by E. A. Copen
Dal almost pushed open the door and went to stop him but paused when he remembered Cat’s analysis of his personality. He didn’t want to make her right. But he also had promised not to let her die at McAlister’s hands. The mental tug of war made him hesitate. In that moment, McAlister launched into a monolog that told Dal all he needed to hear.
“I knew it wasn’t Nessa,” he growled and grabbed Cat by the shoulders. He lifted her and then dropped her. The whole floor shook with her impact. “I knew when you called, bitch. Nessa’s cold and dead since this morning. But don’t worry. I got my rocks off before all that.” His belly shook with laughter.
Cat tried to crawl away, but McAlister had other ideas. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her head around, grabbing her chin with his other hand and lifting it so she would look up at him. “You know it was me who capped your sister, right? Right after I fucked her. Now, word up the chain is you’ve been talking to one of Mickey Fairchild’s boys.”
“I wasn’t…” she stammered.
“You was. You’re helping him.” He dropped her chin and roared with laughter again. “That’s fucking hilarious. You’ve no idea, do you? What’s he think? The Sullivans bumped her off as retaliation for some pusher on the street? Does he think Teddy Sullivan is so stupid? Your whore sister was smart enough to figure it out.”
Cat lifted her head. She tried to fight him, but he grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. Tears streamed down Cat’s cheeks as she managed a single word. “Why?”
McAlister grinned. “Does that low-blood twat redcap really think Lachlan would let him keep Lena all to himself? No, not when that snatch could be traded for something far more valuable.”
Dal broke out into a cold sweat, and his heart pounded in his ears. What was he suggesting? That Lachlan had traded Lena for his gain to the Sullivans? What could he possibly have hoped to gain? And it made no sense. Lena loved Dal as much as he loved her. She would never…she couldn’t.
But then McAlister boasted about it as he continued to beat on Cat. He bragged about how Lachlan had traded Lena to Teddy Sullivan since before she’d even bled. Since she was a child! And when Lena got too old for Teddy to be interested, there were other girls, other names that Dal knew. Children given to appease a sick and twisted man who couldn’t get it up for grown women…but children.
McAlister picked Cat’s broken and bloody face up off the floor and pinned her against the counter, his back to Dal. “And do you know why she had to die? Because the night Teddy came for little Grania while daddy was out of the way, Lena stood in the way. I should know. Was my knife that did her while they stood by and watched.”
That was all Dal could take. He kicked open the door, threw a flash of rage-fueled magick into the silver in his palm, turning it into a bat that he swung at McAlister’s head. McAlister turned and threw up an arm. He tried to side step out of Dal’s way, but he was too big, too clumsy. The bat hit his head and knocked him aside. He didn’t go down, so Dal swung again. McAlister stumbled and fell, groaning. Dal was still blind with rage as he turned the bat over and aimed for McAlister’s eyeballs. Slamming the handle into McAlister’s skull, he heard the ripe sound of a melon breaking and the murmured sound of the passing of life gurgled out of his throat. Even though he was dead, Dal didn’t stop slamming the silver bat into his head until he was pounding a wet pile of meat on the floor.
Too exhausted to continue and splattered in blood, Dal sank to his knees and threw the bat away. It couldn’t be true, he thought as he swayed back and forth. Lachlan was a calculating bastard who would do almost anything to increase his foothold of power. But cater to a pedophile? And his own daughter and granddaughter? It had to be a lie.
He turned his head to the sound of Cat being sick in the sink. She was beaten and bloody, too, but not nearly as bad as he’d first imagined. McAlister’s blows and stomping had mainly been targeted at her backside, which was bare now and darkening with bruises.
As he stood there, chest heaving with the effort of breath, a flash of memory hit him hard.
While he was attending lessons with Lena, he’d seen Teddy. Long-faced, big eared, mustached and grandfatherly, he came into Lena’s kitchen in the middle of the lesson and removed his hat. Lena grabbed for Dal’s hand under the table and squeezed so tight that it hurt. The tutor looked up and offered a nervous smile to the grandfatherly old fae. “Mr. Sullivan! What a surprise!”
