Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (28 page)

“Execution, you mean.”

I’ve said too much,
Father Murray thought. “I’m doing everything I can. But I need help. Give me something—anything—I can take to the bishop to convince the Convocation.”

“Your priests have killed us for demons since setting foot in this land. Centuries of murder. Is there any such proof in all the world to make them stop?”

“I must try.” Father Murray let his shoulders fall. “The hopelessness of the fight doesn’t matter.”

A sad smile crept across Bran’s face. “I understand.”

Pausing, Father Murray said, “I grant you my word that I will not stand for further assassinations of the Fair Folk.”

“You would go against your own in this?”

“I must act as my conscience dictates.”

Bran stared, the flames in his gaze fading into mere sparks. “I am confused.”

“Christ lived among the lepers and the tax collectors—”

“You would compare us to the weak and disreputable among mortals?”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I intended at all,” Father Murray said. “I was attempting to—”

“You choose to follow the ways of your gods regardless of whether or not those among your elders believe as you do.”

Father Murray paused and then nodded. “However, I am not sure how I can tell the difference between our mutual enemies and….”He let his voice trail off. He’d been searching for the distinctions between the Fallen and the Good Folk, but there was no information available. No comparisons had been made in all of the history of the Church. He had only the old stories, and those were rarely consistent. Most were obvious fabrications.

Bran shook his head. “You wish to know the difference between ourselves and the Fallen?”

“If I were able to show the committee a clear distinction then I could make progress. Otherwise, I’ve nothing but my intuition and that isn’t enough.”

“Interesting,” Bran said, sitting on the top of a tombstone. “It is possible that a talisman might be arranged. However, its use would be restricted to yourself and no other.”

“But that won’t help me prove to the Convocation that a difference exists. Once again, they would only have my word.”

“Your committee is not my problem. The safety of my own is, and such a thing could be used against us.” Bran shook his head and sighed. “So, tell me. How is it you make a distinction between mortals in your wars?”

Father Murray gave the question consideration. “Uniforms. Language. Appearance.”

One of Bran’s eyebrows twitched upward. “I saw a man shoot another dead in the street while he was waiting for a bus. Neither one was wearing a uniform. And I’d swear both were Irish.”

Sighing, Father Murray said, “Our current troubles are difficult to explain. The sides are less demarked.”

“Aye?”

“There are those who feel Ireland should exist free from the English. All of Ireland. Not only the south. They are Nationalists,” Father Murray said. “And the Loyalists fear such a thing and wish to prevent it from happening.”

“Why?”

“As long as partition exists the Loyalists are the majority. They have power. The moment Northern Ireland becomes a part of the Republic is the moment they become a minority. They will lose their control. Their power. They fear being abused as they have abused.”

“I see,” Bran said. “And how is it you know the difference between these Nationalists and Loyalists?”

“It’s difficult to explain. In part, it is divided along religious lines. However, the conflict has nothing to do with religion.”

“But you are aware of the differences?”

“For the most part, I am.”

“Not all of the Good Folk are to be trusted,” Bran said. “There are those among us who work for the Fallen. I can’t give you an easy answer for why any more than you can give me one.”

Father Murray looked up into the sky.
God help me,
he prayed. “Nonetheless, this talisman would be a step in the right direction. I would be grateful for it.”

“Then I will put my faith in you, Joe Murray, priest.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not certain it is a gift for which you should be thankful. Possession of such an item will make you many enemies,” Bran said. “But you will have my protection as you grant your protection to my son.”

“May I contact you again?”

Bran looked away and didn’t speak for a long while. Father Murray heard a rabbit or a cat move through the hedge to his right.

“Aye,” Bran said. “You are convincing, priest. You risk much. It is only fair that I should do the same. We, the Fianna, cannot win this war alone any more than mortals have a chance against the Fallen. It would be wise for us to fight together. Together there is hope.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“But take care where you use my name,” Bran said. “And take care how you would use the talisman.”

“I will.”

Several days later there came a knock upon the parochial house door while Father Andrew was away. When Father Murray answered there was no one there. However, resting in the exact center of the mat was a round stone with a hole in the center. A leather thong was tied to it. Picking it up, he stepped out onto the walk and scanned the area. He didn’t see anyone.

