kill her,
the monster thought.
Now!
As if hearing the creature, the doe bolted. The monster sprinted after, slipping the bounds of Liam’s will. The horn blared a third time—louder, longer and closer. It sang of murder and terror and—
The hunt.
The monster’s blood burned with the desire to shred flesh and rip sinew. Liam rode along—dizzy in the flood of sensation, unable to stop the creature occupying his body and not wanting to, even if he could. Unseen others may have joined the chase, but he’d spotted her first, and the monster was fast. The others were too far away to catch up. The creature plunged into a dead run, ripping through foliage and darting around the trunks of trees the size of black taxis. Before long, the monster-Hound came to a stream and inwardly shrank from the sight of it, slowing. The doe shot down the path at the water’s edge. The stream was ten or fifteen feet across and didn’t appear deep. Yet, Liam knew this for an illusion. Something moved in the false shallows. A premonition of death hung on the air, and the monster kept to the far side of the path—away from the water—as it continued on.
Liam lost sight of the doe when the trail took a sharp bend to the left, circumventing a huge deadfall. Again, the monster slowed. The hunt was drawing closer, and Liam could make out baying hounds and short horn blasts interspaced with the crash of rapid-flowing water. Glancing to his right, he saw the stream had joined forces with a second body of water. The monster wasn’t far from the fallen tree when a sharp cry and the crunch of broken forest debris brought him up short.
BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain
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