Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (38 page)

Glancing around the empty room, Liam realized that about all he’d leave behind was an old mattress, two blankets, the contents of his kit and a few bits of crockery. He supposed he should be sad about that, but all he could think of was that there’d be an end to the pain. To be sure his mother would grieve if she wasn’t already, but that’d be about all, and it wouldn’t be for long. She had other children to live for.

There came a sound from downstairs and because he wasn’t expecting it, it took several seconds to register that someone was knocking on the front door. Liam paused. Whomever it was seemed determined. They weren’t going away. He went to the window with the intent to tell them to bugger off and stopped.

A priest.

The priest was alone. He knew him for one even though all he could see was the top of the man’s grey flat cap. For a moment Liam wondered if it was one of the Church’s assassins, but then the man looked up, and Liam recognized Father Murray.

What the fuck is he doing here?
A blast of super-heated rage roared through his veins and then vanished, leaving him emptier than before.

“I know you’re in there. You have to let me in. I’ll not leave until you do.”

“Leave me be,” Liam said. He felt weary as if the moment of rage had used up the remaining energy he’d had.

“I understand your anger—”

“Take your fucking psychology and shove it up your arse.” Liam moved away from the window and went back to his tea. He could hear Father Murray pacing on the front step. The man finally went away, to Liam’s relief, but then reappeared at the back garden several minutes later. The back door was broken, and peering out a rear window overlooking the garden, he spotted Father Murray tugging at the boards nailed to the doorframe. Liam cursed and went to the top of the stairs.

“This isn’t helping your situation,” Father Murray said, his footsteps thundering in the house below. When he appeared at the bottom of the stairs, shock registered on his face before it evolved into pity. “What have you done to yourself?”

Liam sat on the top step. “What does it fucking matter?” His voice sounded rough from lack of use.

“Of course it matters.”

“What do you want, Father?”

“You must leave this place. Come with me. We’ll get you cleaned up and—”

“No.”

Father Murray sighed. “I’m so sorry. For everything. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve told you. All of it. In any case, you seemed well enough without my interfering.”

“Without your interfering? You told Mary Kate rather than allowing me to do it!”

Father Murray looked away. “There was a danger. I thought there was. I thought I had to.”

“Are you implying I might have harmed her?” Liam banished images of the car crash and looked away.

“The Fallen thrive on war and torment. They tempt men into committing vile deeds. Fallen angels can’t be reasoned with. Bloodshed is the only way they can be stopped.”

Liam paused as several clues fell into place at once. “Were you meant to kill me?”

“By the time I found you, you were already a boy of thirteen. I pleaded your case before the bishop. It was easy to see you weren’t like the others. I documented everything—”

“Wait,” Liam said, thoughts rushing too fast in his head to track. “Already? You kill babes?”

“The spawn of—I did—I don’t anymore,” Father Murray said. “Please. They know you’re in the area.”

“Let them come. At least they know enough to do the job right. ’Ra don’t know shite. Like as not they’ll send someone with fucking silver if Éamon was anything to judge by.”

“I’m serious. You must leave.”

“I’ve nowhere else to go, Father.”

“Come with me, then. Please.”

“And how would that be any different from handing myself over to one of your death squads?”

“I’ll hide you.”

“And why would you do such a thing?”

Father Murray sighed. “Your father isn’t one of the Fallen. You’re both Fey. It was all a terrible mistake. I’ve much to make up for.”

“Is there a proper penance for murder then, Father? A few ‘Our Fathers.’ Say the rosary once or twice, and we’re both in the clear. Is that it?” Liam saw Father Murray wince.

“You aren’t one of the Fallen, and I can’t stand by and allow them to kill you for one—no matter what.”

Liam recalled the night in the alley when he’d seen the two priests standing over a dead man and understood that Father Murray wouldn’t be able to stop the Church’s assassins. Rather, by standing in the way he would only be putting himself in danger. In spite of everything, Liam wasn’t sure he wanted that.
Let no one else die because of me. Please,
he thought.
Let there be an end.

