The Shadows

by Chance, Megan

  But then, impossibly, Derry twisted. Unharmed. Now he had hold of his opponent’s wrist, and the knife was between them. He jerked the arm of the Black Hand backward, the knife poised above them both, glinting lethally before Derry twisted again, dodging and at the same time wrenching his opponent’s arm until the Black Hand screamed, this terrible, terrible scream that made me press my hands to my ears. The knife that had almost gutted Derry was now in his hand. Derry didn’t hesitate; he plunged the knife into the boy.

  I couldn’t possibly have heard the Black Hand gasp from where I stood and yet I did. He grabbed for support, for Derry, who jerked the knife loose and stepped back with satisfaction; and the boy fell to his knees, clutched his abdomen, and pitched forward, lying motionless in the dust while blood pooled beneath him.

  Derry had killed him. Derry had killed him, and what was worse, he’d done so with such deliberation. I told myself it was a fight. The Black Hand had attacked him first. But the cold wouldn’t leave me, nor the trembling. The scene below seemed a horrible dream. Finn slashing at another boy. Oscar and Keenan brandishing the clubs they’d taken from their enemies.

  And Derry with a bloody knife and that boy sprawled in the dust, blood thickening in the heat.

  The cheers and shouts receded to a dull roar in my head. I turned numbly to the window. My hands shook as I pulled myself over the sill. I raced through the room, past Cannel, who was laying out the cards on the table. I thought I saw him look up. I thought I heard him say, “Miss Knox—” but I kept going, to the door and out, down the stairs, feeling my way. Don’t touch the walls. Something slimy and wet on my fingers, something thick and stinking. I half fell on an unseen landing before I caught my balance. I couldn’t see, not just because of the dark but because of tears, and all I wanted was to be home. To be home in my own bed, reading Tennyson. Not here. Please God, not here, not anymore.

  I stumbled out the door. The shouting was deafening. I pushed my way through the crowd. Someone grabbed my arm; I jerked loose. I choked on dust, the air pressed in.

  I tripped over a board; fetid liquid splashed on my skirt, and I ran on, not thinking, wanting only to get home. I heard someone call out “Grace!”

  Derry.

  I ran harder. Just . . . get home. Ignore him. Don’t think of him. “I’m a Warrior. This is what I do.” He killed a boy and he was in a gang and he was a liar and I did not belong here. I belonged in my safe house on Twentieth Street. I belonged with Patrick Devlin, who would never look like a warrior as he gutted a boy with a knife. Who would never appear in my dreams in battle, bearing a spear—and it seemed now as if that was the real Derry. Not the arrogant boy with the teasing smile and the way of seeing things in me he should not have been able to see.

  I kept running.

  “What a tender heart you have,” I’d said. I grabbed up my skirts and ran faster. The light was fading; the sun had set. It was dusk, and I wouldn’t be home before dark after all. I wouldn’t be home, and I couldn’t think what excuse to tell my mother, and I hardly knew where I was going. Just dodging alleys, pushing past other people, one or two calling out “Miss—” or “Watch out, girly!”

  And then someone stepped in front of me. I slammed into his chest, and he grabbed my arms.

  A young man, straggly hair, stubble on his cheeks.

  “Look at this, boys,” he said as three others stepped from the shadows of an alley. “And there you was, Bobby, just sayin’ you was bored.”

  I tried to pull from his hold.

  “Where’re you off to in such a hurry, miss?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “And without an escort too.”

  I jerked away. This time he released me. But when I turned to run, another of them was in front of me, blocking my way. I turned—another one. They had surrounded me.

  The one who’d caught me said, “Why don’t you come with us? We’ll all have some fun.”

  “No, I . . . I have to get home.” I was too frightened to do more than whisper.

  “I tell you what—we’ll take you there. After.” He glanced at his fellows. “Won’t we, boys?”

  There was a chorus of ayes.

  I tried to run, to push through. But one caught me and laughed as he released me to try again. A pointless game, cat and mouse, and still I tried. Once, twice, and each time caught, pulled back, and their laughter echoed in my head along with my own panicked heartbeat.

