“I thought you—” she rasps, easing a half an inch away, shaken by the intensity of her own reaction.
I’m a little shaky myself, and I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I was on my way to the supply shed when I heard the shouts. Where’s Molly? He was in there when I left, I should—”
My words die in my throat as the look on her face delivers the news. Our hands fall apart, and I have to brace against the munitions shed to stop my knees from giving out.
“They caught one of the rebels who did it.” She turns toward the mouth of the alley. “The others escaped. I was heading to interrogation, they’re taking him—”
“Get me in there,” I interrupt, urgency making my voice stumble. “Maybe I can convince him to talk. Offer him a deal.”
“He’s a murderer, Flynn,” she snaps, her grief over her friend turning white-hot. She retrieves her gun from the ground, her face grim. “He doesn’t get a deal, he gets justice.”
“And if he’s one of McBride’s men? What if he knows what they’re planning next?” I can’t imagine any of my people starting the fire. It has to have been a mistake. “Please.”
She knows I’m right, but the desire for vengeance runs almost as deep. I watch her struggle, feeling it echo deep within my own heart; whoever killed my people is still out there too. Finally, shoving her Gleidel back into its holster, she murmurs, “Don’t promise him anything.”
When we reach the holding cells, she sends away the guard with a couple of snapped orders. The nervous corporal looks at me but doesn’t stop me from following before he vanishes. Perhaps he hopes I’ll stop her from killing the prisoner.
My heart sinks when I see who’s huddled on the bench in the corner of the room. It’s Turlough Doyle, his mop of blond hair turned gray with ash, his eyes red with smoke and grief. He was only ever in the swamps because his sister sabotaged one of the algae farms, and the trodairí wouldn’t stop coming by to ask him where she was, more forcefully every time. Then he met Mike, and he had reason to stay. But he’s no blood-soaked rebel. He used to be a biology assistant.
His head’s down, exhaustion and fear taking their toll. Jubilee doesn’t hesitate, slamming the cell door behind us. “Who did this?” she snarls, stalking over to meet him eye to eye.
She was too blinded by shock and the Fury in the caves to recognize the man widowed by the massacre. But Turlough remembers her. When he lifts his head, his eyes fix on her face with a single-minded hatred that makes my heart freeze. “You’re going to kill me anyway, trodaire.” He spits the word. “I won’t help you kill anyone else.”
“You tell me,” she spits right back, “or you’re goddamn right I’m going to kill you, and I’ll make it last. Which one of you killed Molly?”
Turlough sucks in a shaky breath, his round face losing all color—from fear or rage, I can’t tell. “Me. I acted alone.”
“You didn’t,” she shouts, voice cracking. “Those burn marks on his skull, only a Gleidel does that. You’re carrying an antique.”
“You carry a Gleidel,” he shoots back. “You killed our people, our children.” His gaze pins her now, eyes boring into hers. “You killed my husband. I hope you rot in hell.”
My brain’s still stuttering, and I’m pinned against the wall by the door, unnoticed by either of them. Molly was shot? I find my own stomach twisting with grief.
Jubilee stares back at him, and I know by her silence that she’s recognized him. Then she squares her shoulders. She doesn’t bother to deny his accusation, and I ache for her, but I know why. What could she possibly say that he’d believe? “I’m giving you one more chance, rebel. Names. Now.”
Turlough just glares, terrified but determined. Only grief could give such a gentle man this kind of strength. Another time, I’d almost be proud of him for showing so much spine. Now, Jubilee’s going to rip it out if I don’t do something. I step away from the door and into the light. Turlough’s gaze slides past Jubilee, and his mouth falls open as he recognizes me. “What are you doing here?” His whisper is like a bullet straight through me. “She killed Mike,” he goes on, voice rising to a ragged shout, “and you’re standing next to her.”
“It wasn’t her. I give you my word. She was there, but she didn’t do it.”
He watches me in silence, making me wonder if my word holds any value for him now. Beside me, I can hear Jubilee’s harsh breathing, keeping time with the pounding of my own heart. If Turlough can trust me, then I can believe Sean might. I can believe the gulf between us might close, that we might be able to grieve together.
My voice is soft. “Where’s McBride, Turlough?”
His expression flickers, the grief and anger giving way to a quick, icy flash of fear. “I don’t know,” he says tightly. But his loyalty is brittle, that terror more real than anything he’s shown Jubilee.