Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (41 page)

Liam lay alone in the darkness, wanting to flip onto his back in spite of knowing that such a thing would be a very bad idea. Any movement at all was agony, even breathing, but his muscles were stiff, and he needed to stretch or change position. Something. The sensation of pins and needles in his right hand—the return of feeling—distracted him soon enough, and while he didn’t think he’d ever sleep again, sleep he did.

Morning came to the sound of stealthy movement and the rich scents of coffee and cooking meat. Liam opened his eyes and saw Bran crouching near the fire. Liam’s stomach growled.

Bran glanced over at him. He seemed nervous. “Breakfast?”

Liam shut his eyes. The pain had quieted to a consistent level that he could almost ignore if he didn’t move too much. Unfortunately, with that came the memories of the explosion—the aftermath. Images ran through his mind of the young woman running out of her house, yelling at the children, telling them to get out of the street.
The bloody shoe.

I killed her. I didn’t mean to. Was that bastard Haddock we were after. Only Haddock. I didn’t mean to—

The thought of the children in the street sent a chill through him that stopped his heart.
Were any of the little ones hurt? Did she get them away? Christ, what if I killed them too?

He rolled onto his back and agony blasted the last of his thoughts from his consciousness.

The sensation of falling woke Liam with a start. He now found himself in a soft bed. Once more he lay on his right side, but now there were tubes filled with clear liquid attached to his left arm. The pain was only vaguely present, and as a result he was comfortable and warm inside a thick cocoon of white thermal blankets. The room didn’t belong to a hospital or prison infirmary. The familiar scent of lavender, cabbage and old age floated on the air—not disinfectant. He also detected pipe smoke and knew it didn’t belong. Yellow sunlight filtered through white curtains covering a small window. There was a crucifix nailed above the door with a scrap of red cloth tied to it. The walls were papered with tiny blue flowers, and he recognized the pattern at once. He was at his Gran’s house in Derry—her best guest room if memory served. The one he’d never slept in regardless of the many times his mother had sent him to stay. It’d always been the sofa in the sitting room for him.

A small wooden table cluttered with various medicines was positioned near the bed, and a steel armature held a plastic IV bag. Both were incongruent with the photos of relatives past and present on the walls and shelves, and if he hadn’t known where he was based upon the wallpaper, he’d have known it for the photos.

The door opened and Father Murray entered, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl balanced in the center. It smelled of chicken, and Liam’s mouth watered.

“Why am I here?” he asked, willing his stomach to stay silent.

Father Murray said, “We’re far enough away from Belfast that I think you’re safe for the moment.”

“Was in a cave. With my real father. Was it a dream?”

“He found you after the… accident. You were with him for a time. But you wouldn’t heal. So, he brought you to me.” Father Murray set the tray on the edge of the crowded table and then grabbed a cushioned chair from against the wall.

“Why here? How? Gran hates me. The very idea of her letting you keep me here—”

“I didn’t convince her. Bran did.”

“You should’ve let me die.”

Sitting in the chair and balancing the tray on his knees, Father Murray frowned. “Why would we have done such a thing?”

“What is it you want from me?”

“You can eat some of this broth for a start.”

“I don’t want it.”

“How long has it been since you last ate?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you attempting to starve yourself to death?”

Liam didn’t say a word.

“We’ve all of us made mistakes,” Father Murray said. “It’s a burden to live with for certain, but it must be done.”

“Why?”

“Because our time isn’t yet finished. Only the Lord can make that decision.”

“I’d like to know one goddamned thing that ever was my decision.”

Father Murray put down the spoon. “All that anger. You should let it go. Do something with the life you have. You’ve already lost so much.”

“You don’t know a fucking thing about me. Not anymore. Don’t pretend you do.”

“Perhaps I don’t,” Father Murray said. “But the young man I knew wouldn’t have let anyone or anything keep him from doing the right thing.”

“Mary Kate was the strong one. Not me.”

Father Murray set the tray on the edge of the table and then picked up a pipe from amongst the clutter. “That isn’t true.” He put a finger inside the pipe’s bowl to clean it out. Then he placed an ash tray on the floor next to the leg of his chair. “Have you forgiven her yet?”

