by Megan Chance
“Where is she?”
“On Governors Island.”
“Whose watch?”
“One of the Dun Rats—”
“You left her with a half-trained gang boy?”
“He’ll protect her. And it’s not as if she’s defenseless.”
“What if she tries to escape him?”
“She won’t. She’s promised to wait for me.”
Finn stilled. “You used the ball seirce?”
Diarmid nodded.
It was the first moment since he’d stepped into the room that Finn didn’t look angry. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in some time.”
Diarmid didn’t trust himself to say anything.
“And . . . is she swayed?”
“You’d have to ask her, but I don’t think she wants me to die.”
“Then, I suppose execution for disobedience is off the table, eh, lads?”
There were grins. One or two laughed. But Diarmid was unsettled by Finn’s measuring gaze.
Finn went on, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your punishment, but as the veleda apparently likes you”—more laughter—“and we need her, it will hold. As long as you’re here, we might be able to use you. We mean to rescue Oscar tomorrow night. Once he’s safe, you’ll go back to her. And there you’ll stay until I tell you to come home, whatever else you hear or see. We can’t protect her well enough here, and ’tis no place for a lady.” Finn’s eyes glittered. “Disobey me again, and you’ll be sorry you’re alive. Do you understand me?”
“Aye,” Diarmid said.
Finn turned away. The others came forward now, welcoming him. Diarmid felt Finn watching as Keenan slapped his shoulder and Goll and Ossian made jokes about his current duty.
Diarmid saw the worry for his son in Ossian’s eyes. “Oscar would be relieved to know you’re with us on this. As am I.”
“Where is he?” Diarmid asked.
“A dungeon cell in the Tombs,” Ossian said.
The Tombs was the nickname for the city’s House of Detention—an Egyptian-style monstrosity with a pillared entrance and marble stairs where the courts were, and the jail behind. “How d’you think we’ll get in there?”
Before the others could answer, Diarmid felt a presence behind him. A pull, like the threads of a web tightening within him. He thought, Grace, in the split second before he realized who it must be.
“You were supposed to protect her! Why did you leave her?”
Aidan.
The same day
Patrick
Patrick stood outside the cell, watching as one of Balor’s policemen bent over the young man slumped in the chair, white-blond hair matted with blood.
“We’ll try it again, then,” the policeman snarled, raising the leather bag filled with shot. “Where are your fellows?”
Oscar raised his head. One eye was swollen shut. His nose was broken and bloody and his cheek bruised black, but he did what he had done every single time the question was asked. He grinned.
The policeman cracked the bag across Oscar’s head. The Fianna warrior groaned, his chin falling again to his chest.
Patrick didn’t even wince. This was the cost of war, and he’d seen it too often in Ireland to feel discomfort. Oscar knew to expect it—he was trained for it—and Patrick couldn’t afford to show regret or compassion, especially now. Since he’d saved Aidan’s life, he’d felt the eyes of the Fomori upon him and the questioning of his loyalty even by the Brotherhood. Jonathan Olwen had said, “We know he was once your friend,” and Patrick had understood: Don’t do it again.
The Fianna had asked for this war by refusing to fight beside him. They deserved what they got. Patrick had been running his father’s business since he was eighteen, and the rebellion he’d helped organize in Ireland had taught him that sometimes you must sleep with the devil to get what you want. Freeing Ireland was the important thing. The Fomori were still the best way to accomplish it, but beyond that . . . Patrick could not dismiss his worry over how Grace’s power might tempt the Fomori. Until they found the archdruid, he trusted only Aidan and himself to keep Grace safe. If nothing else, the Fianna were keeping her out of the city—and she needed to stay away. It was why he was here today, to deliver a message.
So he watched as the policeman tortured Oscar. Another question, another strike. He waited through two more rounds before he said, “Let me talk to him.”
“What makes you think you’ll get anything from him?” Balor grumbled.
“You haven’t asked the questions I’m interested in,” Patrick said.
