Read And Blue Skies From Pain Online

Authors: Stina Leicht

And Blue Skies From Pain (29 page)

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain
6.15Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
“I should go,” Sceolán said. “See how Fearghal is fairing. Find out if the search has turned anything up.”
Bran nodded, waited for Sceolán to leave and then continued. “Will you have the training, then?”
“What kind of training?” Liam asked.
“To become one of the Fianna.”
“I’m done with the soldiering. I told you—”
“There’s more to the Fianna than the warring,” Bran said, his stern expression vanishing. “This will help.”
“It will? How is that?” Liam stared at the open hope in his father’s face. It was powerful stuff, that.
It’s too fucking late for the good da act. Fuck this. It’s grown, I am. I don’t need your fucking approval. I don’t need anything from you at all.
“Cross it, you’re out of time,” Bran said. “You can’t pretend you’re mortal anymore. Be what you were born. Know what you are and be it, or don’t, and be a danger to yourself and others. It’s up to you.”
Liam twitched as Bran applied the cold, evil-smelling goo to the bullet wound and the broken ribs. “What is it with you and Father Murray? Choices? What choices? I didn’t ask to be born like this!”
Bran wiped his hands clean of the ointment. “I understand your fears.”
“I’m not afraid!”
“You’re crossed terrified. And you’ve got good reason to be. Any man in your place would be. That is, anyone with any sense. Hold still.”
“Fuck! That burns!”
“It’s going to. I’m sorry for that,” Bran said. “But it’ll pass soon enough.” He picked up a bandage roll and started re-wrapping Liam’s tortured ribs. “The thing I don’t understand is why you didn’t shape shift.”
“When?” Liam asked.
“When you were attacked,” Bran said. “It could’ve saved you some of this pain.”
“I can’t,” Liam said.
Bran paused, and then asked, “What do you mean you can’t?”
“Father Murray—”
“What in Dagda’s name did you let that holy man do to you now?” Bran asked.
“Hypnotism. Father Murray said it would put the monster away. Said we had to. He was right. Otherwise I’d have killed someone,” Liam said with a shrug. He regretted the movement at once.
“What monster?” Bran asked.
Liam swallowed. He wasn’t sure how to talk about the Hound. It was mad, all of it. He knew that from the few conversations he’d had with Father Murray and the furtive looks from that other one, Father Stevenson. And maybe the reason why he’d been putting off talking to his father was that he was afraid of what it all actually meant. As long as there was some doubt—some way of blaming the Fey in him, he wouldn’t have to admit he was mad.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re not a wean. What does it matter?
“Remember Raven’s Hill?”
Bran nodded.
“The thing that attacked you,” Liam said, unable to meet his father’s gaze. “That Hound.”
“That was you.”
“That fucking…
thing
isn’t me.”
Bran sighed. “All right.” He prepared some sort of tea and handed him the cup. “Drink this.”
Liam took the cup, feeling the warmth through the ceramic. He sipped. The stuff tasted foul and bitter.
“Drink all of it,” Bran said. “Then let’s go back to the dreams. Tell me about the dreams.”
Hesitant at first, Liam started with the hunting dream, the deer, and Mary Kate. When that didn’t seem to get much reaction, he found himself rambling about the nightmares—the faces of the ones he’d done for, the woman who’d been maimed in the explosion that had killed Haddock, Oran’s warnings and Haddock’s ghost. He talked for what seemed an eternity. Everything came out in a long, confusing jumble, including one or two of the dreams about Long Kesh. It was more than he’d been able to tell Father Murray with his calculated stares and psychological theories. Bran, however, listened and nothing else. Perhaps the reason Liam felt he could speak freely was because he had no sense that what he said would be scrutinized? He wasn’t sure what it was, but outside of the occasional request for clarification, Bran didn’t breathe a word. When it was finally done Liam’s throat ached. There was more, most certainly more, but he let it lay. He was exhausted with the talking.
When it was clear he was finished, Bran nodded once, and after a long pause, said, “That is quite a load to be carrying.”
Liam couldn’t bring himself to respond or look his father in the face. Everything—nearly everything, anyway—was out. It was too late to take any of it back.
Bran said, “I feel all I ever do is apologize, much good as it does you.”
Liam opened his mouth to speak, but Bran held up his hand.
“The dreams and the ghosts,” Bran said with real sorrow in his eyes. “They’re connected.” He pulled a wool sweater from the pack. “Let’s get this on you. And then your coat. It’ll be cold tonight.”
Liam let his father help him into the sweater. His ribs were already feeling better. The goo had stopped burning, and the pain was fading. The wound site felt warm.
“In the stories of the Good Folk that mortals tell, have you ever heard of one killing a mortal?” Bran asked.
“Well, of course—”
“Directly, I mean. Not through a curse or trickery. I mean, actually murdering a mortal.”
Liam blinked.
