Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen)

by Stina Leicht

  “Stop it!” She slammed both palms down on the seat. “You and the other ones—you do what you have to. That’s the way of things. I understand. It’s for our future. For Ireland. But that back there, that was for fun. Liam Kelly, you nearly killed yourself for the fun of it!”

  “I need it.”

  “You don’t need it. You want it.”

  “It’s like the running,” he said. He could feel the headache coming back more fierce than before. It happened sometimes after a long day at the wheel. He assumed it was the pressure of dealing with the other cars and the press of time. “Sometimes I feel I’m going to die if I don’t get out and move. Fast. I feel trapped. Like I’m being buried alive. This. Driving. It’s like the running only better. I’m free.”

  “You’re free when you’re at home too.”

  “Not like this,” he said, accelerating into a turn and easing the car gracefully around the bend without moving into the next lane. The weight of the car tugged against the grip of the tires, and it gave him the sensation of swinging on the end of a rope. “It feels… it feels so fucking good.”

  “Are you saying you’re trapped when you’re home with me?”

  “What? No!”

  “Because if that’s what you’re saying—”

  “That’s not what I’m saying at all!” His foot mashed the accelerator. His temples were throbbing. “Can’t you feel it?”

  “I understand that four years of prison has left you with a need to run,” she said, “to feel like there’s no one can catch you. Not even me.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “But it’s running away. That’s all this is. This need to go fast. And you can’t run from the past. You can’t run from whatever it is those bastards did to you in the Kesh and—”

  “I’ll not fucking talk about that.” There was a double bend in the road. It twisted up a hill and down the other side, tracing a path along a lake. It was a beautiful sight, and he’d make her feel what he did by making the car dance. He’d make her understand, but his head ached enough to make him blind. Out. He had to get out. Away.

  “You never talk about the Kesh,” she said. “And I’d be fine with that but for the fact that every time you hear the fucking name you flinch or bolt out a door or run from me.”

  “I do not.” Coward, he thought. She’s as much as calling me a coward.

  “You do. I don’t care what it is you did in that place. It doesn’t matter.”

  —to be your first. It was Sanders’s voice, whispering up from the past. Liam pushed the car through the first bend as fast as he could and willed the rush of wind battering the wind-screen to blast the memory from his mind.

  “I’ll still love you,” she said. “You don’t even have to tell me what it was you did.”

  Isn’t that sweet?

  He whipped through the second bend, and the tires protested with a high-pitched squeal, but he didn’t really hear it. He wasn’t actually listening to anything but the voice inside his head. The shame was overwhelming—that, and the rage came with it. The crush of emotion was so vast it pushed the breath from his body. He wasn’t so much seeing the road in front of him as the inside of that cell.

  “Just stop running from it before you kill yourself.”

  You like it, don’t you? I can feel it.

  “No!”

  The car soared over the crest of the hill and came crashing down onto the pavement with a jolt. He felt something in the undercarriage give away. Somewhere in the distance Mary Kate screamed.

  I know what you are. I saw it the first time I saw you. And now you know it too. Sanders had been right. There was something terrible and unnatural in him. He’d responded. He’d—

  The water.

  He knew what to do. He’d drown it out of himself. Whatever it was that Sanders saw. Kill it. No one had to know. He steered the car for the lake and slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor. A car passing the opposite direction blared its horn. The moment the RS’s wheels left the pavement he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. He mashed the brakes to stop it from happening but was too late. Mary Kate screamed as the car plunged off the bank and into the lake. The impact with the water came as a crushing jolt. His hands slipped from the wheel, and he smacked his head on something. Mary Kate’s scream was cut off. Freezing water poured in through the half-open window. His mind muzzy, he watched uncomprehending as a waterfall was created from automobile glass and lake water.

  Mary Kate coughed, and his brain snapped into focus at once.

  Get her out, he thought. Got to get her out.

