by Megan Chance
“Broadway or Fifth Avenue,” Finn directed. “Madison Square Park. Go where the wealthy are. They won’t tolerate drunken fools in those places.”
Diarmid didn’t want to go anywhere near Madison Square, where Patrick Devlin lived, but he didn’t say it. He tried not to see the brooding way that Grace’s brother watched him—just as he had been since Diarmid’s return.
“Here we go,” Ossian said with a tight smile.
Diarmid followed Ossian through the pathways out of the neighborhood. This time he forced himself to pay attention. He had no doubt he’d have to find his own way back. The evening seemed full of shadows and sounds, children crying and playing, the clank of a bottle hitting the cobblestones, a man screaming at his wife. The smell of the whiskey polluting his clothes was nauseatingly strong.
“We’ll go to upper Broadway first,” Ossian said. “Theaters will just be filling.” Ossian dodged into a saloon and bought a bottle. They each took a swallow—cheap whiskey, wretched stuff—and then Ossian emptied most of it on the ground. The buildings began to change to respectable businesses, the walks filling with theatergoers and promenaders, women in rich silks and shawls and beribboned hats decorated with flowers and birds, men with shimmering top hats and well-shined boots, all eyeing him and Ossian with worried disgust as the night came on and the streetlamps were lit. Carriages lined the walk before Wallack’s Theatre, their drivers tensing the moment Ossian and Diarmid approached. Near the door of Wallack’s, Ossian nodded at Diarmid, and Diarmid gave a short nod back.
It was time.
Ossian fell against a wall and lifted the bottle to the sky. He shouted, “’Ere’s to the rich! May they always be so while the rest of us rot away!” He tilted the bottle to his mouth, letting the whiskey run freely down his chin.
Diarmid staggered toward him. “Let me ’ave some!”
Ossian jerked the bottle away. “Get yer own.”
“You said we’d share!”
“I changed m’mind.” Ossian set the bottle to his mouth again.
Diarmid snatched the bottle. Ossian shouted, “’ey!”
One of the drivers approached.
“Here, boys,” the man said. “Move along, will you?”
“Why? So the rich don’t ’ave to look at us?” Ossian lurched toward the driver, half falling on the man.
Diarmid sneered. “It’ll spoil their appetites to see us, will it? Well, I got an appetite too—an nothin’ to fill a ’ungry belly.”
“Just go or I’ll call the police.” The driver extricated himself from Ossian’s grasping arms. Ossian stumbled and fell.
Diarmid burst into drunken laughter.
Ossian glared up at him. He tried to get to his feet, falling flat on his face. “Give me that!”
Diarmid put the bottle behind his back. “Come ’n get it.”
A crowd gathered. Horrified men and women, but no police, not yet, and there needed to be.
Diarmid reached to help Ossian stand. Ossian grabbed his hand and pulled hard, and Diarmid sprawled on top of him. “Fight me,” Ossian whispered.
Diarmid obliged. When Ossian grabbed for the bottle, Diarmid hit him, easing off just before his fist connected—the blow looked and sounded worse than it was, and Ossian flopped like the best actor on any stage, flinging his head back.
He lunged for Diarmid, grappling, pushing him into the crowd. Diarmid deliberately fell into a woman, wrapping his arms around her. “Oh, ain’t you lovely,” he said, kissing her on the lips before he pushed away.
She screamed, looking ready to swoon. “Let go of me, you brute! Someone get the police!”
Ossian grabbed his shoulder, and Diarmid twisted around, tripping Ossian so they fell. He heard the sound of running footsteps. Voices saying, “Move aside, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Thank God—the police!” someone said, and Diarmid’s anxiety over being recognized rushed back. An officer wrenched him off Ossian. He kept his head down and reeled. Another policeman grabbed Ossian.
“They stink of whiskey,” the officer who held Ossian said.
“Jus’ lookin’ t’see what the rich do while the city falls ’round ’em,” Ossian slurred. “No ’arm, gentleme’.”
“You’ll be spending the night in the Bummers’ Cell, I’m afraid.”