Again, he was reminded of his Aunt Sheila’s stories of fairy men stopping priests along dark and lonely country roadways, the questions about the end of the world. The stories made sense to him now in ways that his Aunt Sheila could never have understood. Or perhaps she had and that’s why she’d told him the stories to begin with.

“What happens to me when the end comes, Father? Is there a special Hell for the Fey, or am I already in it?” He found himself laughing, and he didn’t like the sound.

“Don’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m afraid, Father.” Liam sighed and pushed both hands through his filthy hair. “I’m afraid somewhere along the line I went a bit mad.” The skin along his arms prickled.

“I can help you.”

Reaching into his pocket, Liam brushed his fingers against his lighter. Before he withdrew his hand he felt something else there as well.
The coin.
He fished it out of his pocket, needing something to hold onto that wasn’t associated with a happy memory, but he was trembling, and it slipped from his fingers. It rolled down the stairs.

Father Murray caught it, glanced at it, paused, and then examined the coin more closely. Anxiety registered on his face. He came up the steps and perched on the stair just below. “Where did you get this?”

Liam said, “One of the men who murdered Mary Kate left it for me to find. Only I don’t know why. Doesn’t have any Loyalist meaning, at least none I’m aware of. Fucking bastards.”

“Why didn’t you show this to me before?”

“Wasn’t important.”

Fear was plain on Father Murray’s face now. “The night she died—Did you see a man in a blood-red cap? The one you told me about seeing before. Did you see him again?”

Thinking back, Liam tried to dredge up memories of the men who’d knocked him down in the stairwell. As often as he’d tortured himself with images of that night he could only remember three men in that stair-well—not four, but four had been there, he knew. He’d known from the trail he’d found outside the apartment building. The fourth trail, stinking of old blood, had dead-ended. He hadn’t considered what it might mean at the time. Had the same creature he’d seen before, the one from Aggro Corner and Bloody Sunday, participated in Mary Kate’s murder? What did it all mean? He shivered. “No, Father. I didn’t see any such man.”

“May I keep this?”

“Certainly. It’s done me no amount of good,” Liam said. “But what is it?”

“A shilling from the Tudor era. Mary Tudor, to be exact.”

“What’s that got to do with me and Mary Kate? Why did I see that creature before? What does it want from me?”

It was Father Murray’s turn to look away. “I’m not entirely sure. But I’ll find out. And when I do I’ll tell you everything.”

Liam nodded. For some reason he couldn’t explain he felt better for having seen Father Murray. It wouldn’t change anything, Liam knew, but at least someone was aware he was alive—someone who didn’t wish him dead or simply gone.

“When I come back for you,” Father Murray said, “will you consider leaving with me then?”

Pausing, Liam decided the lie was best. He knew if he didn’t, Father Murray would never leave, and he would run the chance of missing Haddock again. “Sure, Father.”

“Good,” Father Murray said, and got up from the stair. “I’ll return within an hour if I can.”

Liam watched Father Murray go and mentally said goodbye for the last time. Then he went back to the fireplace, banked the coals just in case and then grabbed his hat. When he was certain Father Murray was gone, Liam sprinted down the stairs, changing form as he ran down the now dark and deserted street. The change came easier now, only problematic when he considered what he was doing. He almost enjoyed it—the short stab of pain, the flood of amplified sights, sounds and scents, the feel of grit under the pads of his feet. Grass was heavenly as was the running under the shadows of trees and the pursuit of the prey. The Hound relished the feel of warm flesh and blood in his teeth—the taste of fresh death.
Running.

The rain had stopped, and the sun had buried itself in the horizon, extinguishing the sparks of life in the damp earth. He rounded the corner and loped past gutted buildings and the remains of an old barricade. He checked the street but didn’t see any sign of the blond man. A pair of young priests proceeded down the walk in tandem. The vigilant way in which they moved spoke more of Inquisition than funeral procession. The closest church was four blocks in the other direction. What were priests doing here? One of them had a scar running across his nose.