  He shoved himself against the car door three times, but it wouldn’t budge. The car was filling up. He didn’t have much time. At the moment the car was floating but any second it’d start to sink. Mary Kate moaned.

  Think, damn you!

  He punched the seatbelt clasp and got it undone on the second try. He tried unrolling the window and got it for the most part before the handle broke off in his hand. Even more water rushed in.

  “Fucking hell!”

  The opening was wide enough. He could push her through. Turning to her, he saw there was blood on her face. He blinked. I’ve killed her, he thought. I’ve fucking killed her. The water was gushing in faster. It was at his hips now, and the car was sinking.

  Not now. Get her out. Worry later.

  His hands were freezing as he plunged them into the water and grasped the seatbelt clasp. By some miracle he got it on the first try. She slumped, but seemed to be coming around.

  “Mary Kate, love. Go through the window. Do you hear me?” He pushed her toward the driver’s side. His teeth were clattering in his head.

  “What happened?”

  Coughing and sputtering, he helped her through just before the car went under. He held his breath, but he’d not gotten a good gasp before the water closed over his head. There was a pocket of air along the ceiling, and he shoved his face against the vinyl covering the roof and gulped as much air as he could, then he half-swam to the window and slipped out. When he surfaced he saw she’d made it to the bank and two strangers were helping her out of the water.

  “Liam is in there! You have to get him out!”

  He swam to shore with his head pounding something fierce. Touching lakebed at last, he crawled across the rocks and mud with his vision pulsing with the beat of his heart. Focused. Blurred. Focused. I almost killed her, he thought. He looked back, and the RS1600 was nowhere to be seen. Fuck. What am I going to tell Bobby?

  “You must sit down, miss.”

  “He’ll drown!”

  Liam used the last of his strength to drag himself up on his feet, then stagger to her. “Here, Mary Kate. I’m here.” He dropped to his knees and winced as he hit the rocks.

  “My wife went for a doctor,” one of the strangers said. “Help will be here soon.”

  Mary Kate’s hand reached up from between the Good Samaritans and grabbed his. “Liam!”

  “I’m here.”

  The big man in the brown anorak moved aside so he could sit next to her. More than anything, Liam wanted to lie down and sleep, but his head was killing him, and he felt dizzy.

  “You all right, sir?”

  “Am.”

  Mary Kate started to cry. “I’m sorry.”

  “What have you to be sorry for?” Liam asked. “I’m the one to blame. Jesus. I’m sorry.”

  She sat up and threw her arms around him. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I lost control,” Liam said. “Was my fault. Let the anger get the best of me. I’ll never do it again. I’ll talk to Father Murray. There has to be something he can do.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “Shhhh. There now,” he said, smoothing her hair. She was wet and shivering and so was he, but he did what he could to warm her anyway by pulling her tight to his body. “It’s all right.”

  “The car—”

  “You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

&nbs
p; Someone brought a blanket and wrapped it around the two of them. He focused on making Mary Kate comfortable until help arrived.

  “You’ll have to get back to the driving again,” Oran said. “You can’t hold the wreck against yourself forever.”

  “I know,” Liam said.

  “It’s been four months.” Oran stared into his pint while the pub clientele shouted and laughed around them. “Éamon has been very patient.”

  “I know.” Liam had just gotten off his shift for the day, and the headache thumping behind his eyes was one of the worst yet. He’d argued with Mary Kate multiple times about getting in to see a doctor, but he’d held his ground. Eventually, the ache in his head died down and his vision was right again, but ever since the accident the headaches at the end of the work day had gotten worse.

  Oran lowered his voice. “It has to be tonight.”

  “I know.” Liam sipped from his pint. To drive again. Really drive. It’d been so long. Will it be safe?

  “The job is in a few days.”

  “I know.”

  “Will you stop with the ‘I know’ already?” Oran asked. “You’re starting to sound like a parrot.”

  “I know.”

  “You wee bastard.” Oran shoved his shoulder. “You’re sound, all right.”

