The Shadows (27 page)

“You think she might be upset to find I’d been in your bed, you mean?”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “She’s no one to trifle with,
Derry. She’s no Astor, but her family’s rich enough, and Patrick knows important men. She’ll never be able to have you, but if she thinks you’ve wronged her—you’d best take care.”

“You’ve no need to worry. I know what I am.”

“Then you know she’s not for you. If you pursue this—”

“I told you I know what I am,” he said brusquely.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry, not really; it’s just that—”

“I see how it concerns you, lass. And I’ll try not to make your life more difficult than I have to.”

“Than you have to?”

We had reached the corner to the hospital, but when I started to turn, he took my elbow, steering me lightly in the other direction.

“Bellevue Hospital is that way,” I said.

“We’re going another way around.”

“But it’s directly—”

“He’s in a separate wing. The poor wing. You know it?”

The truth was that I’d never actually been to Bellevue, and he probably knew it better. “No.”

“Then it’s this way,” he said.

I followed him, though it seemed to me we were moving in a distinctly bad direction. The shops we passed gave way to empty stores, their windows papered with signs that read “For Let” or “No Irish Need Apply.” There were more and more men lingering idly in doorways. The vendors selling plump oranges and bright peppers became those selling small, wrinkled apples and day-old bread. No longer were people clad in silks and summer muslins but in ragged clothes, too many of
them milling listlessly about as if they had nowhere else to go.

I glanced at Derry, who was staring straight ahead. “This is the right way?”

“Aye.” Short and to the point. His hand crept to my elbow again, this time a tight hold. “Stay close, will you?”

The big Belgian paving stones of the streets gave way to broken cobblestones and potholes. Horse piss ran in rivulets down the gutters, trash piles grew higher, the smell of onions and ale stronger. There were dogs everywhere, sniffing in the garbage, fighting in the middle of the street. And so many people. Children shouting and racing about. Women splashing in the muddy puddles that gathered beneath the spouts of the green public pumps as they filled their buckets. Men wandering out of saloons. A group of girls lingering on the corner narrowed their eyes at me and called out, “Good day to you, Derry!” He ignored them.

This could not be the way to Bellevue, could it? “This is certainly the long way ’round.”

“’Tis a bad part of town,” he admitted.

A little too true. The walks in some places were crumbling away. The buildings and streets grew closer together, and when I looked down the crossing alleys, they appeared full of dead ends, warrens of endless buildings. There were saloons everywhere—there must have been seven on one block alone. Derry steered me around a rooting pig with a muttered “I don’t like pigs.” His fingers tightened on my arm so I thought he might leave a bruise.

And I knew for certain that he’d lied to me.

“We’re not going to see your friend at Bellevue Hospital.”

He was quiet.

“We’re not going to any poor wing.”

“I’m sorry, Grace.”

I tried to pull away. He was so strong I couldn’t budge.

“Let go of me. Take me back this minute or I swear I’ll scream.”

“There are four lads on that corner,” he said to me in a low voice. “D’you see them?”

I followed his gaze. Four young men, ill-clad, two barefoot. I saw when they caught sight of me, of Derry, their speculative glances, their too-careful attention.

“You don’t want to pull away from me here, Grace. Or scream. Trust me on this.”

He was right. I felt a prickling fear and cursed myself for coming with him—how well did I know him anyway? All my talk of being friends, all my well-meant advice . . . What a fool I was. I’d lied to my mother. It would be hours before she was worried enough to send a message to Rose, and even then Rose would pretend we were together to save me from trouble. I would have done the same for her. No one knew where I was. Or who I was with.

“Where are you taking me?” My voice sounded too high.

“I told you. To visit a friend.”

“Another friend like Oscar?”

“Aye.”

“And you couldn’t have just told me this? Instead of tricking me this way?”

“There’s no reason to be afraid. ’Tis a few questions he wants answered is all.”

“Questions?” Men lay in corners, some looking up blearily as we passed, others not moving, not even seeming to breathe. Children with torn pants and no shoes. A woman going through the garbage, tossing out a dead rat by its tail. “About what?”

He hesitated. Then he said, “The ogham stick.”