  “Let me go, damn you!” I cried.

  The leader stepped forward. He grabbed my arm. “Come on now.”

  He dragged me toward the alley. People hurried past, doing nothing, and I pulled at him and stabbed my fingernails into his wrist, screaming, “Help me! Please help me!” and no one did. People just looked away as if they’d seen such things a hundred times before. I set my heels, and he just dragged me harder, the others following. Dear God, why was I even here? I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t—

  “You’ll want to leave this one alone, Billy.”

  The voice came from behind me, deep and quiet.

  The boy dragging me stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Derry! We heard you boys was fighting the Hands.”

  “’Tis nearly over.” Derry vibrated with battle energy. His skin was gray with dust; there was a streak of blood on his face. One sleeve of his shirt was red, one hand. “If you hurry, you might see the end.”

  “Well, now we got us another entertainment,” Billy said. “Care to join us?”

  “I would. Except I don’t feel much like sharing her tonight.”

  Billy released my wrist. “She belong to you?”

  Derry held out his unbloodied hand to me. “I thought I told you to stay put, lass.”

  “I saw what you did,” I whispered.

  “Ah, I see.” He looked at Billy and the others, his mouth curved in a thin smile. “This one has a soft heart, I’m afraid. Not much for fights.”

  “Some girls is like that,” Billy said.

  “Well, I’m here now. Nothing to worry about, lass. No need to run.” Derry flexed his fingers. Come.

  Billy and the others stood back to let me go to him, but warily, as if they weren’t certain they should. Derry pulled me to his side, sliding his arm around my waist.

  Billy’s brow furrowed. “You sure she belongs to you? If you don’t mind my sayin’ it, she don’t look too happy to see you.”

  “She likes to save her affection for more private moments, don’t you, lass?” I felt his lips against my hair, the brush of them against my temple. He gripped my waist, a warning, and I forced myself to nod, to smile.

  “Yes,” I managed.

  Derry kissed my jaw, moving to the hollow beneath my ear. “You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but she’s a wild thing. And ’tis all for me, isn’t it, lass?”

  Billy looked at me. I tried again to smile. “Yes,” I whispered.

  Billy motioned to the others. “Then we’ll leave her to you. Too bad, though. She looks to be a tasty piece.”

  “Another time, maybe.” Derry kept me against him as we walked away. After a few paces, I tried to pull loose, but he said forcefully in my ear, “Finn’s made an alliance with Billy’s Boys. We need them. I don’t want to fight them over a girl. Put your arm around me. Make them believe this.”

  I put my arm around him—all muscle through his shirt—though I could not relax. We went a block like this, and then another, before he looked over his shoulder.

  “Are they gone?” I asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Then take your hands off me.” I pushed away from him, tripping in my haste.

  He caught my arm to steady me and then let me go again. “Don’t blame me. I told you to stay put, didn’t I? You’re lucky I saw you run off or they’d have you in the alley already.”

  “You killed that boy.”

  “Aye.”

  “You were so . . . It was as if you didn’t even care.”

  “He would have killed me. And they came after us. They knew the r
isks.”

  “Who are you?” My voice rose.

  He looked uncomfortable. “I told you. Finn’s Warriors.”

  “You’re a filthy gang boy. I suppose you have some kind of price list. Like the Whyos.”

  “A price list? What are you talking about? Grace—”

  “What was so important to die over?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I believed you. I trusted you. And you lied to me and tricked me and dragged me to this place, and that . . . that boy you killed, and . . .”

  “I told you I was sorry for it.”

  “Sorry isn’t enough! That boy is dead, and I don’t belong here! You should never have brought me.”

  “I said I’d keep you safe. I have, haven’t I?”

  I felt the hysteria bubbling up in my chest. “You’re the one who put me in danger in the first place. If not for you I never would’ve been in this part of town, and I . . . I . . .”

  I didn’t know what I wanted to say. All I knew was that I had to get away from him. But it was growing dark now, the lamplighters coming around bearing flames on their long poles, and I didn’t dare run away from him, not after what had just happened.

