Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (18 page)

“Sceolán and—”

“Bran.” Father Murray blinked and swallowed.

Liam shrugged. “I know what it sounds like.” He hadn’t put that together before. He knew the stories because his Aunt Sheila used to tell them to him. Had it been her way of hinting at his real father’s name? Or was it something else? Did the whole family know all along, and him the only one who didn’t? He’d searched the phone directories when he’d returned to Derry back in February. There was no Bran Monroe listed anywhere. Then came the training and the wedding and what with one thing or another, he hadn’t thought of his real father in months. Either the man had no phone or was dead—most likely dead.

But why had both his mother and his Aunt used fairy stories to tell him about his father?

If that’s what Aunt Sheila was doing at all.
“You must think me mad,” Liam said.

“That’s all right. I asked, didn’t I?” Father Murray sat in silence for a few minutes. He seemed disturbed, and it frightened Liam. Then Father Murray took a deep breath. “Do you remember when I told you about my Mary?”

“Your fiancée?”

“Yes,” Father Murray said. “I saw something that night. Something the constables didn’t believe. They insisted that I’d been drunk which only made matters worse.”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

Father Murray shook his head. “We were out for a walk, she and I. We’d just had dinner with my mother. It was a fine night, and I had her hand in mine. Then I saw this man standing in the walk. He was large and looked like he had a hump on his back.”

Confused, Liam nodded anyway.

“He attacked me. He came right at me with these… these claws.”

He knows,
Liam thought and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He fished the lighter from his pocket and squeezed it with all his might under the table where Father Murray couldn’t see.
What the fuck am I going to do? Either I’m mad, or I’m cursed. Either way, will he let Father Dominic kill me?

“She screamed and threw herself in front of me. I couldn’t stop her. It hit her instead. People came running, but before they did—” Father Murray sipped from his pint and whispered, “The creature sprouted giant wings and flew away.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a long charcoal black feather. “I didn’t imagine it, Liam. And I wasn’t drunk. If you want to know why I became a Jesuit, this is it.”

Liam felt his mouth drop open. Reaching out with a finger, he stroked the feather’s ragged vane and shuddered.

“That man last night,” Father Murray kept his voice low. “He was a fallen angel. A demon. Dominic, Christopher and myself, we’re members of the same Order. It exists to protect humanity from the Fallen. We fight in secret so that humanity can live without fear. Every one of us has lost someone. You’ll have to forgive Dominic—”

“Fight, you said. You fight?”

Father Murray looked away. “In my own way. Yes.”

“Father Dominic, he thinks I’m one of those…things?” Liam had trouble speaking the question.
Experiment,
he thought,
Father Dominic mentioned an experiment.

“You’re not. I know you’re not. I’ve been watching you for years, Liam.”

“Because you thought I was a—a Fallen?” He wanted to ask more but was terrified of the answers he’d get. If he were perfectly honest, he didn’t want to know about the monster living under his skin—not any more than he already did, and he certainly didn’t want Father Murray to know if he didn’t already.

“You’ve no need to worry.” Father Murray took another sip from his pint glass.

Liam tried not to show his relief.

“Father Dominic is very devoted to the Order, but he’s been at war for a very long time,” Father Murray said. “I’m afraid he sees enemies where they don’t exist.” He took the feather from the table and tucked it back inside his

coat. “I’d consider it a great favor if you didn’t tell anyone about this.” “It’s not like anyone would believe me, would they?” “The Order goes to some lengths to remain a secret. I’ve risked much in telling you what I have.”

“You can trust me, Father.”

“I knew I could.”

Chapter 14

Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland

September 1975

“Joseph, would you mind explaining what exactly you had in mind when you interfered with one of our field units?” Father Thomas asked, entering St. Agnes’s parochial house. He closed his umbrella and shook out the excess water on the doorstep. He was an overweight man with piercing brown eyes and a large nose. As Bishop Avery’s assistant, he was efficient and an excellent ally. He was also Father Murray’s direct supervisor within the Order.

Accepting Father Thomas’s hat and coat, Father Murray said, “It couldn’t be helped.”

Father Thomas arched a heavy eyebrow.