Father Dominic and Father Christopher.

The monster caught himself before he could skid into a parked car and pretended to sniff at something underneath the vehicle.
You’ve been careless and led them right to us,
Liam thought from the back of the monster’s brain.

Or perhaps your Father Murray was followed,
thought the monster.
We should have dealt with all three sooner. We’ve you and your squeamishness about killing to thank for this.

A car door slammed, sending a quake through the Ford’s metal frame and giving Liam a start. He looked for the sound’s source and saw Father Christopher standing next to the car. His closed fist rested on the dented door.

“We’ve been looking for you, demon,” he said, holding a double-edged, four-foot-long sword in his right hand. Liam blinked. He’d expected the Church’s assassins to carry guns, not swords. Swords belonged in the medieval deserts of Jerusalem and were carried by actors in American films. They weren’t seen in Andersonstown in the hands of priests.

Leave it to the Church to stick with tradition regardless of practicality,
the monster thought.

The priest inched closer and a powerful cloud of dread smashed into the monster, making him stagger. He was afraid, now. He couldn’t have said why. His heart slammed against his breastbone, and his limbs trembled. He panted with the fear. Then there was the smell. It overwhelmed his snout with the stench of ancient power. The stink was so thick that the back of his throat clogged with it.
We must get out of here,
Liam pleaded with the Hound.

It is they who came to us.

“Something gave us the impression you might be in the area.” Father Christopher reached inside his coat and held up a chewed RUC badge.

The man was a Prod,
the monster thought.
Since when does a Catholic care?

Was?
Liam thought.
You killed him?

“Time to die, demon.” Father Dominic stepped from around the front end of the Ford and flipped back the folds of his long coat to draw his dirk.

Breathing in great gasps, the beast stepped backward into the street and slipped on a patch of ice. At that moment Father Christopher brought his blade down. The monster whirled and tore into Father Dominic’s leg. The sword missed its mark, biting uselessly into the pavement. Boot leather shredded in the monster’s jaws as he bore down on Father Dominic’s ankle. With a shake of the head the monster felt a satisfying bone snap. Blood gushed into his mouth, and Father Dominic screamed in pain.

“Demon!”

The only demon here is the one you’ve made.
The Hound opened his jaws, and Father Dominic tumbled onto the ground, his foot dangling at an unnatural angle. The monster sensed movement at the edge of his vision and ducked just as Father Christopher’s blade swept the air. Steel nicked the Hound’s right ear and unbelievable pain shot through his whole body, felling him before he understood what had happened.

Get up!
Liam thought,
Move!

Father Christopher lifted the sword for another swing. The monster rolled and then staggered to his paws. His limbs felt rubbery, and his blood burned.

The blade,
Liam thought.
The blade is poisoned. We must get out of here.

No! Not until they’re dead,
the monster thought back and then balanced on his hind legs. He swayed. His ear was numb, and half his skull felt like it’d been hit with acid. Furious at being weakened so easily, he roared and swiped at Father Christopher’s chest. Claws flayed skin, snapped bone, and a spray of gore hit the monster in the face. Blinded, he lunged at Father Christopher headfirst, hitting him square in the stomach. Father Christopher dropped with a grunt, and a clear-pitched ring sounded as tempered metal crashed to the pavement.

Christ. They’re priests,
Liam thought.
I can’t do this. Let them go. Please. For fuck’s sake!

Them or us.
The monster shook his head until his vision cleared. Father Christopher’s arm was clearly broken at the wrist and a ragged wound gaped in his chest. He scooted toward his lost sword while the monster looked on. Warm crimson melted patches in the frost.
They will only come back for us. Bring others.

I don’t care,
Liam thought. He fought to emerge from the dimness—to wrench control from the monster.
Mother of God, I’ll not do this. I. Will. Not.

The monster dropped to all fours and howled in frustration. The prickling sensation that signaled the start of the change crawled its way down his limbs.
No! It isn’t finished!

Liam pressed all the harder until he found himself lying on the cold pavement, blinking.