  The sudden movement caused the ache in Liam’s brain to crank up a notch. He took a long drink of cider and prayed the pain would fade.

  “You don’t look so good, mate,” Oran said.

  Liam shrugged. “Bit uneasy, is all.”

  “Everything good at home?”

  Shrugging again, Liam said, “Hasn’t been great since, well… you know. We get on each other’s nerves.”

  “She’ll come round. You both had a wee scare is all.”

  Liam nodded. He didn’t tell Oran that he and Mary Kate hardly spoke to one another without it ending in a row. It’d gotten to a point that even the running didn’t help. His head hurt too much, and he was sick of thinking about it.

  “Elizabeth says Mary Kate is learning to drive.”

  “Aye.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, you know. Bobby looked the car over. The fucking tie rod gave way. He feels terrible. You shouldn’t give up the racing.”

  “I could have killed her.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I could have.”

  “How many times do I have to—”

  “You weren’t there.”

  “Maybe so,” Oran said. “But I know you. And I know you’d never hurt Mary Kate. Not on purpose. It was an accident.”

  Liam looked away, his jaw tensing and his heart aching to compete with his head. Not on purpose. “Do you have a car in mind?”

  “I do.”

  “All right,” Liam said. “We’ll do it. Tonight.”

  “Now you’re talking sense.”

  Finishing off his pint, Liam stood up. “Think I’ll go home now.”

  “Stay. Have a few more,” Oran said. “Relax.”

  “Can’t,” Liam said. “Mary Kate will be home early, and I need to finish with the carburetor before she gets there. The fucking choke on that damned taxi gives me trouble once a week. I’d buy a new carburetor, but I’m paying Bobby for the RS.”

  “He said you don’t have to. The insurance paid off.”

  Liam shrugged.

  “All right,” Oran said. “I’ll meet you on the corner at eleven.”

  Getting into the taxi, Liam started the engine and headed home. Thanks to the choke, the engine died three times along the way because the idle was off, and it wasn’t getting enough fuel in the mix. He wanted to hit something, anything, by the time he got home. His head was splitting already, and another hour with his head under the hood didn’t sound remotely good, but it had to be done. He pulled into the car park and decided to grab some aspirin first. He locked the taxi and went up the stairs to the flat. When he opened the door he stopped and blinked. Mary Kate was there already, and she was wearing something that amounted to a few bits of gauze and some ribbon.

  “Welcome home,” she said.

  He felt his mouth drop open.

  “Are you going to shut the door?” she asked. “Or would you rather I caught cold?”

  “Wha—” He swallowed and then shut the door. Through the fog of his aching brain, he tried to think of an anniversary date or a special occasion missed, but it was the end of July. There was nothing. “I—I—”

  She moved close and put her arms around him. Suddenly, his headache was of much less importance. “I wanted to apologize for last night. Well, the last few nights, actually. All right. The last few months.”

  Ever since the crash, she’d been distant and quiet. He’d begun to think she was frightened of him, and it’d taken its toll on him. He’d started to wonder if she would leave him after all. The black thing living under his skin was becoming more and more of a problem. “Oh.” Fucking brilliant, he thought. She goes to all this trouble and all you can say is “Oh”?

  “There’s something I need to talk to you about.” He felt her press even closer so that her body just touched his.

  “Ah, yes? What is it?”

  “You were right. We should have a baby.”

  “What?”

  “It has to be now. Please. Or it’ll be too late.”

  He stepped back. “You said you wanted to wait. You wanted to finish school first.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. Please.” She tugged at his shirt, pulling him to her. She unbuttoned it and then her nipples were hard points against his skin. He moved to push her away, but the feel of her in his hands gave him a rise.

  “I want a baby. Your baby,” she said. “Now.”

  “You want to be a barrister. You’ll not finish if we do this.”

  She was tugging at the front of his jeans now. He felt the button pop open under her fingers. “I don’t care.”

  “I do.”