“Please, come into the sitting room. Have some tea. Let me explain,” Father Murray said.

After assuring that the sitting room door was closed and the tea was satisfactory, Father Murray settled in one of the wing-backed chairs and prepared himself for what would come next.

“We can’t bicker amongst ourselves, Joseph. We simply can’t afford it.”

Father Murray said, “I didn’t intend to cause a disagreement. But they’d made a mistake in their intended target.”

“Your pet project?”

“He’s a peaceful lad.”

“He’s been imprisoned twice for rioting, is the probable cause of a death of one prison guard—”

“That was an attack by a rabid guard dog. You saw the report. The stories were proven to be only rumors. He had nothing to do with—”

“—and is now a member of an association with a decidedly Republican slant.”

“He married into a Nationalist family. There’s no crime in that. He’s not involved in politics. He’s non-violent,” Father Murray said. “He understands right from wrong—even loyalty. He’s not like the other children of the Fallen. Surely, Bishop Avery sees that?”

“Non-violent? He threatened Father Dominic with a club.”

“He thought I was in danger. He put it down when I told him to do so.”

Father Thomas took a sip of his tea and set down the cup. “Your position isn’t popular among the Order.”

“We must be certain of what we’re doing. There are lives at stake.”

“My point exactly. Human lives.”

Father Murray sighed. “I understand my reputation among the Order—”

“Your loyalty and service aren’t in question,” Father Thomas said. “You’ve completed many difficult assignments in less than ideal situations and maintained your reason. Few can say that. However, some say this is the very thing that is affecting your judgment. You’re too close to your subject.”

“Compassion is what Christ—”

“This a war, Joseph.”

“All the more reason to take care.”

Father Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “I will tell the others to keep their distance and let you do what you must. But no more threats. The Bishop won’t tolerate the development of factions. Do you understand me?”

Staring into his cup, Father Murray nodded. “I want permission for another contact.”

“What?”

“I’ve reason to believe it will be low risk.”

Father Thomas gave him a worried look. “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

“Please. It’s the next necessary step. He’s already made contact once—”

“You’ve never reported—”

“I did. Years ago. It wasn’t a direct contact, but close enough that I feel this is a good risk.”

“Why now?”

“I received information yesterday that confirms there may be factions among the Fallen,” Father Murray said. “We can take advantage of this situation. We both know we need every advantage we can get. Think of the intelligence opportunities alone.”

Father Thomas sipped his tea. “Very well. Where?”

“Derry.”

“I’ll inform the bishop. But that report will have to be on my desk the day after your return, and you will take precautions. Do you understand?”

Father Murray nodded. “Thank you.”

“If anything goes wrong you will terminate the contact, or call in the nearest field unit. No more dithering. Do you hear me?”

“Hello? Is Mrs. Kelly there?” Father Murray asked, speaking into the telephone. It was located in the hallway next to the room Father Andrew used as a study. It wasn’t the most ideal situation for a delicate conversation, but luckily, no one else was home at the moment.

“Ma is here, but she can’t come to talk to you,” said the young female voice on the other end of the line. “She’s in the bog.”

A voice shouted in the background. “Moira!”

“Hello, Moira,” Father Murray said and attempted to keep the laughter from his voice. “This is Father Murray. Perhaps I should ring back.”

There was a clatter as he assumed the receiver was dropped. “Ma! ’Tis Father Murray!”

He contemplated ringing off but the receiver was picked up before he could do so.

“Hello?”

“Kathleen?”

“I’m very sorry, Father,” Kathleen said. “Moira knows better than to say things like that.”

“It’s quite all right,” he said, settling into the chair positioned against the stairs. “How are the children?”

“Fine. Just fine. Growing like weeds,” Kathleen said. “And how are you and your family, Father?”

“Fine. Fine. Aunt Catherine had a cold, but she’s over it now.” He paused. “I saw your Liam yesterday.”

“How is he? I speak to Mary Kate once a week, but he’s not rang for two.”

“He’s fine,” Father Murray said. “Happy. Busy too. I hear the taxi business is doing well. Will tell him to ring you right away.” He wasn’t sure how to approach the actual purpose of the conversation.

“Thank you, Father.”