The other policeman hadn’t let go of Diarmid’s arm. “Come along, lads. We got a nice place for you to sleep it off in.”
The officers led them to a waiting wagon. So far, so good. He and Ossian stumbled into it. No one had recognized him yet, and no one had searched them for weapons either—whether out of incompetence or because they seemed too drunk to be a danger, Diarmid didn’t know and didn’t care. As the wagon set off, bouncing over the paved street, Diarmid’s tension rose. Getting in was the simple part of the plan.
The police picked up two others on the way, men who were truly glassy-eyed drunk, then drove the short blocks to the Tombs.
“’Ere we are, boys,” one of the officers said.
The Bummers’ Cell was large and open, separated from the main hall by an iron railing. There were benches, but nothing else, and some were already filled with drunks.
“It’s not full enough yet,” Ossian whispered to Diarmid as the policemen shuffled them inside.
There were perhaps half a dozen men in the cell now, and there needed to be more to create a real distraction, one that would keep the police too busy to notice Ossian slipping away. Diarmid eyed the railing—easy enough to leap if one wasn’t drunk—and then the hall leading to the cells.
He sat against the wall, and Ossian did the same, and then there was nothing to do but wait and pretend to be sleeping like the others.
As the night went on, the room began to fill with men so drunk they couldn’t see straight—some of them no better dressed than he and Ossian, but others who were clearly better off and having a night on the town. They reminded Diarmid of Aidan, that night in the gambling hell, and the way Aidan had stood out among the derelicts there, and then he pushed Aidan from his mind. He couldn’t think about him or Grace right now.
The place was growing crowded. Two policemen stood against the rails, watching. It would be no effort to overcome them. No doubt they thought drunken men light duty, but Diarmid guessed they wouldn’t think so when they had to control a swarming mass of them.
“See that drunkard over there? The one in the striped vest?” he asked Ossian. “I’m going to start a fight with him. His friend will join in. When he does, get to the railing.”
Ossian nodded. “Don’t wait too long to run for it yourself.”
“Believe me, I’ve no wish to hang.”
“Whatever Finn says, you know he won’t let that happen.”
“Aye. He’ll fight the whole Fomori army for me, I’m guessing,” Diarmid said sarcastically.
“If he won’t, we will.”
Diarmid took a deep breath. “I don’t want to cause another rift. Do what he wants. I’ll be fine.”
“Sometimes Finn has to be told what to think.”
“I’m telling you now: don’t. It cost too much last time. Do me a favor—just get yourselves and Oscar out. Don’t worry about me. Don’t come back for me. Promise me you won’t.”
“Very well,” Ossian agreed slowly. “Just be careful.”
Diarmid forced a smile. “See you back home.”
Diarmid stood, adopting a drunken walk, staggering across to where the dandy and his friend were laughing uproariously at something. He walked up behind the one in the striped vest and shoved him. The man fell into his friend.
“What the ’ell?” The dandy turned to glare at Diarmid. “I’ll ’ave an apology, m’friend.”
“No you won’t,” Diarmid said. “I don’t like the way you look.”
The man stared at him as if he didn’t understand.
> Diarmid jabbed his finger into the man’s chest, and then up, flipping the man’s pointed chin. “Who d’ya think ya are, comin’ in ’ere like this?”
The man looked back at his friend. “D’you ’ear that, Ainsley? Who is this young pup?”
The friend laughed. “’Ey now, boy. Go on.”
“I don’ think so.” Once again, Diarmid pushed the man.
This time, the striped vest came up fighting. He swung a fist at Diarmid, missed, and Diarmid swung back, pulling his punch at the last moment, a graze to the stomach. Keep the man on his feet—too hard a punch and he’d be passed out and no use to them. The dandy was clearly too drunk to fight effectively, and Diarmid fought as if he were the same. He shoved the man back again and leveled another punch, this time into the friend’s shoulder.
The friend let out a bellow of rage and set upon him. Two of them now, which wasn’t a problem, especially given how drunk they were. But Diarmid yelled, “Get ’em off me! Get ’em off me! Rich sons of bitches!”