Balor did not look happy—not that he ever did, really, unless he was in the middle of a battle—but he stood aside as Patrick went to Oscar. The torturer thunked the shot-filled bag in his palm as if he could hardly wait to use it again.
Patrick looked down at the warrior, whose breathing had become short and ragged with pain. Patrick squatted until he was even with Oscar’s face.
“I want to know about Grace,” he said.
Oscar said nothing.
“I care only for her happiness. I know she must be afraid. She wants to come home. I’ll do whatever I must to bring her back. Tell me where she is.”
Again, nothing.
“She doesn’t belong to the Fianna. Where are you keeping her?”
Silence.
“Tell me. She’s only a girl. She can mean nothing to you.”
Oscar laughed, and the sound was gruesome, rattling with blood. His mouth and cheek were so swollen that Patrick had to strain to understand him. “Nothing? Do you think me a fool? She’s the veleda.”
“She’s my fiancée. She loves me. Do you really think she’ll choose the Fianna when she has a life with me waiting?”
“Does she still love you?” Oscar mocked. “D’you think he waited to show her the ball seirce? He had her within the hour.”
Patrick struggled to keep his feelings in check. He reminded himself of his greater purpose, and glanced over his shoulder at a restless Balor. He didn’t have much more time. “Tell me where she is, and it will go much easier for you.”
Oscar snorted. “You think this is hard?”
“Enough, Devlin. Let us beat it out of him,” Balor snarled.
Patrick grabbed Oscar’s hair, yanking him forward, looking the Fianna warrior in the eyes. “Do you think we won’t kill you? How will the Fianna win without their best warrior? Do you think we would hesitate to cripple them?” He leaned closer threateningly, close enough to whisper, “Keep her out of the city.”
If he hadn’t been so close, he wouldn’t have seen the flicker of surprise in Oscar’s eyes. The warrior’s gaze met his with understanding before he said exactly what Balor would expect: “Go ahead—kill me if you want. It won’t matter. You’ll never find her. She’s in love with him. She’ll choose us.”
Patrick let him go. The torturer struck Oscar on the back of the head. The Fianna warrior slumped forward, passing out.
Patrick said, “You’ll get nothing out of him if he’s unconscious, you fool. Next time use a little care.”
He left the basement cell with its one flickering oil lamp and went up the stairs to the main floor of the jail, gloomy and dim, the air in the enclosed, windowless space heavy with the noxious scent of gas. The cells stretched the long halls, rising four tiers, with iron bridges crossing from one side to the other above.
He passed quickly outside, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and despair. He’d given Oscar the message, but he knew the Fianna warrior had not lied about the lovespot. Patrick hadn’t really expected otherwise, but still . . . The Fomori had said the spell would fade with time, and that was what Patrick clung to. How much time was there now, though? Not much. Just keep her safe, Diarmid, he prayed. Until I know what to do.
First, he had to figure out how to help O
scar escape so he could get Patrick’s message to Aidan.
Patrick was so lost in thought he was startled to find he was at his front door. Lucy stood in the hallway, waiting for him. She held a letter out to him with a trembling hand. Her mouth was set tight; her eyes blazing.
“It just came for you,” she said. “I mistook the writing. I thought it was for me.”
The wax seal had been broken. Patrick glanced down at the writing—feminine and clearly addressed to him. He looked back at his sister. “You mistook it?”
“All right, no, I didn’t. I thought it was from Grace, but it’s from that friend of yours who was at dinner. Lot—what kind of a name is that?”
“Short for Charlotte,” Patrick lied, distracted.
His sister seemed barely to hear him, rushing on with, “Derry’s back! ‘The one we’ve been searching for has returned, but without his captive.’ That’s what she says. She means Derry, doesn’t she?”
Patrick scanned the contents. It was as Lucy had said. Diarmid had been spotted in the city. Without Grace.
Lucy said, “I want to see him. You must find him for me. Bring him here.”