“Who?”

“You heard me. Mary Kate.”

Liam’s thoughts flashed to the baby, the one she’d never told him about. The one she’d killed. He felt guilty for it at once. “I don’t need to forgive her for anything.”

“You don’t blame her for dying?” Father Murray reached inside his jacket and brought out a tobacco pouch. He fussed with his pipe for a while then lit the tobacco with a match. There was a slight tremble in his fingers. He took two puffs and closed his eyes for a moment. The pleasant smell of pipe smoke drifted on the air.

It suddenly occurred to Liam that Father Murray might be right. There was a reason he’d never come back to Derry, a reason why he’d never visited Mary Kate’s grave. He could have asked Oran for permission.
Oran.
Liam closed his burning eyes.
Poor Oran.

It hadn’t only been that he was unwilling to accept that she was dead. Had it? He was angry with her, bloody furious, in fact. Even so, he hated himself for it. It wasn’t right. She’d said she was sorry with her last words. He was certain she’d meant the first child, not the last. She wanted to be forgiven. Needed it. And he hadn’t forgiven her, had he? Her only fault had been in believing what Father Murray had told her, in doing as the Church had directed her to do. Was she really at fault?

Yes.
Every bit at fault as he was for all those he’d killed for the ’Ra, and for revenge—
The woman in the street. Oh, Jesus. The children—
Everyone had their regrets. Everyone made mistakes.

Some more terrible than others.

Something in his chest loosened. “It isn’t as if Mary Kate asked to die.”

“No, but still, she left you. Alone,” Father Murray said. “I’ve lost someone too. I understand what that’s like.”

“Do you, now? Do you also know what it’s like having the Church convince your wife that you’re demon spawn, and your children are too monstrous to live?”

Father Murray tapped out his pipe and left it in the ash tray. He wove his fingers together and stared at his hands. “I’m truly sorry for that.”

“I don’t want your fucking apology!”

“You don’t have to forgive me. I won’t ask you for that. It’s too much,” Father Murray said. “You don’t have to do anything. But do you think Mary Kate would’ve wanted you to waste your life like this?”

Father Murray stopped talking and filled his pipe a second time. He returned to smoking in silence while Liam shut his eyes, determined to remain silent. The edges of his eyelids gathered moisture that threatened to spill onto his cheeks. It only made him furious. Why couldn’t everyone just leave him be? Why couldn’t he have one damned thing as he wanted it? The petulance in the thought didn’t escape him, but it only enraged him further.

“The Church has made a horrific mistake. And I’ve done vile things in its service.” Father Murray sounded uncomfortable and tired—as if the words he spoke came at great cost. “Life is so diverse. There are more creatures, more entities than the Church acknowledges. Ghosts, demons and angels. Not every supernatural being falls in those categories,” he said. “I can’t let the killing go on. I won’t. And that is, I believe, the reason I still live. I must. In spite of all the terrible things I’ve done. There isn’t anyone else.”

Suddenly, Liam’s mouth felt very dry. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying beings that should never have been harmed have been executed because the Church is unwilling to admit its policies are wrong. I’m saying,” Father Murray said, “I’m no longer working in support of those policies.”

“You’re no longer a priest?”

“I’ve not left the Church,” Father Murray said. “Although, I’m not entirely certain of what would be made of my current beliefs. Nonetheless, I’m doing what I can. I discussed my discovery with the bishop before I resigned from the Order. He remained unconvinced, I’m afraid. But I made the attempt.”

“You tried to get them to stop murdering babbies?”

Father Murray nodded. “The arch bishop said that even if it were possible that other magical beings might exist, none were listed in the Bible and therefore weren’t to be considered part of God’s plan.”

“The platypus isn’t listed in the Bible, Father. Does that make it worthy of execution?”

A small smile appeared on Father Murray’s face. “A tidy argument, that. But the problem runs deeper. Were the Church to acknowledge that other supernatural beings exist outside of standard Christianity, two facts would become immediately apparent. One: if other powerful entities exist then other religions—non-Christian religions—might contain valid truths, and therefore, may be legitimate in general. And two: that the Catholic Church has participated in genocide for centuries.”