Ossian shouted, “’Ey there! They’re beatin’ on ’im! Just ’cause they got money don’ mean they can do that!”
The whole place erupted in a melee. There were men trying to come to Diarmid’s aid and others keeping them off, a swirling, shoving, twisting mass of fight. The police climbed the railing into the crowd, shouting and raising clubs. Diarmid ducked, letting two others take his place with the dandy and his friend, shoving his way backward through the fight, coming up for air just in time to see Ossian break through. While the police were consumed with keeping order, Ossian just climbed over the rail. No one even saw him. The plan was working beautifully, and Diarmid hadn’t needed to reveal who he was.
But now . . . to get out.
It took him some time to get to the railing without looking like he was trying to do so. The door to the street was blocked by a police officer, which meant Diarmid had to go over the rail himself and search for another door. The fight had become a riot. The police were shouting for help—Diarmid had no idea if anyone could hear them or if anyone would come. He got to the rail, pulled himself over, and then he was in the hall, which stretched long and empty. He ran in the direction that Ossian had gone, hearing the shouts and cries of the fight behind him.
He expected no guard at the door to the cells—Ossian would have taken care of him already—and there wasn’t. Diarmid slid through a set of doors and into a hall lined on either side with darkened cells. With the door shut behind him, the roar from the Bummers’ Cell was only a dull buzz. There was the guard—unconscious on the floor before him, a lump of shadow. From overhead came the sound of guards’ footsteps as they crossed the bridges from one side to the other, but Ossian had been silent and quick in dispatching those on this floor—no others had been alerted. Yet.
Diarmid hustled down the hall, keeping to the shadows, brushing against the iron-barred cell doors as he passed, hoping those inside would stay silent. No one said a word but for a man who whispered, “Hey! Take me with you!” None of these prisoners would alert the guards to him, he knew. The Tombs was well-known for its escape attempts; they all hoped for a chance themselves.
Footsteps rattled on the bridge above. Diarmid stilled until they passed. The basement stairs were just ahead, the door wedged open for easy escape, which meant Ossian had already got the others in through a ground floor window and they’d gone down to the cell where their spies had said Oscar was being kept. They would be there now. “Join us or get out,” Finn had said, and as long as he was here . . .
Diarmid hurried toward the stairs, nearly tripping over another unconscious guard—a deeper lump of shadow within shadows. Then he heard a noise from the end of the hall, and what he saw coming toward him made his heart stop.
Balor, Daire Donn, Bres, and a dozen Fomori warriors.
His brothers were below, in the basement with only one way out—this door.
The next moment
Diarmid
Diarmid’s only thought was to get the Fomori away from the basement door. He stepped fully into the hallway.
“Well, well.” He let his voice ring out, strong and loud. He was already caught; all he wanted was to warn the others. “Balor—what brings you here? Bres. Well met. Where’s Tethra? Still chasing fairy ships?”
Balor raised a hand to halt the warriors streaming in behind him. His long-bladed knife winked in the light.
Bres stepped forward, smiling, and in that smile Diarmid saw the charm that had led to the near destruction of the Irish. “Diarmid. Should I be assuming from your presence that the rest of the Fianna are here?”
“Here and gone,” Diarmid lied, smiling back. “You’ve just missed them. What a pity. I’m the rear guard. Looks like you’ll only have me to deal with.”
“He’s lying,” Daire Donn said.
“Am I? Hear the ruckus down the hall? What a mess we leave in our wake, eh?”
“Guards!” Bres shouted. “Prisoner escaping!”
Diarmid turned and ran, looking over his shoulder to be sure that Balor and some of the warriors were following. Even if only half of them came after him, it gave his friends an advantage. The basement door crashed open. He glanced back. The rest of the Fianna surged from the basement.
Bres commanded, “After him!”
Guards rushed to the lower levels. Diarmid was fast—he had always been the swiftest of the Fianna. He was pushing through the door back to the Bummers’ Cell, hoping the chaos there would aid his escape, but the warriors were gaining, Balor’s steps shaking the floor as he shouted, “It’s Diarmid, you fools! Stop him!”