Teddy flicked his wrist, and a red rose appeared in his hand. He offered it to Lena. “I hear it’s someone’s tenth birthday,” he said, grinning. “I have a present for you, Lena. Would you like to see it? It’s upstairs in your room.”
She squeezed his palm even tighter. “Can Dal come and see it, too?”
Teddy’s smile faded. “Oh, no my dear. This is something special just for you. Come on now.”
She didn’t want to go, but after the tutor urged her, and Teddy insisted, she eventually went. Her big brown eyes looked so sad from the doorway as she looked back at Dal. Later, he found her in her room, crying. The floor was littered with torn rose petals, and her hands were bloody.
“What happened?” he asked, limping into the room on his crutch.
Lena pawed at her eyes and gripped the naked stem of the rose tighter. Dal hobbled over to her and pried her hands open to find she’d been digging the thorns into her palms.
“Don’t ever give me roses, Dal,” she cried and threw her arms around him.
And he never had. Not once.
In the present, Dal’s skin prickled and his whole body shook as it all came together. Lachlan…had he tried to use Grania as leverage to sue for peace? And Lena had stood between them, protecting their child. If so, Lachlan was as guilty as Teddy. He’d gut them both and feed them their entrails. But they weren’t the only ones. Mickey had sent him out that night on a bullshit errand that anyone could have handled. He’d wanted Dal out of the way. Mickey knew.
Dal hoisted himself back to his feet. Then that’s where he would start. Mickey. Teddy. Lachlan. He’d kill all three, but first, he needed to see to Cat. He reached for her and mumbled, “How bad is it?”
She pushed him away. “Don’t,” she screamed and backed away from him.
“But you’re bleeding.”
She shook her head and tears fell as she pressed herself against the far wall. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”
Dal let his arm fall limply to his side. “I’m sorry. I should have. I should have known.” A strange sound came out of him, a broken whimper followed by a choking sob. He leaned against the counter and drew his hand over his face, wiping away the blood. Why couldn’t he have seen? He should have done something.
What, Dal, he wondered. What could you have done? And what will you do now? If you kill Lachlan and Teddy, you’ll have signed your own death warrant. Half the East Coast will be gunning for you. But you can’t leave them unavenged, not after what they did. You weren’t there when she needed you. When they needed you. The least you can do now is show the fuck up.
He sobbed into his hand and let his shoulders shake, not because he was mourning the loss of his wife and child, but because he hadn’t seen. All those times when she flinched away, it wasn’t because she knew he’d just beaten a man to death, or broken ribs and kneecaps, or set fire to a car. It was because he hadn’t saved her. He’d come too late.
Cat’s arm wound up over his shoulder and the other around his chest. She murmured an apology at him, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He turned into her, burying his head into the bloodstains on her chest and let himself cry. She squeezed back. They stayed like that for a long time, until Dal felt numb again.
“Tell me what I can do to help,” she said, stroking his cheek.
Dal took a deep breath and stood, drawing a knuckle under his nose, thinking. “I need to get cleaned up. I don’t want to show up to Lachlan’s meet looking like this.”
“Sure. I’ll send your friends for fresh clothes. And let me run you a bath and help you
get cleaned up.”
He looked down at himself.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” Cat added. “And neither should I.”
He nodded slowly. She offered a broken smile, put an arm around his back, and they helped each other up the stairs.
Chapter Seven
Warm water cascaded over Dal’s back as Cat scrubbed away blood, bits of brain, and permanent marker in silence. Dal had expected her to scrub until his skin was red and raw, but Cat was surprisingly capable of gentility. That made him feel all the more guilty over not coming out of the closet to help her sooner. He wanted to apologize again, this time, more insistently. His mind was stuck, working backward through everything, putting the pieces together.
