by Megan Chance
“Grace, Oscar is . . . He’s the closest thing to family I’ve got. ’Twill take only a few days.”
“Then take me with you. If you mean to go, take me too.”
“You heard what Miles said. The police aren’t on our side. I won’t lead you into danger, especially one I don’t know. You’ll be safe here.”
Even though Miles stood watching, I reached for Diarmid, thinking that I could convince him to stay if I could only find the right words, the right touch. But the moment I touched him, I heard music. One chord, complex and soaring, a sound made of other sounds. It held, lingering, a forever kind of chord, and then it split into its separate notes, unwinding like a thread spun of many finer threads, and each formed a path and a music of its own.
And suddenly I knew: He had to go. This fight was where he belonged. It was not mine.
I let go of Diarmid’s arm; the music stopped. I looked up at him.
“Grace?” he asked. “What is it?”
“You have to go.”
He said fervently, “Sweet Danu, but I love you. I’ll be back, I promise. I want you to wait for me here.” He took my face between his hands, his gaze searing into mine. “Wait for me.”
“Yes,” I said.
He kissed me. Hard at first, and then it gentled into a good-bye, one he didn’t want to make. But his fate already pulled him onward, pulling him away from me.
“Wait for me,” he whispered again. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I said. Then I let him go.
July 27
Diarmid
Diarmid’s guilt weighed on him as he walked down to the beach, where Hugh and another of the Dun Rats waited with the tiny sloop that had brought Miles. His best intentions had been pummeled into dust since Grace had seen the ball seirce. It was bad enough that he’d given in to his desire; what was worse was the way he’d used her love to make her stay.
As bad as he felt, though, there was a part of him that was glad for the spell, because he knew she would wait for him as she’d promised, and he couldn’t be worrying about her now. He had to concentrate on not panicking as he boarded that tiny sloop, its mast creaking and groaning in the heavy chop. The short trip to the docks of Manhattan seemed the longest, most perilous distance he’d ever crossed.
When they reached a landing spot on the river, past the docks of the big steamers and ships on the Hudson side, he scrambled out of the boat so quickly that Hugh laughed at him. Hugh wouldn’t be laughing if he’d seen the things Diarmid had. A sea monster could swallow a boat like that in a single mouthful. Cliodna’s deadly wave would have drowned it without the slightest effort.
Diarmid asked again, “Finn didn’t tell you lads where they were?”
Hugh shrugged. “They’re keeping it tight, ya know? But ask around—there’ll be word, at least for when the next fight is, and they’ll be there.”
Diarmid nodded his thanks and walked down the tilting wharf to the street. Men were looking for him. ‘Wanted’ posters were everywhere. So he took the back way to the burned tenement, even though he knew the others were no longer there. It was a place to start. He dodged into alleys, snaking along saloon walls, keeping his head down, meeting no one’s eye. The bustle of the working waterfront meant no one was looking to get into anyone’s way. Curiosity here sometimes meant a knife in your throat. There were so many people about—sailors, drovers, dockworkers—that he went unnoticed. He saw no police; there were a few gang boys hanging about, but no one he knew, and he wasn’t asking, not when the Fomori were busy recruiting gangs to their side.
When he got to Houston Street, things began to look familiar, the saloons and the tenements—but he grew warier. Now there were police. It was stupid to come here, where he was known, but he hadn’t any other choice.
There were more police about than he’d ever seen. Things had changed in the time he’d been gone. He felt resentment and anger in the air like a fog. There had always been resentment, but now there was violence, too, barely held in check, ready to explode at the smallest provocation.
Diarmid had no wish to be that provocation. He dodged through a hole in the wall that led to another makeshift doorway, and ended up in the hallway of a tenement where a man was selling broken crockery. Beyond was a wall made of tacked-together cardboard, and a woman sitting with a pile of goods—broken-heeled shoes and ragged bits of lace and ribbon, no doubt all scavenged from ash cans. A group of young men lounged idly on the stairs.
He went past them, pausing at the door, looking for police or Fomorians. No one. He was just stepping onto the walk when he heard:
“Derry! That you? Whatcha doin’ back ’ere? Ya know they’re lookin’ for ya.”
Diarmid tensed, his hand creeping to his dagger. One of the young men was emerging from the darkness of the stairs. Billy, the leader of Billy’s Boys. They were allied with Finn—or they had been. He didn’t know if they still were. Especially since he’d saved Grace from them not so long ago. He wondered if Billy held grudges.
Cautiously, he said, “Good to see you, Billy.”
Billy was tall and lanky, with stringy light-brown hair, a big nose, and clever eyes. “Yer takin’ yer life in yer hands, lad, comin’ round here.”
“Because of the police, or because of you?”
“Hey, don’t I always got your back?”
“Usually,” Diarmid agreed. “But I’ve been gone awhile. Things look to have changed.”
“Aye.” Billy gestured for Diarmid to follow him. They went past the makeshift hallway shops to a confusion of rooms blocked out by more cardboard. There were other boys there. Billy said, “Private chat, boys. Only be a moment.”
The boys scurried out like cockroaches. When they were alone, Billy said, “You here ’cause you’re mad?”