  He touched my arm. “Grace, let me explain—”

  “Don’t touch me. You’re covered with blood.”

  I moved away from him, a few paces ahead. I wiped at my eyes, smearing away tears, though why I should be crying I had no idea. He was nothing and no one. He’d killed someone without a second thought. Once I got home I would never see him again.

  I felt him behind me, following silently. The neighborhood changed, the streets becoming clean and well cared for again, the stores bright, the people no longer ragged. I rehearsed what I would say to him when we finally reached my home.

  And then, there it was: my house, a lamp glow from a lower window, the rest dark. Mama in the parlor, no doubt, worrying. “Before dark,” she’d said, and I must think of a lie to tell her, and I hated him for that too.

  When we reached the gate, I spun around. Here now, the lines I’d rehearsed, delivered just so: “Leave me alone. If you come near me again, I’ll call for the police. I want nothing to do with you, or any of Finn’s Warriors.”

  Letting the gate slam shut behind me, leaving him speechless and motionless on the walk—that was what I’d imagined.

  But he grabbed the gate as I went through, following me. I broke into a run. Halfway up the stoop, he caught me. “By the gods, Grace, let me explain, will you?”

  He pulled me to the side, up against the wall, anchoring me there, his hands gripping my wrists. I fought to get free, and he said, “Be still. Be still and listen for once.”

  “Listen to what? What will you say—that you’re sorry again? I don’t want to hear it. I want nothing to do with you. Can you at least understand that?”

  I glared up at him. His face was etched in the light from the window above. He was pressed against me, unyielding, that energy still coursing through him, exhilaration and anger and something else now. I heard a sound like a little gasp—me, I realized, in the moment before he bent his head and kissed me.

  It was like an arc light bursting into full power, the glow I’d seen in him spreading to me, setting me afire. His mouth moved on mine, soft at first and then more urgently, his lips urging mine open and then pressing harder, more intimately, his tongue searching, tasting. The world fell completely away, leaving only him and the sense of something opening inside of me until I felt I might burst, too, and I knew this was what I’d wanted from the moment I’d first seen him, standing on the walk in front of Lucy’s—

  Lucy.

  Patrick.

  I jerked away, and he fell forward, his whole weight on me before he caught himself. He was breathing as roughly as I was.

  “Let go of me.”

  He did, lifting his hands from my wrists, palms out. He stepped away, only an inch, perhaps two. It was enough.

  I slapped him as hard as I could.

  He staggered back, bringing his hand to his face, and I dodged past him, my palm stinging, tripping over my skirts as I bounded up the stoop. I was almost at the door when I heard him say, “Grace—”

  I wrenched open the door and fell inside, turning to twist the key in the lock, and then I leaned against the door, pressing my forehead against it. Don’t knock, I begged him silently. Just go. Just go.

  I didn’t hear him. Eventually, I straightened and went up the stairs, and then I remembered that he had waited for me in my room once. I could not keep him out if he wanted to come in. The thought terrified me. Terrified and . . . Don’t be there, Derry, please. Please leave me alone—

  “Grainne Knox, what exactly is the meaning of this?”

  Mama. I turned to see her standing at the bottom of the stairs, the oil lamp in her hand.

  “We lost track of time,” I said dully. A terrible lie, but in my confusion I could think of nothing better. My palm tingled. My lips burned. I wondered if she could see how well I’d been kissed. “But Rose’s stableboy walked us back, so there was no need to worry.”

  She eyed me carefully. I knew she thought I was lying, and I hoped she wouldn’t press it. I didn’t know what I would do if she did. “What’s that on your face? On your cheek?”

  I touched my cheek. “Dirt?” I guessed. “I don’t know. It’s . . . it’s very dusty outside.”

  “Patrick Devlin sent a messenger while you were gone,” she said in a voice that told me how angry she was. “To ask you to supper tonight.”

  My heart flipped. “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh. I think perhaps you should find an excuse to see him tomorrow, Grace. And reassure him.”

