I looked up at the castle. The windows were dark now, no sign of life. But I knew he was in there, somewhere, waiting for me to save him.
I wasn’t clever, or strong, or fast. But I was meaner than anyone had ever guessed, and I’d been lied to by every man alive. I wouldn’t lose Sully, not now. Not when the whole world had tried to keep us apart.
I watched the gate, counting the seconds between patrols, learning the pattern of the torches, every detail burned into my memory.
This time, I wasn’t waiting. I’d get him back, or I’d die doing it.
As soon as I tried to leave the cover of the trees, a hand wrapped around my elbow and pulled me back. I turned to see Maeve and Nora watching me.
“You can’t go up there, Cat,” Maeve said, her hands resting on her hips.
“I need to help him,” I said. “Wait, why’re you two here?”
“Our parents thought we’d be safer with you,” Nora said. “Though, now I’m not so sure.”
“He needs me!”
“We need you, Cat.” Maeve moved in front of me and pulled me down to the ground. “Please. We heard him say wait. That’s what you need to do.”
I glanced back at the castle and the men standing guard. Maeve was right. I needed to wait. So, I did. You better come back to me, Sully, I thought to myself.
Toolie
The first thing I tasted was blood. The next was the iron bite of the cuffs, wrists yanked so tight I thought the bones would grind to paste. My head hung slack, hair dripping, jaw hot with the memory of knuckles. When I tried to move, my ribs screamed. The left arm throbbed—a deep, electric pain like my heart was pulsing just beneath the shamrock tattoo. Even with my eyes closed, I saw green: ink, bile, rot.
I opened them. Darkness everywhere, but this was no midnight. The walls sweated. The floor was angled stone, slicked with centuries of piss and things worse than that. The chair was wood, rough-cut, and set to face the door. It was bolted to the floor, and I was bolted to the chair, heavy rings pinning my ankles and cuffs so thick I could barely flex my hands.
They’d stripped my jacket, cut the shirt at the shoulder, and left it hanging in shreds off my back. My left forearm was laid bare—bruised, swollen, tattoo splintered with dried blood.They’d left the rest, jeans and boots, but they’d searched them so hard there wasn’t a pocket left whole. Not even the lighter, my last totem from the future. Gone.
The room was still as a church, until the door ground open and three men walked in. Two were guards, neither worth remembering. The third had a uniform too clean for this place: blue-black wool, buttons polished, boots that gleamed. His hair was cropped so close to the skull it looked painted on. He walked with the weight of someone who knew nobody would stop him, and he carried a small, flat packet in one hand—a notepad or maybe a ledger.
He stopped a foot from the chair and fixed his eyes on me. They were blue, but not the pretty kind. Not the color of hope or sky or sea. More like winter. More like frostbite.
He didn’t bother with names. “How do you want this to go?” His voice was as clean as his uniform. No accent, just authority.
I spat blood on the floor between us. “Easy way, or hard way, right? You always give a choice before you take it away.”
He smiled as if he’d just stepped into something disgusting. “There are no easy ways here.”
He flicked open a notebook, bound in old leather. He read, or pretended to, for a moment. “Sullivan O’Toole, is it? Born nowhere, belonging to nobody, except for a curious collection of tattoos. And a remarkable capacity for violence. You see my problem?”
I shrugged, which hurt everywhere. “Not really.”
He snapped the notebook shut. “Men like you, they come through here sometimes. Irish, Scots, and a few wild Germans. They all think they’re untouchable. Until I touch them.”
He walked a slow circle behind the chair. His boots rang on the stone. “You took down three trained men on the bridge. With your bare hands.” He leaned over, breath hot on my ear. “You know what that looks like, from the other side?”
I smiled, lips cracked and sticky. “Like they need better training.”
He stepped back, expression unchanged. “We found a tattoo on your arm.” He motioned to the swelling. “Unusual, for an Irish peasant. Even more unusual, the marks on your shoulder. Skull and bones, and some sort of gear, here.” He jabbed a finger at the leather patch barely sewn into what was left of my shirt. “Is this some sort of sect? Devil’s work?”
I didn’t answer. The guards didn’t move, but I could feel them both holding their breath, waiting to see how it would go.
He checked the notebook again and tapped the cover against his palm. “You’re going to tell me what you are. Or I will find out on my own time.”
I stared at the door, not at him. “You ever get bored with your own voice?”
He took that as a challenge. “Very well,” he said. He nodded to the guards.