Patrick stared at the letter, thinking of Oscar sagging in the chair, only his bonds keeping him upright. Diarmid would not have left her unless the Fianna meant to rescue Oscar. If Diarmid was here without Grace, it must be happening soon.
Patrick should warn the Fomori but . . . Grace. Keep her safe. This was what he’d been hoping for, a chance for Oscar to escape. Now all that remained was making sure of it.
Patrick crumpled the note in his hand, throwing it to the floor. He spun on his heel, back to the door.
“Patrick, tell me what’s happening! Where is he?” Lucy asked shrilly. “Where are you going?”
“I have an appointment at the Tombs,” he said.
Late that afternoon
Diarmid
Diarmid had forgotten how much Aidan looked like his sister, but now the likeness seemed more pronounced than ever. The only difference was the eyes, Aidan’s piercing blue stare.
“Where is she?” Aidan asked.
“She’s well protected.”
“But not by you. You made me a promise.”
“Grace needs you,” Aidan had said the night of the raid. “Protect her. That’s all I’m asking of you.” Diarmid told Aidan, “I’m going back as soon as we rescue Oscar.”
“Too late. It’s too late.” Aidan turned away.
Diarmid grabbed his shoulder. “What does that mean?”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Diarmid was aware of the others watching—of Finn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve released her power and left her alone.”
“She’s not alone! And—”
“Stop,” Finn ordered. He turned to Aidan. “You said he released her power. What do you mean?”
“It was blocked but now, thanks to him”—Aidan jerked his chin at Diarmid—“she can use it. He’s a fool who has no idea what he’s done.”
Diarmid’s stomach knotted. He recalled the things Grace had said, things he’d only partially understood, about feeling stronger since they’d lain together, about music. Slowly, he said, “When you told me she needed me, this is what you meant. She is stronger. She wasn’t just saying it.”
“Yes, she’s stronger,” Aidan snapped. “Even I can feel it, and I’m across the water from her. You were right there. You were with her. You should have known. God save me from warriors. You’ve spent a lifetime with Druids—don’t tell me you don’t recognize power when you see it.”
“So it’s released,” Finn said. “’Tis good for us, isn’t it?”
“You don’t understand. It’s even more dangerous for her now. She’ll be as drawn to the archdruid as the sidhe are,” Aidan said. “She’ll try to find him, with or without Derry.”
Finn said, “But she’s promised to wait for Diarmid’s return. And the ball seirce has bound her. Which will rule her more, do you think? Love or power?”
Aidan looked at Diarmid, and Diarmid felt that web of connection tightening again, as if Aidan could somehow see inside him, as if he somehow knew everything Diarmid felt and wanted, and Diarmid saw that Aidan did know what had happened between him and Grace. Impossible, but . . .
Aidan said, “All I can tell you is that at one time she would have done anything for Patrick.”
Jealousy struck Diarmid, mixed with shame. He hated both feelings.
Finn asked Diarmid, “You bound her, you’re sure of it? You wrought a promise?”
“Aye. She’ll wait for me. But there’s something else, Finn. What Aidan says, about the archdruid—Grace and I found an old Druid at Coney Island. The sidhe sucked all his power long ago, but he had this ogham stick with a prophecy. It made no sense to me, but Grace said her grandmother told her some of the same words. The old man said it needed a key. We never did figure out what that meant. Of course, we didn’t look at it again after—” He bit off the words, ignoring their knowing glances, not wanting to share the most intimate and powerful moment of his life. He reached into his pocket, but he knew already the ogham stick wasn’t there. He’d been looking at it when Grace had seen the lovespot, and after that he hadn’t thought of it again. It was on the floor in the storehouse somewhere. “Grace was certain the prophecy had something to do with the archdruid. And . . . there’s one other thing.”
“There’s more?” Finn said. “Ah, I can hardly wait to hear it.”
“Grace and I ran into a gang of river pirates.”