I stopped so suddenly that he stumbled. “Derry, no. I told you. I want nothing to do with it. If Patrick were ever to find out—”

“He won’t find out.” He pulled me after him. “Best to keep moving.”

“He has the police looking for it.”

“They won’t find it here.” He turned a corner, ducked through a corridor between two tall brick buildings, over planks that sank and wobbled, set as they were over a swampy, green, festering
something
; and then we were in a warren of four buildings surrounding a central yard with more planks spread over a cesspool and a row of tottering privies that looked as old as the world, ready to collapse upon themselves. The stench was remarkable. I fumbled with my handkerchief, pressing it to my nose. I saw his bitter smile as he took me to a back door. Black metal fire escapes tangled up the sides of the buildings like knotted laces. There were two small boys playing, rolling a ball back and forth, and one of them looked up as we approached, jumping to his feet. “Play ball with us, Derry?”

“Not today, Wills,” Derry said. “Soon, though, I promise.” Then he took up the ball and threw it, and they chased after it like puppies, shouting in joy.

“What is this place?” I asked in a horrified whisper.

“Home. At least for now.” He turned to me, taking my face between his hands before I had time to move or protest. “Just answer his questions. You’ve nothing to be afraid of. I’ll be there. I promised to keep you safe, and I will.”

His words only frightened me more. I jerked away from him. The bow of my hat caught on his hands, the knot sliding, loosening. “You’ve already lied to me. Why should I believe a word you say?”

“Grace, I—”

“Let’s just get this over with. But don’t ever ask me for another favor. I swear I’ll never do another thing for you. Not ever.”

His mouth tightened. “Take my hand. It’s very dark.”

“No.”

“Then don’t touch the walls,” he said matter-of-factly. “I don’t know what’s dripping down them today. Slime or blood or something else.”

“Blood?” I shuddered. He took advantage, grabbing my hand, holding it in a grip I could not break, and pulled me after him.

Once we’d turned the first landing, away from the light of the open door, it was so dark I couldn’t see anything. I had no idea whether it was a wall or emptiness I stepped into. It could have been the middle of the night on these stairs—
the middle
of the night in hell,
because it was that hot too. And the smell was indescribable. Sewage and drink and smoke and sweat. Something gamy and rotten. Derry made his way carefully, now and then saying, “Watch this one” or “Step to your right.”

We passed open doors that lent a little light; I glimpsed men smoking and shirtless, women yelling at whining children. It seemed a long time until we reached the top.

Derry paused before a door. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“’Twould be best, I think.”

“I’ll keep them open, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” He rapped hard on the door—three short, one long, a code—and the door opened.

I saw Oscar, and a tall man with thinning red hair, and then I was blinded, as if there were stars in the room, each pulsing, each bright as a burning sun. My knees went wobbly. Derry grabbed me as I crumpled. And the pain . . . dear God, the pain was worse than ever. Derry’s arms were all that held me up. I heard him shout, “By the gods, touch her!”

A familiar voice—Oscar’s—saying, “Do what he says. Quickly now, lads. No sense making her suffer.”

My head felt as if it would explode. Moaning, I closed my eyes—no help; the light blared through my eyelids, as red as blood.

“Hurry,” Derry growled, and then there was a hand on my shoulder; another, one by one, and with each the pain lessened a little, the light faded. A final press, and the last bit of
it melted away, leaving me weak. Something was wrong with me. Something was terribly wrong. Why did this keep happening? And always around Derry.
Always.

“It’s you,” I heard myself whisper. “It’s because of you, isn’t it?”

He said nothing except a rough “Get her a seat,” and I heard the scrape of something across the floor, and then he was helping me onto something—not a chair, a barrel. I opened my eyes and the room spun, and I closed them tightly again, putting my face in my hands. “I’m going to be sick.”

Another scrape across the floor. “There’s a bucket to your right,” Derry said in my ear, and then, “Is there any water?”

“Just ale,” said someone.

But the nausea was fading. “It’s all right. I . . . I’m fine. . . .”

“This happens every time?” Another voice, commanding but also melodic.

“Until she’s touched.” Derry’s hand was on my arm. “’Twas a hard one this time, lass. Too many. Are you sure you’re all right?”

I opened my eyes.