“It happens, but it’s rare, and generally only if the mortal in question asked for the fight to begin with. There’s a reason for that, son,” Bran said. “Mortal souls hold great power.” He sighed. “It depends upon the mortal, of course. But… well.” He paused. “We don’t speak of this to mortals, not even to those that live among us. Not ever. They’d lose the proper respect, mind you. So, no matter what, don’t be telling your holy man about this. Do you understand?”
Liam nodded. His stomach clenched, the violence of it threatening to force out the tea he’d just consumed.
Here it comes.
“The truth is, the price of killing a mortal is to risk having their soul cleave to you.” Bran stared at the fire. His eyes reflected the flames. “There are rules to it, of course. As I said, if they start the warring then the Fey is justified in the killing. The price will be paid. Also, the mortal has a choice in the matter. If they’ve no wish, no interest in haunting, then…” He shrugged. “Someone should’ve told you before now. Someone—I should’ve told you long ago. When you were a boy. Long before now. Before this. I’m so sorry.”
Staggering to his feet, Liam stumbled to the outermost edge of the fire’s warmth. He was dizzy and sick.
How many did I do for? Haddock. The Peeler outside that first bank we’d robbed. Oran. Éamon. Fuck. The Lads at the farm house. Those who’d murdered Mary Kate. How many? Fourteen? Fifteen?
And God alone knew how many the monster had done for.
Make it an even twenty.
Liam dropped to his knees with a jarring thump. The jagged ends of his broken ribs ground against one another like glass shards, and he lost control of his stomach. The pain was awful. He bent over with the strength of his stomach’s rebellion, landing on one concrete-abraded palm.
“I’m sorry.”
Liam spit out the last of the foul mess. “Right,” he whispered and spit again, feeling a clump of it lodged in the back of his sinuses. He swallowed and fought an urge to be sick again. “Jesus Christ, I could’ve fucking lived without knowing that.”
“It’s good you told me.”
“And why is that?”
“You can’t sleep. Not here. Not now. Not yet.”
“Oran said as much.”
“Oran?”
“A friend. The second shade. He fought against the other one.” What was it Oran had said?
I’m your friend. I always will be. Nothing will change that. I owe you. I’m here to help. Does that mean he’s haunting me or not?
Bran hesitated. “I’ve a question I need to ask. A personal one. Understand, I only ask because I need to know how it will affect my fian.”
Liam swallowed and nodded.
“How many spirits have you seen?” Bran asked.
It wasn’t the question Liam was expecting. He understood why and was grateful. “There have been three so far. Oran, the one just now, and Mary Kate.”
“So far?” Bran asked, still not voicing his actual concern.
Liam knew what was being implied.
How many is it you’ve killed?
But Bran was a warrior. He wouldn’t ask. He knew better. Taking life was part of soldiering. There was no denying it, but asking such a thing was unthinkable. Each carried their own burden—their own gallery of faces that haunted their sleep. That was the price you paid. If you were lucky and smart, every choice you made was a good one, and every life taken was only what was required. No more. No less. If you weren’t careful or lucky—
Bran cleared his throat and looked away. “We’ll have to send you back.”
Only with the likes of me the price is higher, isn’t it?
“What about the training?” Liam asked.
“We’ll handle as much as we can in your mother’s world until I can acquire the proper talisman. As for the rest… well… we’ll deal with it when we must,” Bran said. “Right now, I need you to explain what you were doing with that girl.”
“Which girl?”
“
Eirnín Ní Conmaicne Mara
, the merrow.
That
girl.” Bran’s frown deepened.
“She was at the party. I don’t know her. Or didn’t. Never saw her before.” Liam forced himself not to shrug again. “Is there a problem?”
“Is there a problem? Aye. There’s a problem. She’s Connacht,” Bran said, as if that explained everything.
“So?”
“Stay away from her, lad. You’re Clan Baíscne. She’s Morna,” Bran said, obviously angry. “I’ll not tell you a second time.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s trouble, that’s why.”
“And if I don’t?” Liam found himself asking.
Bran blew air out his cheeks. “Then you’ll be putting yourself in the middle of things of which you’ve no knowledge. Dangerous things. Politics. Ties and creatures that will kill you if you don’t know what you’re about.”
“Oh, aye?” Liam asked. “And how is that any different than usual? Why am I bothering to ask? It isn’t as if you’ll explain shite anyway.”
Straightening, Bran’s expression grew stormy, and he appeared to be ready to start shouting. Liam tensed in anticipation for an attack out of old habit, but Bran seemed to sense the reaction. He paused. Hurt and surprise flitted across his features and then his shoulders dropped.
“All right,” Bran said. Although his eyes still glittered red, his voice was calm. “I’ll tell you of the war, our war, and how it affects you and yours. But I’ll do it on the other side. You can’t stay here.”
“You’ll take me back to Belfast?” Liam asked.
Bran nodded. “Sceolán can take charge until I return.”
Chapter 15
 
Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
December 1977
 
 
 
“T
he other clans have decided not to interfere in the mortal world, but not us,” Bran said later that night once they’d travelled back to the mortal realm. “In return, the High King declared all of Clan Baíscne renegades and traitors for our trouble. That’s why I came to your holy man’s council, if you want the truth of it. It was the reason I gambled on giving you over to them. When I said the war wasn’t going well, I meant it. I couldn’t see another way of convincing them outside of giving you over to them. Although, I would’ve found another way had you chosen not to go.”
“I thought you were only fighting the Fallen.” Liam watched the fire take to the peat inside the brick fireplace enclosure. It was strange to be talking about such things with Bran in the derelict house in Clonnard.
“We are. But we’re also fighting our own.”
“Oh.” Liam remembered the murders and vendetta killings that had resulted when the IRA had split into the Official IRA and the Provisional IRA—not that matters were any more settled or clearly delineated now. The IRA wasn’t the only Republican group either. There was the INLA too, and God alone knew how many tiny splinter groups after that.
In-fighting,
he thought.
Even that’s nothing new, is it?
He breathed in the scent of peat smoke and wondered how long Bran would manage to stick around. Bran had suggested a stay with Liam’s mother at first, but Liam refused. He didn’t want Haddock, ghost or not, anywhere near her, especially after what had happened the last time she’d been pulled into his troubles.
Or was it I who’d been pulled into hers?
Regardless, Derry wasn’t an ideal place to hide anyway. The Peelers wanted to speak to him about a few dead bodies that had turned up last autumn. Of course, Liam hadn’t been the one to do for them, but that wasn’t the deciding factor, was it? He was an ex-prisoner and a retired Provo. He knew better than to think that anything else would matter to a Loyalist constable. The prevalent thought being, as a terrorist—whether former or not could be debated—surely he’d been responsible for a murder somewhere, and wasn’t that enough reason to convict?
And these days they don’t have to have a body to put you away for good. All they need do is pin suspicion of membership on you.
Therefore, Liam had had nowhere else to go. It was here in this shite hole with his father—or back to the ever-so-eager arms of the ’Ra, and he wasn’t going back to the ’Ra.
BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain
6.15Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Changing of the Glads by Spraycar, Joy
Unexplained Laughter by Alice Thomas Ellis
Heart Like Mine by Maggie McGinnis
Evadere by Sara V. Zook
Redemption (Iris Series) by Lynn, Rebecca
The Rat Prince by Bridget Hodder
The Greatest Gift by Michael John Sullivan