Nessa had been McAlister’s plaything. He must have gone to her after it happened, and the girl put two and two together. She figured it out and had died for it. That sharp mind and keen understanding of how dark and evil the fae could be had destroyed her. Cat only barely escaped the same fate.
And ever since Lena’s tenth birthday, maybe before, and who knew how long afterward, Lachlan kept the peace by pimping his underage daughter out to Teddy Sullivan. When tensions got high, Lachlan exploited the one vice he knew Teddy would indulge. Lena was too old for Teddy now, but Grania was just right.
His mind’s eye crafted a scene of horrors, recreating an event he’d never witnessed. He watched his family die and broke down again only to replay it over and over and over until part of him died along with them.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said in a quiet voice as she reached in front of him to let the water out. “I should have come sooner.”
She paused and tried to smile. He could tell it hurt. “It’s not the first time I’ve had the shit kicked out of me.”
He touched her swollen right eye and brushed warm water over it. “It will be the last.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I mean it. You don’t deserve what’s happened to you any more than my family deserved what happened to them.”
Cat grabbed his hand and lowered it away from her face. “Don’t get attached to me just because I’m here. I’m an elf whore. I’m worth nothing to you or anybody.”
“I don’t believe that.” She looked down, so he lowered his head and caught her stare. “Don’t mistake me for Lachlan. Blood has been the thing that has driven loyalty for too long. This isn’t Faerie. This is Earth. This is Boston. It’s my city. Here, you earn respect, you don’t demand it just because of your parentage.” He pulled his hand away and leaned against the back of the tub. “You’ve earned more than just my respect. I owe you a debt of gratitude, one I’ll likely be unable to repay.”
She plugged the tub again and started new water. They sat in strained silence as the water rose up to his chest. Cat shut off the water and leaned back on her knees. “Forgiveness is pointless because it’s over. You and me, we can feel sorry about it for the rest of our lives, however long or short that’s going to be, and it won’t change a thing. But we want the same thing. My sister is dead because of the prick you killed downstairs and probably the two or three more you’re planning to kill.”
Dal studied Cat’s face. Even through the bruises and scabs, he saw the familiar conviction of righteous rage.
“They have to pay, Dal,” she said. “Every last one of the motherfuckers that played a part in my sister’s death. I’m just an elf. I can’t do it. But you can. You do that, and you and me are square.”
“I will,” Dal promised. “I give you my word, sworn upon my blood. I will kill everyone who played a part in your sister’s murder.”
A fae promise held magickal bonds. Until it was done, and done as he promised, the two of them were inextricably tied together by magick. The force of his words and the spell they wove felt like drawing a rubber band tight between them. It strained under their violent history but held.
Cat offered him a weak smile and a pat on the shoulder as she rose. “I’ll go clean up downstairs.”
***
The water was icy when he climbed out. He stood and watched pink water swirl down the dirty drain and wondered how much more he’d spill before the night was over. Someone knocked at the door, and Kink called in, “I brought you some clothes like you asked, Dal.”
Dal pulled aside the curtain and stepped out onto the cold floor, pulling a towel from the rack to cover himself. He opened the door. Kink stood there holding his good pair of black pants, black dress socks, and a black button down. “Get in here,” Dal said, opening the door wider.
“Er, sure.” Kink came in and closed the door behind him. “Sorry about earlier. I should’ve come with you to Lachlan’s.”
“Forget it. I need to tell you something.”
Kink shrugged, looked around and dropped the folded clothes neatly over the empty towel rack. “Sure thing.”
“It was Teddy,” Dal said and watched his face. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was the truth that Dal needed to tell to have the support his plan required.
“Jesus Christ,” Kink said and turned his head away.
“Lachlan and Mickey knew.”
Kink’s head snapped back. “Jesus Christ,” he repeated, this time in a smaller voice. “You sure?”
“I’m sure about Lachlan. I need to be sure about Mickey. I need to talk to him. Alone. Can you arrange it?”
