TWENTY-SIX
Diarmid
Diarmid went to the back door, the servants’ entrance, and waited tensely for the maid to fetch Patrick Devlin.
The maid came back, surveying him with a frank—and appreciative—gaze as she said with obvious surprise, “He wants to see you in his study.”
He followed her down the hallway where Grace had come upon him the night he’d stolen the ogham stick. The study was bright, daylight coming through the windows and gas flames wavering in their polished sconces.
“Here he is, sir,” said the maid, closing the door carefully behind her when she left.
Patrick Devlin sat at his desk, looking rather like a boy playing with his father’s things until he glanced up, and Diarmid saw that Devlin was as tense as he was.
Devlin stood. He came around the desk slowly and then leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thank you for coming.”
“I didn’t know I had a choice, Mr. Devlin,” Diarmid said.
“Oh, I think you know that you do.” Devlin smiled thinly. “And please, call me Patrick. I think you’ll find that we have common interests, and I’d like for us to be friends. Shall I tell you what I know of you?”
Diarmid nodded.
“Miss Knox tells me that my sister is in love with you.”
Diarmid said nothing, but he felt Grace’s vengeance with a little shock. He hadn’t thought she would do this—he’d underestimated her. Or at least underestimated how shaken she’d been by the fight with the Black Hands and perhaps . . . the kiss too. No, definitely the kiss. She had slapped him and run from him.
“She’ll say yes.”
Suddenly Diarmid realized how hard she was trying to keep him away. And when he realized that, he knew she’d told Patrick everything.
“She also tells me that you belong to a gang. And she believes you have the ogham stick that was stolen from this room.”
In a way, Diarmid admired the completeness of it, how willing she was to destroy him.
She might have succeeded, too, if Patrick Devlin hadn’t been a member of the Fenian Brotherhood. If there hadn’t been more—much more—that she didn’t know.
“Finn’s Warriors,” Patrick said thoughtfully. “Do you know what I find interesting?”
“No idea,” Diarmid said.
“That it’s what the Fianna might call themselves today. Finn’s Warriors.”
Say nothing, Diarmid cautioned himself. Listen.
“Two months ago, just after I returned from Ireland, a man came to me with something to sell. He knew of my interest in Celtic antiquities. He had a horn he’d won in a wager. It was a horn that looked very like drawings I’d seen—except there was an inscribed silver band. It had been cracked, you see, in battle, and they’d stripped away the ruined bronze and repaired it with silver.”
“I used to have a horn,” she’d said. “Aidan lost it in a faro game.” But the silver she’d mentioned had confused him. He hadn’t considered that it might have changed over the years. Stupid.
“A friend of mine can read ogham. He’s descended from Druids, and many of these relics still hold the old magic.” Patrick’s eyes were very green in the light. “But you know that already, don’t you?”
“The dord fiann,” Diarmid murmured.
Patrick nodded. “The Brotherhood has been studying the old spells for some time. So did my father, and he passed the interest down to me. I knew there must be a veleda to use the horn correctly, but my father had said we were descended from her. That her blood runs in our veins, and . . . I hoped. We performed the ritual and blew the horn. But no Fianna appeared.”
Patrick met Diarmid’s gaze. “I don’t know if you can imagine my disappointment. All these years . . . trying everything we could to save our homeland. We were desperate, and I’d believed at last we had some way to win. For days we waited, and then we realized no Fianna were coming. You must understand . . . no one thought the horn had worked. But it had. It had. Just . . . not in the way I’d imagined.”
“What way was that?” Diarmid asked.
Patrick laughed. “I’d thought you would appear in my parlor. The blood, the incantation, and three blows of the dord fiann, and—voilà!—there you would be.”
“That’s the way it should have worked. I don’t know why it didn’t.”
“I see.” Patrick hesitated. “Where did you wake?”
“In a tenement near Mulberry Street. We’ve been looking for who called us ever since.”
Patrick’s voice turned reverent. “Finn’s here. Finn MacCool. And you . . . Diarmid Ua Duibhne. That’s who you are, isn’t it? I knew it when Grace said Lucy had fallen in love with you overnight. My sister is prone to lovesickness, but when she begged me to hire you, she seemed oddly intent. I didn’t realize . . . I thought she was turning her attention to charity work, something worthwhile at last.” He laughed at himself. “But you used the ball seirce on Lucy, didn’t you?”