Liam blinked.

“As much as I wish to believe otherwise, the Roman Catholic Church isn’t likely to adapt its policies. Not in this. To do so would threaten the very existence of the Church.

“Nonetheless, I’ve been observing the Order’s targets on my own. The ones in Belfast. I’ve been identifying. Categorizing. If I am reasonably uncertain of the status of suspected Fallen, I’ve attempted contact and issued warnings. However, both my inexperience and my being a priest have meant my success rate hasn’t been all that high. I can’t say as I blame anyone for not listening to me.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been praying for guidance. Assistance. And I think I may have just gotten my answer.”

“Why not merely stop being a priest?”

“My belief in God and my vocation aren’t in question.”

Liam frowned. “But what of everything that goes with it? Don’t you owe an allegiance to the Church?”

“The Church has made drastic policy changes in the past—the recent past in particular. Just because it isn’t likely to doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

“But after what you just told me they’d excommunicate you.”

Father Murray nodded. “I suppose they would.” He took a deep breath. “I need your help, Liam. To protect those who need protection. From the Order.”

Flipping onto his back, Liam felt the ghost of his former pain. He scanned the walls and found himself staring at a framed photo. It was taken sometime around 1966 before the war began. His mother was smiling and holding baby Eileen. He saw himself at age nine with thick shaggy hair and a sullen expression smoldering on his face, turning from the camera to unsuccessfully hide a black eye. The three of them were standing in front of St. Brendan’s. It’d been Eileen’s baptism, and Patrick Kelly was nowhere in the picture—nowhere near the church, in fact. Liam remembered that day. It was the day he understood that no amount of trouble he caused, no amount of complaining, angry fits, pleading or attempts at reason would make a difference. His mother had married Patrick Kelly and whether or not Liam accepted him didn’t matter anymore. His half sister had destroyed everything. His mother belonged to Patrick Kelly, and he, Liam, had lost her forever. It was the first time he’d understood he was alone—really alone. It had taken him years to forgive Eileen, but in the end he’d done it. She couldn’t help being born any more than he could.

Protect others from the Church’s assassins.
It was a noble cause but then so was the Irish Republic. Liam looked at the battered and angry boy in the photo and felt sad.

“Can I ask you something?” Father Murray asked.

“Can’t stop you.” It was a whisper. The words barely squeezed past the pain in his throat.

“Why are you wearing that crucifix?”

Touching the silver at his neck, Liam considered his answer. Lies were easy. Lies would mean he wouldn’t have to know the truth himself, but he’d already thrown away one opportunity to tell the truth when it could’ve made a difference. He wasn’t sure he was ready to lose another. “Was a gift. From Ma. My First Communion. The St. Sebastian medal Mary Kate gave to me for my birthday.”

“An odd choice. I thought the IRA went in for St. Joseph.”

Liam blinked. He considered denying it but no longer saw the point. In any case, if Father Murray were going to turn him in he’d have done so already. Liam repeated the words he’d heard and read to himself hundreds of times over the years. “
Whoever reads this prayer or hears it or carries it, will never die a sudden death, nor be drowned, nor will poison take effect on them. They will not fall into the hands of the enemy nor be burned in any fire, nor will they be defeated in battle.
” He looked to Father Murray. “Maybe Mary Kate knew it’d be endurance I’d need, not protection.” Once again he thought about lying but decided not to. “Everything was gone. And… I needed something to hold on to.”

“So, you turned back to the Church.”

“I’ve not set foot inside a church since the day Mary Kate died.”

“Oh. I see.”

“It isn’t much, but it’s the very last of myself that exists, Father. The last part of me that was before the fucking monster came. Everything else is gone.”

Father Murray leaned over and cleaned out his pipe into the ash tray sitting on the floor next to the big green chair. He filled the pipe again and then lit it. Puffs of white smoke once again perfumed the air. He shook out the match and dropped it into the ash tray. Settling back into the chair, he closed his eyes.

“Everything isn’t gone,” Father Murray said.

“Mary Kate is gone. Everything we had together,” Liam said. “Everything I was. You don’t know. I let the fucking monster loose. I’m not—I’m not human anymore. You should have let me die.”