“There is something I need to speak to you about in regards to Liam.”

“Is something wrong? Has he not been to Mass? Has he done something—”

Father Murray smiled. “No. No. It’s nothing like that. I’m not sure exactly how to say this. Do you remember discussing his… father?”

There was a pause. “Yes. Of course.”

“You said his name was Bran?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Do you happen to know if he has a connection to someone who claims to be Fionn mac Cumhaill?”

Another long pause stretched over the telephone line. “I’m not sure I can discuss that over the phone, Father.”

“I understand. Would it be possible to meet sometime during the week?” Father Murray asked. “I can drive up to Derry and stay for a few days. It’s important.”

“Yes. Certainly, Father. I’m free most mornings. The children are in school then, you see.”

“Would this Wednesday morning be a good time, then?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll ring you as soon as I get there. We can meet at St. Brendan’s, if you like.” He hesitated. “I was wondering. When last we spoke you said you had a means of contacting him.”

“I’ve not seen him in two years, Father.” Her voice was tight.

“I see,” he said. “I’m sorry. Discussing the topic must be very difficult for you.”

She sighed. “It’s actually a comfort to speak with someone who doesn’t think I’m completely mad. Sometimes I begin to wonder whether or not I’ve imagined the whole thing. And then he comes back—” She sniffed.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Laughing, she sniffed again. “It’s quite all right.”

“Have you tried to contact him recently?”

“To tell you the truth, Father, no. There hasn’t been a reason. And… and I’d rather only do so when I must.”

“I understand,” he said. “I know this must be a strange question, but… has anyone else seen him?”

Her voice was almost a whisper. “Yes, Father. It’s what made me so sure I wasn’t mad at the first.”

“Who?”

“My mother. Although now she’d never admit it. And my sister Sheila. The three of us used to go the pub together. Bran, Sheila and myself. Take walks. Listen to music. I’ve several photos. Sheila took them.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I would’ve shown them to you, but I wasn’t sure— Well. I wasn’t sure I should.”

He shifted in his chair. Bishop Avery would be very interested in photographs. Most of the attempts at such evidence ended in failure, possibly because the subjects weren’t willing. “I would be honored if you would allow me to see them.”

“Certainly, Father. I’ll bring them on Wednesday.”

He decided to take the chance. “Do you think it might be possible for me to meet him as well?”

She paused. “I don’t know.”

“It’s only, I’ve so many questions, and it might help Liam.”

“You’re certain he’s not in any trouble?”

“Nothing immediate. But there may be something, and I’d like to discuss it with you both if that’s possible. As his parents.”

There was another long silence, and he only knew she was still on the line by her breathing. “Kathleen?”

“I’ll see what I can do, Father,” she said, “but he isn’t much in favor of the new religion as he calls it.”

“The Church offends him?”

“It isn’t that. It’s—” She paused. “I think he’s angry with priests. I don’t understand why. He’s been this way since first I knew him. He seems to think you’re dangerous. I’ve tried to explain, but he only gets angry.”

“I see.”

“You’re sure this will help my Liam?”

“Definitely.”

“All right.”

“I’ll see you on Wednesday, Kathleen.” He hung up the phone and went upstairs to pack.

The drive north was uneventful, although the roads were rough with the weather turning for the worst. The multiple checkpoints along the way proved both tiresome and nerve-racking. There had been incidents of false checkpoints being set up to trap Catholics, and since he was going north, he was forced to drive through Loyalist areas. However, he arrived safely in Derry on Tuesday afternoon, got settled in the visitor’s room at St. Brendan’s parochial house and then picked up the telephone. Kathleen told him everything was arranged, and so, he woke Wednesday morning and pulled on a sweater over his shirt in anticipation of the cold. She’d told him they were to meet in the church, but then would talk with Bran somewhere in private.

Father Murray pocketed his jet-beaded rosary as well as a vial of holy water. Then he checked his knife and snapped it inside the sheath strapped to the small of his back. He made certain the shape of it couldn’t be discerned in the back of his jacket and then shrugged into his black wool coat. He didn’t like the idea of going armed into a negotiation but knew Father Thomas was right. Taking unnecessary risks with demons was never a good idea.