Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (37 page)

“Heart first. Then the head. Just in case. Just… don’t miss. Don’t think I could stand it if you did.”

Liam raised the pistol and aimed. The point wavered. He tried to steady it. He needed to be accurate at this moment more than he ever needed it in his life. Holding his breath, he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Oran in the chest. Then Liam followed it up with the second shot before Oran could register the pain. Liam’s vision blurred even more, and he was thankful he couldn’t see what he’d done.

Oran slumped and began to slide off the rock. Liam caught him, easing the body onto the ground and then checking for a pulse. When he found none, he folded Oran’s damaged hands over his chest.

First Mary Kate. Now Oran. Is every soul I love going to die because of me?
“Goddamn it, Oran.” He stood up and screamed. “Goddamn it!” He threw the gun as far as he could. It landed somewhere in the trees. His breathing came in great gasps. The hair on the backs of his arms prickled. The ache in his chest grew so great that it consumed his whole body.

Éamon and two men came running. By the time they arrived Liam was writhing on the ground.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Son of a bitch,” Éamon said. “Oh, Christ. Oh, Jesus. Shouldn’t have.

Had to. Oh, Christ.”

When the monster rolled onto all fours Éamon was halfway to the farmhouse. Ignoring the two men for the moment, the monster bounded straight for Éamon. Éamon was ready. He got off four shots from just inside the doorway before the monster caught him. The scent of super-heated silver floated on the air.

Chapter 23

Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland

April 1977

“Where are the little ones?” Liam asked and leaned against Elizabeth’s doorframe as he gulped for air. He had no idea how many miles he’d just run. Stooping and then gripping his knees, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could remain upright. His legs throbbed with expended energy. The stitch in his side hurt like hell, and his skin was gritty with sweat, soot and old gore. When he registered his question had been met with silence he glanced up to see if Elizabeth was still at the door.

Her face, already blotchy from hours of crying, now had lost what little normal coloring it possessed. The contrast made her freckles even more noticeable. “I sent them to school. Where’s Oran? Is that blood? Oh, Jesus—”

“Please, can I come inside?” Liam looked over his shoulder, checking the empty street. He hadn’t been spotted yet, but then Peelers didn’t give dogs much notice—even when they were larger than average and a bit mucky. A gasping man in blood-soaked clothing was quite a bit more notable even in this part of town.

“Y-yes.”

He staggered past her, shut the door and drew the curtains.

“Where’s Oran?” Her voice grew brittle as panic took over.

“Don’t know how best to tell you this,” he said. “But Oran is—”

She charged him like a mad bull and then slapped his face. “Don’t you dare! My Oran will be home soon!”

Liam’s cheek stung and then grew warm. The monster shifted in the back of his brain.
Stupid cow.

She’s been given a shock,
Liam thought back at the monster.
People do stupid things when frightened.
There was no telling how soon the Provos would turn up, and turn up, they would. Subtlety be damned. “He’s dead. I wish—I wish I could tell you different. I do.”

“You’re lying! He’s alive! He promised!” She flew at him again, fists slamming into his chest. “This is your fault! He’d have been out but for you! Said he was safe. Said you were lucky. Lucky! It isn’t fair! You’re alive, and my Oran is dead! You’re nothing but a bleeding addict! You got nobody! Goddamn you! It isn’t fair! Jesus Christ, why wasn’t it you?”

Reeling under the blows, he grabbed her wrists and held her while she sobbed into his blood-stained shirt. He didn’t allow her words to sink in. Rather, he distracted himself by preparing the lie he’d tell in keeping with Oran’s last wish. For now, he’d endure her grief, and if that meant more abuse, he would take it and gladly. It was the least he could do for her.
For Oran.
Eventually, her cries quieted, and her quaking stopped. Suddenly, she jerked back as if realizing who had held her. Her eyes were wet with hate.

“You tell me what happened. You tell me right now.”

“The other night—”

“I know about the other night. They was here for you, weren’t they? Was you and those damned drugs! He protected you! I wanted you out! I told him! Put him out on the street before he takes you down with him and us too.”