“We were looking for who called us,” Diarmid said again. “It occurred to us to look at Irish clubs. Those who might have an interest. The Fenian Brotherhood was one. I needed a way to get close to its leaders. You. Lucy was a way in. I’m sorry for it.”
“I hardly believe it.”
Diarmid asked, “What did you intend for us to do?”
“Ireland’s greatest need—isn’t that what the prophecy says? And she does need you. The Irish are leaving in droves to come here. Britain is destroying them. If this continues, Ireland will be no more. We’ve organized rebellions, but we aren’t strong enough. We need Ireland’s greatest warriors. Her heroes. We called you to go to war against the British. To win self-rule for Ireland.”
Diarmid felt a rush of relief and excitement. Already the battle lust came upon him, the need to protect and revive his homeland. He wanted the fight, and the others would want it as well. Diarmid hadn’t known until that moment how afraid he’d been that the task would not be an honorable one.
“So is it a worthy fight?” Patrick asked.
Diarmid hesitated. “Aye, it seems so. But ’tisn’t my place to decide. If you know the prophecy, you know that as well.”
Patrick smiled. “Well, Lucy can be fickle, but I think we needn’t worry. She’ll choose as I tell her, especially now that she’s in love with you.”
“Lucy?”
“It was her blood on the horn. I admit I’d begun to doubt that any Druid blood ran in our veins, no matter what my father had said.”
Diarmid shook his head. “Lucy’s not the veleda.”
“What do you mean?”
“The horn belonged to Grace. Aidan lost it in a bet.”
Patrick looked blank for a moment. “Grace? You don’t mean—Grace is the veleda?”
Diarmid said bluntly, “She’s the one who has to choose. She’s not so manageable as Lucy, I’m guessing, but her brother says that you mean to take her to wife. If that’s true, she’s got a reason to want to choose our fight. Of course, once it’s done, and the sacrifice is made—”
“Sacrifice?”
“On Samhain. The sacrifice to release her power to the side she chooses.”
“I don’t understand. What sacrifice?”
“She has to die. To release her power, the veleda has to die.”
Patrick paled.
Diarmid said softly, “You didn’t know.”
“No. No, I know nothing of that. It isn’t in the stories. My father said nothing—”
“You used the horn to call us, and you didn’t know there would be a cost?”
“Not that kind of cost!”
Diarmid believed him. The shock and horror on Patrick’s face were too real. “Well, ’tis too late now. Once you called us, the geis was in play. The veleda’s bound to it, just as we are.”
“No,” Patrick whispered. “No. It’s not possible.”
“It has to be.”
“I know I blew the horn, but . . . but I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”
Diarmid felt again that sinking nausea, the reminder of what he must do. He felt sorry for Patrick. It was obvious the man loved Grace. “You won’t have to lift a hand,” Diarmid told him.
“Then who?”
“That task falls to me. ’Tis a geis laid a long time ago. If I don’t take her life, we fail no matter what her choice. Fail and fade.”
“This is why . . . she said you’d been attentive. That you wouldn’t leave her alone. This is why.”
“It must be done on Samhain. It’s not much time.”
“Dear God. There must be another way. A way she doesn’t have to die. Or . . . perhaps you’re wrong. What if it’s not her? Could you be wrong?”
“We’ve a Druid of our own who says she is,” Diarmid explained. “And there are other things about her that say it too. Things she sees.”
“She’s had nightmares. Headaches.”
“That and more. When she touched the ogham stick, it burned her.”
“The ogham stick! God. Oh, God. I forgot. . . . I didn’t think. I mean, I did, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know she would be involved in any of this! They’re coming!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The ogham stick calls the Fomori.”
“Not alone. Not without the rowan wand—”
“We have the rowan wand.”
Diarmid’s gut knotted. “You didn’t.”
“We did,” Patrick said. “When the Fianna didn’t arrive, we . . . well, I told you, we needed help.”