“I think so,” said Kink, nodding. He hesitated a minute and then added, “If he did know, are you going to kill him?”
“Would that be a problem for you?”
Kink’s jaw flexed. “Not if he deserves it.”
Dal clapped him on the shoulder and pointed a finger in his face. “Make it happen.”
Kink nodded and left.
Dal dressed. It wasn’t the outfit he would have chosen to wear to Mickey’s funeral, but it was appropriate. Mickey Fairchild had always been a mean bastard without a shred of love or dignity in his heart. Dal remembered his fists and the buckle of his belt more than anything. But the man had raised him, taught him everything he knew about life and the world. That commanded a certain level of respect. If he had to kill Mickey, he resolved to make it quick.
Outside the bathroom door, Dal found his boots, clean and polished. Cat stood beside them, fidgeting with a tie. She pushed off the wall with her hip and tried to smile, but her bottom lip was too swollen. She had two black eyes and several bruises on her face and arms, but she’d managed to wash most of the blood out of her hair. “Thought you might want clean shoes since the black guy brought you nice clothes,” she offered. She lifted the collar of his shirt and tucked the tie beneath it, fumbling with her swollen fingers to tie it. “If you kill Lachlan, does that mean you’ll be running things?”
Dal shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
He didn’t tell her he didn’t expect to survive. Lachlan was a magickal powerhouse, old fae, a high-blood Sidhe and veteran of half a dozen fae wars. Anyone who could come and go from Faerie at will was not someone he could expect to fight and win. This was a suicide mission, and he knew it. He’d see it through just the same.
“Well, if you make it through this,” Cat said, tightening the tie. “Don’t forget the little people, huh?”
“I am one of the little people.” Dal planted a quick kiss on her cheek.
She stepped back and color rose in her cheeks.
He smiled. “No matter what happens, you take care of yourself, okay?”
Cat nodded.
***
Mickey agreed to meet Dal on the footpath of the Summer Street Bridge. Wouldn’t be too many people out there after dark, but there was enough traffic that Mickey probably thought Dal wouldn’t kill him out in the open, and in front of witnesses. Dal admired Mickey for thinking he cared.
Kink, Bill, Lucky, and Cat piled into the van with him, but no one spoke. If Kink had told the rest of the boys what Dal planned to do, they didn’t show it. Dal pulled on his black leather glove
s and flexed his fingers. His knuckles were still raw and swollen, making his grip stiff. Hot water and pain pills dulled the effects, but it was still noticeable. His hands would be his weakness, though, and not his heart. Mickey deserved to die if he knew. If he didn’t, Dal hoped he would come with him to face Lachlan.
Lucky pulled the van over a few blocks from the bridge and parked it. “Should we just wait here?”
“No,” Dal answered. “Go home to your families.” He opened the door and climbed out. Kink and Cat got out after him. He frowned at them. “I said go.”
Kink gripped him by the shoulder. “You are family, Dal.”
Cat folded her arms in front of her chest. “And I’ve got no one to go back to.”
He looked at them, knowing they would support him to the end. But he’d dragged them far enough. “Take her home, Kink. Help her clean up.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Cat protested.
Kink nodded and put a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever you say, boss. Come on, love. I think he’d rather see it through on his own. It’s personal, you understand?”
Dal didn’t watch them get back into the van and drive away. He heard the door slide shut as pulled out his silver and shifted the metal in his hand into a long staff before he walked away.
The footpath was closed for construction, blocked off by an orange, reflective barrel and a line of orange safety mesh attached to it. Moving the barrel aside made the sidewalk passable, though some of the slabs had been stripped away, revealing the raw steel beneath.
Mickey leaned against the rail at the halfway point, looking out over the channel. The moonlight sparkled across the water in choppy, diluted rays. The street light fought against the darkness, throwing a pale, hazy halo over Mickey. He wore his long dress coat, tweed flat cap, and suit vest. Dal walked up and planted the silver staff on the ground, turning to match Mickey’s vigil over the waterfront.