Liam looked away, blinking and nodded. It was better than any excuse he could think up. “You’re right. Was me they came for.” The vastness of the lie barely fit through his lips.

“I could kill you! Goddamn you! I knew it!”

“Told them I was clean. Oran stood for me. They were going to let him go,” he said. “But then the BAs came.”

“What?”

“Must’ve been watching the place. Maybe somebody talked. I don’t know,” he said, pushing his hand through his hair. He needed to keep to what would be found so that when the Provos came to talk to her they wouldn’t destroy everything. “They set fire to the place. Oran and I, we were almost out of there. But the BAs stopped us. They shot him. Didn’t want to leave him, but he made me. He wanted you to know what happened.”

She staggered backward to the sofa. The sheets and blankets he’d used only a day or two before were gone. It wasn’t his bed anymore. It was only a sofa. Her sofa.

“Was brave. Didn’t beg or nothing. Died protecting us. But there were too many of them. They killed everyone. I was—I was the only one got away.”

Covering her face, she sank to the couch. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

“He said he wanted you to know he loved you.”

Her hands dropped from her face. “Shut up!”

“But—”

“He didn’t love me! Not enough! If he had, we’d be in Dublin. Safe. And he’d be alive!” She stood up, her face pinched into a mask of rage. “I never wanted to come here. I told him he was mad, and he’d only end up dead. He promised me! Well, I was right! Oh, Christ, it isn’t fair!”

Liam didn’t know what to say. “Oran believed in the cause.”

“To hell with the cause! Stupid fucking war! What are we to do now? What am I to tell Brian? Your father died for the cause? So he can volunteer when he’s old enough? And die too? It never ends!”

“Oran didn’t want that. Wanted a good long life for him.” It was out of his mouth before he’d thought about what effect it might have on her.

Elizabeth paused and blinked. Her face was now an unattractive mix of bright red, orange freckles and colorless white. Snot ran from her nose, mixing with the tears.

His skin itched with dried blood, and he didn’t think he could stand her staring. “I… I need to use your bog. Must clean up before I go.”

“You’re leaving?” Her voice was quiet. Defeated.

“I am. I’d stay. Help set things to rights. But I don’t want to bring—”

“Good.”

That one word cut Liam deepest of all. It drove home everything she’d said in one short syllable. Then the agony of seeing Elizabeth’s face became too great, and he fled, slamming the washroom door behind him.

Liam watched the street as a chilling rain numbed West Belfast’s jagged wounds. A clump of sullen teens loitered on the corner, smoking—most hadn’t seen the inside of a school building in months or even years, he assumed. Two women with grocery bags crossed the street to avoid passing too close. One of the youths shouted something unintelligible and the others laughed. With no hope of a future to keep them in school, the gangs were worse than the paramilitaries if anyone bothered to ask Liam. At least the paramilitaries had a more significant cause for violence than boredom, and they didn’t prey on their own. He looked on as the gang finished up their smokes and then moved farther east. Relief loosened a knot in his shoulder. He’d have to leave soon and didn’t like his comings and goings being observed, especially now—not that it actually mattered when he thought about it.

He’d passed the summer in the abandoned building. Mary Kate had been dead and gone eight months, and he was still alive. It was late August now, almost September. Gazing down at the street through the boards nailed across a broken window pane, Liam longed to be as empty as the house around him. Winter in this place was going to be unpleasant. About all that his current residence had to recommend it was the view, and if he were a sniper it provided an ideal vantage point, but that was all. With no electricity, the place was far from warm. Little more than a husk, the plumbing was gone, and every window pane was broken. The devastation was not the result of war, but of brutal practicality. The Housing Authority ordered it to prevent squatting, which was precisely what he was doing.

He wasn’t the only one. A family of twelve, the Currans lived in the walk up at the opposite end of the row. Of course, there wasn’t much risk of prosecution for squatting in this part of Belfast, and they were also fortunate to have electricity in addition to a roof over their heads. However, it was the only house on the row with power and as a result Liam didn’t have any other neighbors. Naturally, the Currans concerned themselves with the Electricity Service’s collection agents about as much as they did the Housing Authority’s. No meter reader was foolish enough to enter the Catholic areas of West Belfast’s ghetto—being marched out at gunpoint tended to get the idea across rather efficiently.