“You called the Fomori?” Diarmid’s dread turned to anger.
“We didn’t know the Fianna were here!” Patrick sounded panicked. “But it doesn’t have to matter, does it? We’ve talked with their messenger, with Daire Donn. We’ve made a deal with them. Their help in return for shared power—”
“The Fomori don’t share power.”
Patrick grabbed Diarmid’s arm. “They’ve promised us.”
Diarmid threw him off. “They’ve broken every promise they’ve ever made. How can you not know this?”
“It isn’t like that.” Patrick was pleading now. “With the Fianna’s help, we’ll be invincible. Grace will choose our side over the British—of course she will. We’ll find a way so that she doesn’t have to die. You won’t have to kill her. We’ll find another way. Daire Donn or one of the Fomori will know a spell.”
“The only spells they know are for death and destruction,” Diarmid spat. “You’ll be enslaved to them. By the gods, do you know what you’ve done?”
“The Fianna can help us control them.”
“No one can control them! And because you called them you’ve changed everything. We’ll never join with the Fomori. They’ve been our enemies since the beginning of time. You’ll trade British rule for enslavement. That’s what you’ll have when Daire Donn and the others seize power. I’ve seen it before.”
“No, it doesn’t have to be that way—”
“If you could see what I’ve seen . . . The Fomori don’t change. They want chaos. They thrive on terror and blood. You can’t hope to control them. All they have ever wanted is to ravage every Irish soul. If you bring them here, they will destroy us all.”
Patrick drew himself up, his panic replaced by resolve. “It’s too late. Tomorrow’s the solstice. They arrive then. And you’re wrong about what will happen. You’re wrong about who they are. The world is no longer as it was. We have promises. They will honor them. I’ve met Daire Donn. I believe him.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
“We will win this fight. Ireland will win!”
“Ireland will fall to fear. And so will you. You’ll be lucky if any survive it.”
“You can’t make the decision,” Patrick declared. “You’re not the head of the Fianna. Make my request of Finn—”
“He’ll be no more willing to ally with the Fomori than I am.”
“—and if he refuses, then you’re right: it will be a war between us. But you’re the one making Grace choose.”
“You sound afraid,” Diarmid needled. “Why is that? Do you think she’ll choose the Fianna over you?”
“No, I don’t think that,” Patrick said. “Grace loves me.”
How sure he sounds, Diarmid thought. He wondered if Patrick would be so confident if he knew about the kiss. For a moment, Diarmid wanted to say, I had her pressed against a wall only two days ago, and given the way she was kissing me, I doubt she was thinking much of her love for you.
He bit off the urge. Instead, he said, “But she knows the stories, too, doesn’t she? How will she feel when she discovers you’re allied with the gods of chaos? Do you really think she’ll choose you over the heroes of Ireland?”
“Heroes? Perhaps once you were. But there’s a reason for the veleda. Greed and arrogance, wasn’t it? The people were tired of your demands. Tired of the Fianna.”
Diarmid said nothing—it was true.
Patrick tried again, “But if you fought with us, that wouldn’t matter. Grace wouldn’t need to decide between us. It would be all of us against the British instead of what you make it now. It’s you who changes it, Diarmid. You’re the one who makes it the Fianna against the Fomori, not me.”
Diarmid felt an overwhelming, terrible grief. He turned to go. Wearily, he repeated, “You’re a fool, Patrick.”
And Patrick Devlin said, “Stay away from her. Stay away from her with your damned ball seirce! You’re no longer welcome in my stables. I don’t want you near her. Do you hear me?”
Diarmid knew he wasn’t talking about Lucy. He looked over his shoulder. “You’ve started a war, Patrick. Perhaps you didn’t mean to, but you did. And in wars, people die. Especially innocents.”
Then he wrenched open the door and went out, letting it slam shut behind him, striding down the hall, past the older woman, who must have been Mrs. Devlin, standing in the doorway of the parlor, staring at him in stunned disbelief, and Lucy in the room behind her, calling out, “Derry? Derry, is that you?”
He was out the front door and down the stoop in moments. Once he hit the walk, he broke into a run. Behind him, the clouds darkened over the harbor.