The room was small and dingy, with a doorway in one wall and a window at the far end, letting in some light. A large scarred table sat in the middle of the room. Scattered throughout were barrels and piles of straw, and on all of these sat young men—though three of them looked a bit older, perhaps in their early twenties. They were all watching me, gray eyes and brown, blue and green. Blond hair and brown, one
who was bald. And they were all astonishingly good-looking—except perhaps for the bald one, though he wasn’t ugly.

I looked at Derry. “Where am I?”

He swallowed and gestured to the others. “These are my friends. Finn’s Warriors—that’s what they call us. There’s Oscar, who you know, and Cannel”—the red-headed man, the only one who hadn’t glowed. Derry named off the rest, each of whom nodded in turn. Keenan, wiry, with thick brown hair and eyes warm as chocolate; Goll, one of the older ones, perhaps Patrick’s age, with a hawk-like nose and a newsboy’s cap. Ossian, also older, with white-blond hair and a face so like Oscar’s that I assumed they must be brothers. Conan, the bald one, wearing a heavy, graying fleece. The names sounded familiar, though I couldn’t bring my thoughts together enough to know why.

“And this is Finn,” Derry said finally.

Suddenly I realized why I knew the names. Derry’s friends were calling themselves after the mythical Fianna. The conceit might have made me laugh if I hadn’t been so uneasy.

Finn rose. Like Ossian, he was a few years older than the others, and he was . . . beautiful. Golden hair chased with red. Eyes of a startlingly pale color. Sharp cheekbones and a full mouth. He wasn’t as classically handsome as Derry, but his presence filled the room as he came toward me.

He looked me over. “You’re right; there is a resemblance.” That haughty yet melodious voice.

“Aye.” Derry sounded miserable and resigned.

“Resemblance to who?” I asked.

“I told you,” Derry said, not looking at me. “A friend who lived near us in Ireland.”

I remembered then. County Kildare. Probably a relative.

Finn stepped closer. I felt as if there were things about him I should know, and not knowing them was dangerous. “Grace Knox,” he murmured. “Patrick Devlin’s lass.”

“What do you want with me?” I demanded, and then wished I hadn’t when Finn turned to Derry and smiled.

“She’s spirited too.”

“I’d also like to go home, so can you please do what you will and be done with it so I can leave?” Which may have been the most stupid thing I could have said, I realized in the next moment.

Derry sighed. “You see.”

Oscar laughed. “Well done, Miss Knox. Well done indeed.”

Finn waved a hand at the others. “I’ll take a moment with Miss Knox.”

The others moved as if they’d been held suspended and Finn’s command had released them. There was a keg in the corner, sausages on the table, and they went back to drinking and talking.

I looked at Derry, panicked.

Finn said to him, “You too. Leave us.”

Derry glanced at me. “Finn, you—”

“I’ll return her to you in ten minutes,” Finn said. “If she still wants me to.”

Derry had said he’d protect me, but Finn felt formidable, and I thought that any war between them would not end in
Derry’s favor. I felt his wariness as he left me with Finn and went to the keg with the others. He stood in the corner with Oscar, watching over the rim of his cup.

Finn came even closer to me. “What do you know about the Fenian Brotherhood?”

Answer his questions,
Derry had said. “Nothing. My friend Patrick Devlin is a member. That’s all.”

“You know nothing about their activities?”

“I’m not privy to their secrets.”

Finn grasped the edge of the barrel, a hand on either side of me. The pure maleness of him made me swallow nervously. “You’re lying,” he said.

“They mean to free Ireland from British rule. Patrick . . . Mr. Devlin . . . told me that they’d helped raise a rebellion in Ireland, and it was a failure. That’s all I know.”

“Devlin collects relics. You’ve seen them?”

I nodded. “Torcs and statuettes. The ogham stick. Which I believe you have.”

“Have you seen a rowan wand? Or a horn?”

“Why? Why do they matter?”

He backed away. I glanced past him to Derry, whose eyes looked black.

Finn made a quick gesture. “Bring the ogham stick,” and almost before he got the words out, Goll hurried up with something in a rag. He handed it to Finn, who unwrapped it and held the stone before me. “Touch it.”

I recoiled. “I’d rather not.”