  “Do you, now?” She gave him a wicked smile and licked his neck. It sent a lightning-quick charge through his body. When her hand probed inside the front of his jeans, suddenly nothing else mattered. “Do I have your attention?” she asked.

  “Aye. You do, it seems. Firmly in your grasp.” The familiar banter gave him a warm comfortable feeling that burned away all the long months of tension between them.

  “Well, then,” she said. “Would you rather spend the evening arguing?”

  He decided that the taxi’s choke could wait one more day.

  Chapter 19

  Paris, France

  November 1976

  A steady tap-tap-tap of dripping water echoed from the tunnels until one of the junior priests pushed the massive iron-bound door closed, leaving two priests to guard the catacomb entrance. Creaking wooden folding chairs and hushed whispers haunted the chilly room. For reasons of security, the Convocation of Milites Dei was taking place in a section of the Paris catacombs located beneath a famous cathedral. Father Murray glanced at the walls created from stacked human bones and shivered. One hundred priests from various European Archdioceses occupied the chairs, and at the front of the room sat a row of elderly men wearing bishop’s skull caps, sternly facing the audience. Not all present wore priestly robes—some wore suits, depending upon how positively the Catholic Church was viewed in their area and how much freedom obvious members of the Church were permitted.

  Father Murray scanned the low-ceilinged room and once again was hit with the enormity of the challenge before him. In all the years that he’d been a member of Milites Dei, this was his first Convocation, and it would more than likely be his last. It was both thrilling and unnerving.

  The junior ranking priest who had closed the door now swung a thurible as he made his way down the center path between the rows of chairs. At once, burning frankincense blanketed the smell of damp, ancient rot and the press of too many people packed into a small space. As he watched, Father Murray caught the profile of a severe-looking woman when she turned her head. She was seated in th
e front row facing the bishops. Her brown hair was caught up in a tight French twist. He was about to ask Father Thomas if he knew anything about her when a bell rang and everyone in the room stood up for Cardinal Sabatini.

  Father Murray felt a trickle of sweat trace an itching path down the center of his back.

  “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this, Joseph?” Father Thomas whispered.

  Nodding, Father Murray didn’t speak. He’d prayed for guidance during the months before the Convocation and had come to the same conclusion time and again. The risks didn’t matter, lives—whether or not they were human—did. He’d spoken to both Father Thomas and Bishop Avery and while both were supportive of an investigation neither were willing to risk anything further. Therefore, the responsibility of approaching the Convocation would remain firmly on Father Murray’s shoulders.

  After conducting a blessing for those present, Cardinal Sabatini began a discussion of the administrative aspects of the war—the casualties, the lack of new recruits which in turn led to an announcement regarding the addition of the Order of Saint Ursula to Milites Dei. The woman with the French Twist got up and approached the Cardinal in the midst of a whirlwind of objections.

  “Silence!” Cardinal Sabatini banged his fist on the wooden table in front of him, his excitement making his Italian accent more prominent. “I will not tolerate disruption. This action has been ordered by His Holiness, the Pope.”

  Father Murray saw a pained expression flash across the woman’s face. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the reception or the Cardinal’s tone. As for himself, Father Murray was stunned. Milites Dei had existed for centuries and had never before included females among its ranks—not even in an administrative capacity. It was considered too dangerous.

  “The Order of Saint Ursula has been inducted into Milites Dei,” Cardinal Sabatini said, “and will be treated as respected members. A small unit is to be assigned within each Archdiocese. The first will be based in the United Kingdom next year. Sister Catherine, you may speak.”

  “Thank you, Your Eminence.” Sister Catherine’s accent was American, and she was dressed in a conservative black suit with an ankle-length skirt. Even so, Father Murray found it difficult not to stare. She wasn’t wearing makeup or jewelry but retained an understated beauty. Her build was athletic, and her stance, confident. “I speak for my sisters within the Order of Saint Ursula when I say that we intend to fulfill our duties and responsibilities as well as our male counterparts. We feel we have unique advantages—”