“Thank you,” he whispered and went back inside to see what he could discover in his research about holey stones.

Chapter 20

Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland

23 December 1976

“Can’t believe you took such a risk,” Oran said.

“What better way? Delivered safe and whole to the man’s own car park?” Liam asked. He sipped his whiskey and winked. Sitting at Oran’s table, he was having a quick glass of Christmas cheer before heading home. A nagging thought had told him he should go home, but when Oran had held up the bottle of Bushmills and raised an eyebrow the matter had been settled. Elizabeth and the children were gone to her mother’s, and Liam didn’t know when Mary Kate might make another slip. One more round would lend him the courage to tell Oran the news. Every day for two months Mary Kate had exacted a promise not to speak of it but that morning before Liam had left she’d forgotten. It was an opportunity he couldn’t miss.

Oran said, “Surely, you didn’t walk from the Shankill?”

“You were the one saying the RUC was getting close,” Liam said with a shrug.

“It’s fucking mad you are. Leaving the car in front of a known Loyalist’s house. One of the RUC, no less.”

Liam smiled. “Did the man a service, I did. Gave the car a new set of spark plugs and a nice cleaning. This way, we don’t have to burn it out after. And who knows? I might borrow it again. Already done all that work on the suspension. Owner couldn’t possibly begrudge a few miles on the engine and some petrol.”

“And did the RUC catch on?”

Waiting until Oran had taken a drink, Liam said, “Came for him this morning. Who’d have thought they had such a grudge against Captain Beefheart? One small sticker, and they go mad.”

“You’ve gone off your nut.”

“Maybe I have,” Liam said. “It isn’t the first time.”

“What?” Oran asked. “You’ve done this before?”

“Just giving the RUC the guidance they need.” Liam took another sip of whiskey. “Anyway, I’ve got some news.”

“What news?” Oran asked, looking uneasy.

“Congratulate me.”

“What for?” Oran asked. “Surviving your own foolishness?”

Liam grinned. “Is that any way to speak of someone’s Da?”

Oran looked blank. “What are you on about?”

“Mary Kate. She’s pregnant.”

“But I thought you two were waiting?”

Liam shrugged. “She changed her mind.”

Holding up his glass, Oran said, “Well, then. Congratulations, man. It’s about damned time. Was starting to think something was wrong with your—”

“Don’t even.”

“How many tries did it take?”

“What makes you think I’d tell the likes of you a thing like that?” Liam leaned forward and grinned. “The first time.”

Oran whistled. “Wait until Elizabeth hears of this. She’ll be that jealous I got the news first.”

“You can’t.”

“What do you mean I can’t?”

“Mary Kate has some stupid notion that speaking of the baby will bring bad luck.”

“She’s going to have to say something sooner or later,” Oran said. “Has she not told her own mother?”

Liam shook his head.

“What is she afraid of?” Oran asked, pouring another round.

“The Good Folk,” Liam said. “She thinks they’ll come for the baby. Never seen anyone so afraid of such a thing in all my life. Didn’t even know she believed. And her at Uni.”

Oran’s face changed, and he stared down into the glass in his hand as if he were hiding his expression.

Liam asked, “Are you going to tell me you believe it too?”

Not taking his gaze from the glass, Oran frowned and then shook his head. “I don’t believe that they’d come for your baby.”

“Where do you think she got a notion like that?”

Oran glanced up at him. The glass shook as he lifted it to his lips and sipped. “Oh, pregnant women get ideas in their heads. Drives them a bit mad, the pregnancy. Don’t tell Elizabeth I said so, I’ll never hear the end.”

Oran was a bad liar. The deception would’ve been obvious even if Liam hadn’t overheard that long -ago conversation. Once again it occurred to him that Oran was frightened. Unlike the others, for the most part Oran didn’t show it, but for the careful glance or the unspoken word here and there. Liam gripped the glass in his hand. His face burned and his knuckles went white.
Does everyone see it in me?
“I’m not what you think, Oran.”

“And what is it I think?” Oran looked nervous.

“Heard what you said. After our first job. Well, you know. When I was sick, and you brought the priest.”

Oran went a little pale. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“I know you didn’t,” Liam said. “You were scared. Hell, I was scared too.”

