Her grief catches at mine, resonating hollow in my chest. Loneliness shouldn’t be the worst of this; the thing that makes my heart hurt shouldn’t be how much I miss the trodaire I’ve only known for a few weeks. Because the Fury took her from me too. “There was nothing for you to know,” I murmur. “This never should have happened.”
She inhales sharply, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. “It wasn’t him, Flynn. I know they’ve got footage, I know they’re saying he had the detonator. But he wasn’t planning anything. He didn’t want any part in the fight. He’d been vague, tired, but I thought it was just the stress of his new job on the base. He’d never have done anything to risk my life, and even if somehow he was forced, I’d have seen it in him.” Her gaze is distant, replaying those last minutes. “I would have known.”
“I believe you, Sof.” My eyes fall on the bandages again.
“Well, if you believe me, you’re the only one who does.” She meets my eyes, the sharp edge of bitterness showing through. “The trodairí say the families always deny their loved ones are capable of violence.”
“This Fury—this thing we thought was a trodairí excuse—it’s real. I’ve seen it.” I force myself to take another bite of the arán. I’m ravenous, and yet each mouthful is a hard lump in my throat. “And if it touched your father too, then it’s getting worse.”
“I was the one who got him the job on the base.” She’s still, betraying nothing with her body language. “Taking samples, being in that cold water all day, it was making his arthritis so bad he could barely walk in the mornings. I talked the military supply officers into hiring him as a stocker.”
Even as a child, Sofia’s silver tongue could get us out of any scrape.
“If it weren’t for me,” she whispers, her hollow eyes fixed on the waders still standing by the door, “he wouldn’t have even been there.”
In the morning, I’m ripped from sleep by the clatter of hail on the roof, and I lurch up with a rush of adrenaline. Shabby prefab walls surround me, and for a wild moment I’m completely disoriented. Then it comes to me: I’m at Sofia’s, sleeping in her father’s old room.
And that sound isn’t hail. It’s distant gunfire.
I clamber from under the thin blanket, dazed, stumbling to my feet and hauling open the back door. The muddy, makeshift streets of the town are full of people rushing this way and that as civilians try to find cover. The gunfire’s echoing from beyond, out in the swamp. The military’s increased patrols must have found McBride and his men—or else McBride has drawn them into a trap. Tactics my sister invented. Tactics I helped hand down.
Whole platoons of soldiers run double-time toward the sounds of fighting. There’s no sign of Jubilee, but I’m not sure I’d be able to tell if she was among them. When they’re all wearing their helmets and their body armor and power packs for ammo, it’s impossible to even tell the men from the women. They all look alike.
A hand wraps around my arm and jerks me back. “They’ll see you,” hisses Sofia, face flushed with sleep and fear. She throws her father’s shirt at me, making me realize I’m still half naked, sleep dazed, then shoves me away from the back exit.
The door slams, but I can still hear the smattering of shots fired, far away.
The fighting continues throughout the day, echoing from different spots; the shifts mean McBride’s still out there, if not winning, then at least holding his own. The military have advanced weapons, greater numbers—but McBride and the Fianna know this land far better than soldiers who can’t last more than a month or two before being reassigned.
Sofia ventures out a couple of times, bringing back bits and fragments of information with her. Through her I learn that open hostilities have broken out despite the base’s added security, that the rebels in the swamps are attacking guerrilla-style—drawing out the soldiers with hit-and-run tactics, getting them out where they’re vulnerable. It forces the military to play their game, to fight them on the ground, taking away the technological edge the organized troops have over us.
It’s agony not running out there to stop it, or to help. Is Sean out there? Would he shoot if he saw me? I’d give anything for a chance to talk to him, to make him hear me and understand why I stood between him and Jubilee. His anguish is with me every moment—the instant he lifted his gun, all our years together not enough to bridge the gap between us. The crack of his gun still echoes in my ears. Did his shot miss me because he jerked his hand aside at the last second? Or was he simply shaking too hard to aim true?
Sofia tries to put me to work to distract me, pointing out furniture that needs fixing and leaks in the ceiling her father always meant to get to. My hands do the work, but my mind is frantic, leaping back into panic every time I hear a shot from a new direction.
“Do you think she’s out there?” Sofia asks finally, watching me drop the screwdriver for the third time as I try to fix a wobbly chair. “The trodaire you saved?”