I dropped my shawl on the bed, careful not to disturb the hollow in the straw mattress where Sully had slept. It was as if his body still pressed the shape, broad-shouldered and restless even at peace, a testament to his refusal to settle, even in sleep. I crawled into my half, legs drawn up, arms wrapped tight around myself, and watched the room grow darker as the last light bled out of the west.
There was a pouch at my neck, a thin strip of leather knotted so tight it would never come undone. I’d cut it from the lining of Sully’s old jerkin, the one he’d refused to throw away even after a year of patches and tears. Inside the pouch, wrapped in a scrap of linen, was the lock of his hair I’d snipped before they lowered him into the ground. I fished it out now, fingers shaking, and pressed it to my lips. The hair was coarse, peppered with gray already, and it smelled faintly of salt and wild things, just as he always had after a day hunting in the bog.
For a long while, I lay there, not thinking, not moving, just letting the memory of him pool around me, a shallow warmth against the deepening chill.
Night fell, and with it the hush of winter closing in. The wind scraped at the stones, whining through the cracks, and I imagined for a moment that it spoke in words—nothing I could understand, only syllables of regret and accusation.
I got up and moved to the table, knife in hand, and sat in Sully’s chair. It was too big for me, the seat worn to the shape of his hips, and I had to hook one knee over the rung to keep my balance. The blade gleamed, catching the last red flickers of the peat fire. I set the pouch beside it and stared at both, trying to remember which was heavier: the steel or the scrap of hair, the promise or the memory.
The first time I saw Sully, he was stealing apples from the O’Shaughnessys. It was the harvest fair, and everyone was drunk on ale or freedom or the nearness of winter. He was taller thanany boy I’d ever seen, but thin as a reed, with a shock of wild hair and a mouth that never stopped moving. He winked at me as he ducked past, arms full of stolen fruit, and for a moment the world turned bright and reckless, like a candle flame caught in the wind. We married in spring, in a church that smelled of damp and hope, with only the priest and three geese in attendance. We built the hut with our own hands. Every stone, every lath, every clod of turf. I thought we’d fill it with laughter and fat, healthy children. That was before famine took my first and fever took my second, and still Sully grinned and found the good in the world.
He’d loved me with the sort of tenderness you only see in stories. Never raised a hand or harsh word, not once, even when I was sick for weeks and the chores stacked up and the food ran out before market day. He held me at night and told tales of giants and saints and someday, and I believed every word.
I pressed the knife against my wrist, hard enough to leave a white track in the skin. The steel felt cold, alive. I pictured the blood, bright and sudden, then nothing but quiet. It would be easy. Too easy.
But then I heard it: voices, close by, rough and foreign. English, but not the patrolling kind. These were more desperate, more hungry. Looters, maybe, or deserters. I could smell their smoke before I saw the light through the chinks in the shutter.
I thought about hiding, but the urge passed quick. Instead, I straightened, set my hands flat on the table, and stared at the door. If they came, they’d find me waiting. Maybe that would mean something. Maybe not.
The voices grew louder. Someone kicked at the door, hard enough to rattle the latch. I gripped the knife, not out of fear, but out of certainty: this was the only ending left for people like us.
My heart thumped, once, twice, then slowed. I thought of Sully’s name on the cross, my promise whispered to the dead,the lock of hair warm in my palm. If I died, who would remember him? If I vanished, who would keep even the smallest scrap of his story from being ground under the boot and the mud?
The door thudded again, then splintered open. I braced for the worst.
Toolie
Isat in the farthest corner of the Royal Bastards MC clubhouse, chair angled so no one could sneak up behind. The air was humid with June and stank of sweat, old bourbon, and scorched oil. All the things I’d call home if I had the words for it. The neon sign over the pool table burned out last week, so the only light came from a flickering Budweiser lamp and the blue-white TV glare showing looping footage of a bar fight in Evansville, volume off. Moab and Canon posted up beside me, flanking my six like they thought I needed the backup. Which, for once, I might.
Moab nursed a Coors, arms folded, head shaved so clean you could see veins throbbing at the temples. He watched me with the half-smile of a man waiting to see if his dog would bite. Canon—posture so rigid he made a wooden pew look soft—sat on my left. He watched nothing and everything, a stillness that made you itch. The third man, Vin, our club president, perchedon the edge of a battered couch with a leather-bound notebook propped on his knees, scribbling with a fountain pen like an old-world scribe on a deadline. Every so often, his gaze flicked to me, to my hands, then away. Like he thought I might shatter if he stared too long.
I swirled the ice in my glass, let the whiskey coat my tongue before I swallowed. It burned less than usual. Or maybe that was me getting used to the pain.
The door opened, and Scarlette slipped in. She always moved like she was ready to bolt or throw down, depending. Her cropped hair caught the ceiling fan’s breeze, a flame-lick of copper. She scanned the room, green eyes catching on me, and for a second, something twitched across her mouth. Not a smile, not exactly. A warning, maybe. Or a question. She sensed something was up. Ever since she arrived from the past, she had a way of reading the men in the club. Most hated it, but me? Na, I knew she was the only person connected to the club who could really help me now.
She made her way over, boots clicking sharp against the sticky floor. Paused just close enough for the scent of rain and cigarettes to reach us, and leaned a hip against the table. “You look like shit, Toolie.”
I grunted. “Been sleeping like shit, too.”
She rolled her eyes, but stayed. That was her way of saying she cared, or at least wanted to see how the carnage shook out.
Canon cleared his throat. “You ready?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I watched the way Vin’s hand worked the pen, saw Moab’s fingers tap out a Morse code on his can. None of them wanted to be here for this. They wanted the old Toolie: steady hands, steady throttle, quick on the punch, and slow to talk about feelings. Not this. Not me cracking apart on a Tuesday night.
“Let’s get it over with,” I muttered.
Canon nodded, stone-faced. “Start from the beginning. The part that matters.”
I clenched the glass. Cold sweat trickled from my palm, beading on the bar. “You know the beginning better than I.”
“Do it anyway.” Canon’s voice left no room.
Fine.
I leaned back, trying to remember how to breathe. “It’s not dreams. Not like that. It’s more… being somewhere else. Someone else.” I looked at Scarlette. She watched with the patience of a hanging judge.
I tried again. “When it started, I thought it was the meds. Or the head trauma. But it’s always the same.”