Setting down his glass, Oran said, “I love you like a brother. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Doesn’t matter to me what you are and what you aren’t,” Oran said. “You’re my friend. And you’re a good man. That’s all I care about. Nothing else matters.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t deny it. We’ve all seen you drive. Me, Níal and Éamon. We know.”

“You’re telling me the lot of you think I’m some sort of—”

“Éamon is of the opinion you’re Lon Chaney, Jr.,” Oran said with an incredulous look. “Says he got a report, you see. Some sort of rumor about you. From the Kesh.”

A chill ran along Liam’s arms, raising the hairs under the sleeves of his sweat-er. “Shite.” How much did HQ know? Worse yet, how much had Éamon told Oran and the others? Níal’s watchful looks began to form an image in Liam’s head that he didn’t like—the image of the word “fairy” written in flesh.

He suppressed a shudder.

“Not to worry. We’d never tell. Not that anyone would much believe us if we did.”

It was Liam’s turn to gaze into his glass. When the skin on the backs of his arms started to prickle he got up from the chair, feeling a little sick.
Lon Chaney, Jr.
“I have to go.”

“You don’t have to worry. I told you,” Oran said.

The need to run had overtaken Liam and grew powerful enough that he found himself quivering with it.
Must get home. Now.
He grabbed his anorak and shoved his fists into the sleeves.

“Will you be going to midnight Mass tomorrow?” Oran asked, looking worried. “Elizabeth wants to walk to the church together.”

Unable to speak, Liam nodded and then threw open the door.

“We didn’t drink a toast to the babe’s health,” Oran said. He paused and then added, “Later, then?”

Liam bolted down the stairs as fast as he could without tumbling. He burst through the apartment building’s entrance and jogged home. The last of the warmth from Oran’s flat faded, and he was left frozen and empty for the length of three breaths. Then between one lungful of air and the next the urgent need to see Mary Kate propelled him down the street. Concern became terror and terror exploded into panic. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The knowledge pressed bone deep in jagged shards—trapped inside the ice of his chest. He didn’t know why or how he knew. He just knew.

He hadn’t bothered zipping up his anorak. Cold moist wind tugged at the flapping coat and pinched his face as if unseen forces attempted to hold him back.
It’s too late. Don’t go. You don’t want to see.
Reaching their building, he shot up the stairs without a pause. When he hit the second landing he was knocked down by three running men wearing masks. He smelled the blood as they thundered past, and he noticed something odd about their shoes but didn’t consciously register what it was. Above, someone screamed, ripping his attention away from the men. Liam scrambled to his feet and took the steps three at a time. When he reached the last landing he spied Mrs. Black. She was standing in the hall just outside the door to a flat.
Our flat. Mine and Mary Kate’s.
A scarlet stain in the shape of a smudged, deformed flower had bloomed on the front of her blue print dress. The ever-present scarf was gone, and her brown hair—normally so carefully groomed—stuck out in shocked angles. Her face was pale enough that her skin faded into the white paint on the wall beyond. She would have been invisible but for the round black eyes and gaping red-painted mouth. Her throat moved, and Liam was afraid she was going to scream again. He didn’t want that. He knew if she did he would blow apart like a glass pane smashed with a stone. Taking charge, he grabbed her arm at the elbow.

“They killed her. They… they…”

Mary Kate will need to go to hospital.
“Call Father Murray at St. Agnes’s if the phone is working. Send for him if it isn’t. Get him here. Now. I’ll—” He released her and stepped inside the flat. The furniture, what little they had, had been wrecked. From the amount of blood covering the walls and soaking into the old sofa, he knew that Mrs. Black had to be right.

I should’ve gone straight home,
he thought.
I knew it.

Please, God. Jesus and Mary, please, let me not be too late,
he prayed, cautiously moving forward step by step. He was certain all of the men were gone, but there was always a chance they’d left a surprise. A message had been scrawled on the wall. It blurred and then he blinked. It read:
We know who you are –UFF.
A bloody handprint had been placed just below the message; its shape like that of a BA’s hand stopping a car.
The Red Hand.
They’d also left a coin in the center of the floor and drawn a circle around it in blood. Moving closer, he saw it was an old shilling—at least, he thought it was. He picked it up and pocketed it, thinking he’d ask Oran or one of the others about it later. Then he spied Mary Kate’s shoe in the corner of his eye and turned toward it.