“We’ve attempted to ally with some of them, but they prefer to do things on their own.”
“Then you never got a message from them about our escape?”
Finn shook his head. “We knew you’d been pursued. The Rats said they knew where you were.”
“These river pirates weren’t just a gang,” Diarmid said. “They’re sidhe.”
Finn looked surprised; Aidan did not. If Aidan had known this already, why not tell Finn?
Diarmid went on, “They’re led by one of the most powerful sidhe queens I’ve seen since we woke to this time: Battle Annie. I thought she might know where the archdruid was. She didn’t, but she promised to help look.”
“Why?” Finn asked suspiciously. “What did you bargain?”
“I didn’t bargain anything. ’Twas Grace who made the deal. I don’t know what she offered. They had an . . . agreement.”
“You let the veleda make a bargain with the sidhe?”
“I had no choice. I was in the ship’s hold at the time. And Grace is convinced she didn’t make a bad bargain.”
Finn let out his breath. “I’ll decide what to do about this later. For now, ’tis time we focused on our plans.”
Diarmid was glad to turn to that, to concentrate on something he could do, something he was good at—though he would’ve said he was good with girls, too, and look what that had got him. As they gathered to go over the plan, Aidan sent electricity arcing from hand to hand, his gaze set on Diarmid as if he were imagining incinerating him. It raised the hair on the back of Diarmid’s neck. He wished Grace’s brother would go to sleep and leave him alone.
Cannel sat on a pile of bedding, laying out cards, doing his divination and Finn’s pale eyes gleamed with an almost evil satisfaction as he spoke. “Aidan will come along—hopefully we won’t need a storm, but better to be prepared. Diarmid and Ossian will get arrested for drunkenness. They’ll be taken to the Bummers’ Cell.”
“Me?” Diarmid asked. “You don’t think they’ll spot who I am? You’ll recall I’m wanted for kidnapping, and theft too. Probably breaking and entering. Or maybe trespassing—I’m not sure. There are so many laws. I don’t know how people in this time keep them straight.”
“Mostly by not breaking them,”
Aidan said sourly.
Ossian grinned, and Keenan let out a bark of a laugh, but Finn ignored them all. “Once the two of you are there, you will create a distraction. I don’t care how you do it. Diarmid, use your notoriety to serve us if you must. Buy enough time for Ossian to sneak away. He’ll get us inside. I expect we’ll see our old friends at some point. The Fomori are all through the police force, and the word will be out already that Diarmid’s back. They’ll know that means we plan a rescue, and they’ll be expecting us. Once the alarm is sounded, we’ll have little time. We get Oscar and fight our way out again.”
“When Ossian sneaks away, what should I do then?” Diarmid asked.
“Find a way to join us for the fight or get out—but do one or the other. I don’t want to have to risk another rescue attempt.”
“You’re so much trouble, we might decide to leave you,” Conan joked.
Finn cuffed Conan. “You wanted to help, Diarmid. This is what we need. Am I understood?”
“Aye.” Diarmid understood all too well. He was on his own, and he supposed he deserved it. He wondered if Finn would be all that unhappy if Diarmid failed the attempt and got shot by some guard.
“I guess you wish you were back kissing the lass, eh?” Keenan teased.
Aidan glared at him.
Finn said to Cannel, “What about you, cainte? What do your cards say?”
The Seer looked up. “Adding Diarmid changes things. Only a little, but it adds a new obstacle.”
Finn’s gaze sharpened. “Obstacle? What kind of obstacle?”
Aidan said quietly, “Fate is ever-changing.”
Diarmid felt a shiver of dread.
July 28
Diarmid
They spent the day preparing. Ossian covered his white-blond hair with an old scarf and pulled a hat down on top of it. Diarmid required no such disguise—his coloring was no different than half the Irish in the city—but he dirtied his face until he looked as filthy and anonymous as any of the men who worked the docks.
Then Conan doused him and Ossian with whiskey. “Seems a waste.”