The railing had broken in the drunken melee. Men staggered and stumbled, punching and grappling, and more police had joined the fray. Diarmid dove into the crowd. Balor plunged after him. If Diarmid could just get to the door—
The door from outside burst open. Men rushed in.
One of them was Patrick Devlin. Behind him came Miogach and another man who Diarmid didn’t know.
Balor, who towered above everyone, called out, “Diarmid is here!”
Diarmid saw Patrick searching the crowd for him. Diarmid felt a rush of rage; he had to restrain the urge to confront Patrick now. No. Get out. He couldn’t help anyone from a cell.
He tried to lose himself in the crowd, moving toward the door. He was almost there. Once he was past that policeman . . . As Diarmid pushed, the officer in front of him looked up.
Diarmid saw recognition dawn in the man’s eyes. “I have him!” he cried. “He’s here!” He grabbed Diarmid with a twisted hand, but his grip was strong.
“Hold him!” Balor called.
Then a whistle became a howl as a sudden, fierce wind swirled around Diarmid, whipping his hair, screaming and rushing, blowing papers and men’s hats so the air was full of flying things. Aidan.
The Fomori police officer struggled to keep his footing and his hold. It was Diarmid’s chance—he grabbed the dagger he’d hidden in his boot and stabbed it into the man’s hand. The officer screamed, releasing him. Diarmid raced for the door, fighting the wind. He was there—only one person blocked it.
Patrick Devlin.
Diarmid flashed his dagger. “Don’t make me kill you, Patrick. I don’t want to upset Grace, but I will if I have to.”
He expected Patrick to fight him, but he only said, “Hit me. And make it look good.”
Diarmid stared at him, then he did what Patrick wanted: he slugged him in the gut. Grace’s fiancé doubled over, gasping as he did so, “Go! And for God’s sake, keep her away.”
Diarmid wrenched open the door, throwing himself outside. There was no time to wonder what Patrick Devlin had just done or why. Police on their way inside started at the sight of him—one shouted, “Hey there! You, lad! Get back in there!”
He looked behind only once, to see that Balor was right there. Of course—the poisonous god was
so large the wind hadn’t rocked him. After that, Diarmid didn’t pause. Balor pounded behind him; the shouts of the Fomori warriors filled his ears. The Tombs fronted Five Points, the Fianna’s old haunt. He could lose the Fomori there, if he could just get a little farther, just a few more blocks.
“Fifty dollars to the man who stops him!” Balor shouted.
Fifty dollars. A fortune. Three men tried to catch him; a group of boys joined the chase. He could practically feel Balor’s hot breath on the back of his neck.
At the last minute, he turned to go down one alley, but his pursuers weren’t fooled. He dove through an alcove. Balor hardly slowed.
Diarmid dodged and raced, at one point sliding sideways to brush through a passageway. But when Diarmid burst onto the street again, the Fomori giant was only steps behind him.
“Grab him!” Balor ordered. “He raped my sister!”
Another clever call—five gang boys stepped in front of Diarmid. One grabbed his arm, another his shoulder. There was no choice but to fight. Desperately, Diarmid whipped around.
One of the gang boys said, “Derry?”
Another of Billy’s Boys. No one he called a friend. He focused on Balor, who wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Well met again, lad,” the giant said, advancing. His knife glimmered.
Diarmid wielded his dagger. “Going to lift that patch and kill me with your poison eye, Balor? Or is it to be a fair fight?”
“Where’s the veleda?”
“Out of your grasp.”
Balor’s smile was ugly. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?” His hand went to his eye patch.
As Diarmid prepared to die, all he could think was: Grace.
“No!” said the boy that Diarmid had recognized. He and the four with him surged between Diarmid and Balor.
“Run, Derry!” the boy shouted, and Diarmid didn’t think twice. He turned and ran. Behind him, Balor howled with rage—those boys were dead, there was no doubt, but there was no time for regret. He heard the warriors tearing after him again, but he had the advantage of surprise. He was halfway down a shadowed passageway when he heard them race right by.