“Not me.”
“Good.” Billy looked relieved. “I saw the posters, ya know. It was that same girl, weren’t it? The one they’re lookin’ for?”
Diarmid’s gut tightened. “Aye.”
“Run off with her, did ya? Hell, I didn’t know she was no rich girl. Figures you’d end up with one o’ them.”
“I’m looking for Finn.”
“Ya heard they got Oscar?”
“’Tis why I’m back.”
“No one knows where their panny is. But there’s a new protest set for three days from now. At Tompkins Square. Finn’s sent the word to gather. The Warriors’ll be there.”
Three days. Too long. “I need to find them before that.”
Billy lowered his voice. “You remember Justin?”
Justin was the newsboy who had rushed into their room the day they’d awakened, warning them about the Whyos and preventing a surprise massacre. Diarmid nodded.
“’E’s got a post on Printing House Square. Tell ’im you need Finn, and ’e’ll find a way. But be careful, lad. Your face is plastered everywhere, and there’re some people—I ain’t sayin’ who—wouldn’t mind the little extra muck for turnin’ ya in, eh? Times is hard.”
“I understand. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Just tell Finn, will ya? Let ’im know I helped ya out.”
Printing House Square. Getting there without being spotted wouldn’t be easy. The New York Times Building, and buildings that housed several other newspapers, were on that block, and all kinds of people would be about. It was also directly across the street from city hall—another example of Finn’s cleverness. No one would suspect a newsboy selling papers there to be the Warriors’ courier.
Diarmid was sweating by the time he reached that part of the city. He held back in the shadows between buildings, watching for Justin and avoiding police—and there were many. He was there for an hour, growing more impatient and anxious by the moment, when the newsboy appeared.
Diarmid tagged a passing sweep girl. “See that boy over there?” He
pulled a penny from his pocket. “Tell him Derry wants to see him.”
She snagged the penny and crossed the street. Diarmid watched as she approached Justin. He saw the way Justin stiffened, his quick glance to the spot where Diarmid hid. The newsboy nodded.
A police officer meandered by. When the officer turned the corner, Justin crossed the street, approaching the shadows cautiously.
“Derry?” he asked. “Damn me. There’s coppers everywhere. It ain’t safe for ya to be ’ere. Everyone’s lookin’ for ya and that lass.”
“I need to get to Finn. Can you take me to him?”
“I don’t know where ’e is,” Justin said. “No one does. I can get ’im word, though, but sometimes it takes a bit.”
“Then tell him I’m here. Tell him I’m waiting at”—Diarmid paused, trying to think—“Washington Square.”
“It might be a couple o’ days.”
“Just tell him to hurry.”
“All right then. But Derry, ya got to watch out. Things’re”—Justin threw a quick and wary look over his shoulder—“things’re bad.”
The boy dashed away, and Diarmid hurried toward Washington Square, impatience growing with every step. Every moment Oscar was in Fomori hands . . . every moment he was away from Grace . . .
But impatience would cost him. It might already have been a bad decision to come here. He didn’t want to make it worse. Settle in. Wait. Three days at the most, because he could always catch up with them at Tompkins Square.
The park was busy today. It was bordered by row houses belonging to those who were respectable, if not rich, and the park was filled with women, children, and a few idle men. Diarmid wandered about, trying to look like a boy who had been granted a free afternoon on a hot summer day, waiting.
And waiting.
The afternoon turned to evening. Promenaders wandered away; nursemaids with small children departed. Businessmen hurried through on their way home. When the sun set and night came on, Diarmid hid near a tree to avoid any policemen looking to roust a vagrant. The lamplighters came around with their long-poled flames. Then it became quiet. The moon climbed past the tall buildings, peeking through the leaves of the tree. Diarmid was just thinking he should find a safer place to sleep when he heard footsteps.
His every sense went on alert. Then he heard whistling, low and familiar. It was a song he knew—one of his favorites from feast days. He’d always requested it of Garrick, the bard he liked best, because the man had a soft and wistful way of singing it. “Fair lass of Kincora, let down your dark hair . . .”
And then . . . an odd minor note. Familiar again. Conan had always teased him with the song, changing the melody so it was a little off-key, adding a bawdiness to it that made Diarmid laugh.
Conan. It had to be.
Diarmid stepped out from the tree’s cover. There, near the fountain: the faint shine of gaslight on a bald head. The whistling grew louder. There was no one else around, only a horse and carriage parked on the street. As silently as he could, Diarmid moved toward the man. When the whiff of stinking sheep filled his nose, he let out a sigh of relief.
Without turning around, Conan said, “You were loud as a charging boar, lad.”
“I’ve got sharp tusks too,” Diarmid said, brandishing his dagger so the blade caught the light. “And I might have to gore you if you keep mangling my favorite song.”
Diarmid embraced his fellow warrior. Conan slapped him on the back. “’Tis good to see you, my brother.” Conan’s smile died. “But you should not have come.”
“I couldn’t stay away. Not when I heard—”
“Finn’s not happy.” Conan motioned for Diarmid to walk with him through the park, past the row houses, into the alley. “You didn’t follow orders.”
“I thought you needed my help.”