  “I will. I’ll send him a note first thing in the morning.”

  “Good,” she said.

  She was going to let my lie stand.

  “Good night, Mama,” I told her, and then I went into my room. It was empty. I walked over to the window that overlooked the street, pushing aside the curtain to see into the yard half lit by a nearby streetlamp, staring down into the shadows.

  He was gone.

  I let the curtain fall back into place. I went to my trunk and the mirror above. I lit the stub of candle pooling in a dish, and I saw what my mother had seen: a slash of something dark over my cheek. I put my fingers to it and leaned closer to the mirror to see. Blood.

  I looked down at my wrists. One of them was streaked with blood as well. Blood that had been on his face and on his hand. Blood from a boy who died in the dust outside a tenement on Mulberry Street.

  I poured water from the chipped ewer into the basin and picked up the cloth I kept there, scrubbing at my cheek, at my wrists, scrubbing at the blood that stayed until I thought it would never come off, that it would mark me forever, so that everyone who looked at me would know what I’d done, how I’d let him kiss me until I felt the pulse of him in my blood, how I’d kissed him back—a gang boy, a boy who glowed, a boy who’d lied to me and tricked me.

  I dropped the cloth into the bowl and put my face into my hands.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Diarmid

  The girl was impossible. A sharp tongue and too-quick temper. She rarely smiled. He’d only seen her laugh twice—and the second time was today, in fact, when she’d laughed with Oscar and Goll and Keenan, and he’d gone mad with jealousy. When was the last time he’d felt such a thing? Never. Not once. Or . . . perhaps once, in those years after he’d died, when his foster father had brought his soul into his body now and again so they could talk awhile, and he’d learned that Finn had taken Grainne as his wife and that she’d gone to him willingly—“Take me away from him, Diarmid. I can’t marry him. I love you. Save me from him.” And then the moment Diarmid was dead, she’d turned around and married the man that he’d ruined his life to save her from.

  But even then his jealousy hadn’t been as strong as that he’d felt today. And he’d never felt such cold and penetrating fear as when he’d seen Grace run. He didn�
��t think she knew how close she’d come to tragedy—which he’d saved her from, by the way, and all he’d got in return was her anger.

  She was maddening. He couldn’t get her out of his head, and the whole side of his face hurt because she had a fearsome right hand—she was stronger than she looked, which he might have admired any other time. But not now when she had his blood racing and his whole body just . . . humming. That kiss . . . his elation when he realized she was kissing him back, that she wanted him, too, and with it that burning, consuming fire . . . He’d never felt anything like that. Never. Not even with Grainne.

  Cursed, tormenting girl. Filthy gang boy, she’d called him. Diarmid Ua Duibhne. The pride of the Fianna. No girl had ever refused him, whether she’d seen the lovespot or not. And she had slapped him, and it had hurt and stung his pride and done nothing, not one single thing, to keep him from wanting her.

  He was more than half in love with Grace Knox, and that might be the most foolish thing he’d ever done in a life that had been full of foolish things. And almost every one of them due to a girl.

  Stay away from her, he thought. Do what she wants. Leave her alone. It would be better for both of them. Her life didn’t include who he was now. A stableboy. Filthy gang boy.

  He was at the tenement before he knew it. Dim light from windows sent the yard below into shadows, but still he knew the evidence of the fight had been cleared away. The police left the gangs alone for the most part unless they were pressed into action by public outcry. It was best not to antagonize them. The bodies of the Black Hands—not just the one he’d killed, because the others had done their share—and she hadn’t complained about the two Finn had killed in those first minutes, had she?—had been hauled away. They would be found squirreled in hidden alcoves throughout the city or floating in the river. None close enough to implicate the Warriors, though the Irish would know they’d done it.

  The moment he stepped inside the flat, he saw what was happening—the cards spread, Cannel’s formation, and in the middle Grace’s handkerchief, stained with ale from mopping up Oscar, the purple and yellow silk threads of the pansies glimmering in the sputtering lamplight.