Up the ’Ra,
Liam thought.

A man with long blond hair made his way down the street. He was memorable for both the length of his hair, which reached down to the middle of his back, and his imposing build. It was the third time Liam had spotted him in a week, and that alone made Liam nervous. But for the hippy-length hair, he would have taken the man for one of Father Murray’s assassins. He certainly walked like someone who knew what they were about. He was both out of place and familiar at the same time and reminded Liam of the photo his mother had given him long ago—the one he still kept in that battered book at the bottom of the olive green laundry bag containing what little remained of his life.

He resisted an urge to run downstairs and confront the blond man out of curiosity. The monster in the back of Liam’s brain seemed to know him and was reassured by his presence. Liam didn’t know what to make of the situation. He told himself repeatedly that it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was killing Haddock—but not before extracting information from him on the last of Mary Kate’s murderers.

Noting the time, Liam got up from the window and went to the fireplace. Then he tossed another half-rotten timber into the fire and began the process of making tea. Haddock would be on his way home from the station soon, and Liam planned to be standing at the man’s door when he came home. It had taken months to locate Haddock’s latest residence. Twice Liam was certain he had the man dead to rights only to discover Haddock had pulled up stakes. The bastard was too damned careful for a regular Peeler, and even if Éamon hadn’t said so, Liam would’ve known Haddock for MI5 on that alone. If Liam were concerned about life after Haddock’s death, he might consider that a dilemma. For one thing, the ’Ra wasn’t in favor of freelancers and generally came down hard on that kind of thing. Although, the British government was going to have a hell of a time blaming a wild animal attack on terrorism—not that a little thing like concrete evidence had stopped them before.

Gulping hot tea, Liam heated his hands on the cup. The foul stuff scalded his mouth but succeeded in warming him nonetheless. Without the assistance of sugar or milk, the reused teabag produced a liquid that wasn’t even remotely satisfying, but it formed the bulk of his diet aside from toast and whatever the monster ate.

He avoided thinking of how much he wanted a hit, but the urge remained. It lived like a rat in the pit of his stomach, gnawing at his insides. Heroin would stop Elizabeth’s words from replaying in his head. Heroin would make being alone with his thoughts more bearable. Heroin would keep the memories of Mary Kate at bay, but he had to stay clean. He wouldn’t have the strength or clarity of mind to top the last murderer if he didn’t. Every day was a struggle, and he often wondered why he bothered. Elizabeth had been right to ask God that question. Why the fuck had he lived? No one was sure to miss him were he to die.
Certainly not Elizabeth.

His appetite hadn’t returned, and his living conditions hadn’t done much for his appearance either. Thus, no amount of talk could convince her he was off the smack. It didn’t matter to her that the ’Ra didn’t restrict its activities to running off meter readers. It didn’t matter that as far as Liam knew Haddock was the only source for any illegal drug in Belfast. She was convinced he’d always be addicted, and perhaps she was right. The last time Liam had seen her he’d promised he would kill those responsible for Oran’s death. She had only given him that stare and then explained to him in very firm language that she didn’t give a damn about revenge. She wanted him out of her family’s lives.
Forever.
Frankly, he couldn’t blame her. Everyone he cared about seemed to die in particularly nasty ways. Best he steer clear.
Best for the poor weans.

He did everything he could for them, anyway—which wasn’t much, all things considered. He left food and money on their doorstep when he had it, often not bothering to take any of it himself, and while she waited until he was gone to open the door, she obliged him by not throwing any of it out. Where the money came from he wasn’t certain. Stolen from a Peeler or a BA, he assumed. With no reason to enforce control over the monster that lived inside him, the thing came and went as it liked. Sometimes he watched events from the far corner of his own brain, but more frequently he didn’t bother. He didn’t want to know what the monster did. Living with the knowledge of what he’d already done was bad enough. So, he lost himself in the flood of sensation. It was the only relief from his thoughts—the closest thing to drugs to which he had access.