“You were supposed to stay with the girl. She’s the most important thing.”
“Grace is safe.”
Conan grunted. “She’d be safer if you were with her.”
Diarmid couldn’t deny it. “I’ve heard how things are. No one’s done anything but warn me of it. You need me. You know you do. I’ve been away too long—”
“There are posters of you all over the city. How’re you to help rescue Oscar when everyone knows exactly what you look like?”
“I’m not leaving until he’s back. D’you know yet where they’re keeping him?”
“Aye, there are plans. You’ll hear them from Finn, I’m guessing. Before he sends you back to your little love nest. Fine duty, isn’t it? Spending your days lolling in the sun and kissing while the rest of us are training militia and getting our heads bashed in.”
“I’ve been training the Dun Rats,” Diarmid protested.
Again, Conan grunted. They went down one alley and then another, and the smell of that fleece made Diarmid feel sick. He had lost track of where they were—somewhere around Bleecker, he guessed, but heading toward the Hudson. Conan kept to the alleys and the shadows. “We don’t need anyone recognizing either of us. You endangered us all, coming here, you know.”
“Then why did Finn send you? Your bald head and that sheepskin mark you a mile away.”
“Everyone else was busy.”
“Why not send a lad then?”
Conan snapped, “We’re under siege, Derry. The only reason we’ve survived is because Finn trusts no one. The Fomori have spies everywhere—we couldn’t take the chance that we’d unwittingly send one after you.”
Conan was right; Diarmid had endangered them by coming here. He was too visible. He should have stayed with Grace. Those had been his orders, and he should never have disobeyed them. He should have trusted that Finn and the others had things well in hand.
Conan turned down a slender corridor. Another maze of doors and alcoves, the smell of sewage and garbage. Diarmid followed Conan through the puzzle—obscuring their trail for anyone who might be following. They reached a decrepit three-story mansion that Diarmid remembered passing twenty minutes ago. The streetlamp in front had been knocked out, glass shards crunching beneath his boots. Oil lamps cast light from some windows, while others were boarded over. Piles of garbage loomed in the yard behind cast-iron railings. People slept on the porch.
Conan took him around the side, into a space so tight they had to flatten themselves against the wall to get through. It opened onto a backyard with privies leaning drunkenly against each other and a cesspool that glimmered in the moonlight.
Conan dodged the cesspool, leading Diarmid to a crooked back door. “Home sweet home.” He pushed past the door and into the darkened hall of an old kitchen, which was now crowded with pallets of straw and snoring men. Conan turned abruptly to the left, rapping on another door—the code. Conan jerked the door open. Dank air rushed out.
“Careful of the stairs,” he whispered. They went into a basement that stank of mildew, sweat, and cooking onions. A dim light barely illuminated slatted steps bordered by seeping stone walls. Diarmid heard nothing from below. No talk. No laughter. Not even snoring. He knew that silence, and he knew what he would see when they reached the bottom.
A tribunal. Cannel leaned against a wall, watching, but the rest of the Fianna were lined up, one beside another, arms crossed over their chests, icy stares. And in the middle, his hair gleaming golden red in the light from an oil lamp, stood Finn.
Conan joined them. Diarmid was left to face his brothers alone. He cursed himself again. He’d been impatient and stupid. Finn rarely failed to punish disobedience—severely.
Diarmid looked at his fellows, missing Oscar acutely in that moment. Oscar would have at least winked. All the faces looking at him now were stern and forbidding.
Finn stepped forward. “Why are you here, Diarmid?”
“I thought you would need my help.”
“I see. Second-guessing me, were you?”
/> Diarmid went silent.
“Where’s the veleda? Don’t tell me you brought her into the city.”
“No. She’s safe. And guarded.”
Finn stepped closer, his power radiating, his blue eyes no longer cold but flashing hot. “Let me see if I have this right. All the Fianna are standing right here, which means you’ve left our veleda in the hands of someone who cannot possibly be as competent as you are—though I’m having doubts as to that just now. By morning every spy in the city will know you’re back and will be doubling their efforts to find you. You’ve forced us into a position where we must protect you, and at the same time, you’ve endangered us when the Fomori and their cohorts are tightening the noose by the hour. Do I have it right? Or is there something else I’m forgetting?”
“I think that’s all,” Diarmid said hoarsely.
“Ah. There’s something to be thanking the gods for.”
“I can only say that I thought to help. When I heard about Oscar, I thought you might have need of me. I’d ask you to remember that when Miogach attacked us in Ireland, ’twas only by following my instincts that I saved you from the House of Death.”
“Another lifetime ago,” Finn said dismissively.
“Aye, but I had reason to think this might be the same. The Fomori found Grace and me in Brooklyn, and we had to run; I didn’t know if they’d found you too. I didn’t know if you even knew where we were.”
“I told you to stay with the veleda.”
“I was also told you were under attack,” Diarmid said. “And I saw Aidan’s lightning. I couldn’t just ignore that.”
“The veleda is what matters just now, and you left her for a battle. Could you really think that a fight was so important? We need her to win the war.”
Diarmid swallowed, but he didn’t back away. “But if you lose this battle, there may be no war.”