Swordfall (The Fall Trilogy, #2)

by Devaux, Olivette

  THE BUS RIDE FROM DUBLIN to Galway took four hours. Seeing the land as they crossed the island from east to west wasn’t such a bad thing. The main road consisted of two narrow lanes. Asbjorn elbowed Sean in the ribs, pointing out the window. “Shit, Sean. He’s driving on the wrong side of the road!”

  They laughed. “Just as well we didn’t rent a car,” Sean said. “My dad had this bad experience in Bermuda, where they drive on the left too.”

  “Oh yeah? Did he crash a car?” Asbjorn asked with curiosity. Sean didn’t mention his family often. Then again, Sean’s mind had been occupied by his crazy psycho stalker almost as soon as they met.

  “No, a rental moped. He got a lot of road rash and a story to tell.”

  The countryside flashed by in a steady progression of pastures and houses and small villages. They marveled at the old, chest-high walls made of fieldstone. The ancient structures divided pastures and fields, lined roads and alleyways. Sheep grazed within their confines.

  “Hey, Sean.”

  “Hmm?” Sean opened his eyes, waking from his slumber.

  “You’ve been here before, right?”

  “No. I never got to go, just my mom. Why?”

  “Why do they spray paint the sheep?”

  “What?” Sean craned his neck past Asbjorn to see out the window. “Sure enough! They have a splotch of hot pink paint on their butts, every one of them!”

  “Dying the wool?”

  A few minutes later, the sheep had green splotches, then blue. Orange. A blue and pink combination was seen on occasion.

  “We’ll ask Auntie Iveragh.”

  They stopped at a rest stop halfway through and used the facilities, bought some bottled water and coffee, and climbed up a hillock across the parking lot to take pictures of spray-painted sheep with their cell phones. Not even the coffee was a strong enough antidote to their Guinness.

  Lulled to sleep for the next two hours of travel, they woke up when the little bus was scaling the hills approaching Galway.

  “SEAN! SO GREAT TO SEE you!”

  It didn’t take Sean long go pick out Auntie Iveragh from the few people at the Galway bus station. She had orange hair and looked like an older, rounder version of Sean’s mother. Sean allowed her to embrace him as he searched his mind for the proper sense of physical space the Irish observed. It appeared Auntie Iveragh didn’t subscribe to any such concept.

  “So you got to see Copenhagen,” she gushed. “And you must be tired from the bus. Where is your friend? You must introduce me to your friend.”

  Sean looked around. Asbjorn had disappeared to fish their luggage from the belly of the bus.

  “And go help him. What kind of a host are you?” The Irish lilt made her speech musical and exotic, and Sean had to strain to understand what she way saying.

  “Host?” Sean deadpanned.

  “Well, you’re practically Irish, with your mother born here in Galway. And introduce me to your friend like is proper!”

  Sean hurried off and liberated his bags from Asbjorn. Then they approached his aunt again. With all due ceremony, Sean beckoned to her and said, “Auntie Iveragh, this is Asbjorn Lund. Asbjorn, my Auntie Iveragh. My mother’s sister.” Iveragh had to look up to see Asbjorn’s face as she shook his hand. Sean thought she was taking his measure with more than just idle speculation.

  “So you’re the one old Gallaway was so excited about. I got an e-mail from him just yesterday.”

  Sean was mortified to see Asbjorn examined like a horse at the market. He felt like he swallowed a frog. It took a while before he was able to utter a sound. “Dad... Dad told you about us?”

  “Well, naturally,” she lilted as she led them to her car. “Your father’s very excited that somebody finally caught your eye, with you having been so picky all these years.”

  Sean felt the red flush paint his face, but he refused to look at Asbjorn and witness his amusement. It was bad enough he was able to catch the jaunty bounce in his step using his peripheral vision. Then Asbjorn coughed, suppressing a bubble of laughter, and that was even worse.

  Auntie Iveragh’s family was happy to meet Sean and his mysterious friend. They took them to see old castles, had them suffer the frigid Atlantic wind at the Cliffs of Moher, and dragged them through all of Galway, from the little church and graveyard on top of the hill, down to the historical, cobblestone streets and the harbor below. They ended their night at the King’s Head, a pub full of dark wood aged by smoke, chairs shined by hundreds of butts changing places every week, and no food to eat whatsoever. Pubs were, apparently, for drinking alone. Eating happened at other places – they tried shepherd’s pie and mutton and salmon and tripe soup.

  Sean’s cousin Erin and her older brother Aidan convinced them to come kayaking in the freezing Atlantic. “We’ll suit you up in dry suits and you’ll be fine, don’t worry one bit,” Aidan said, and his vote of confidence convinced them to brave the waves.

  Sean’s fingers were freezing even through his neoprene gloves while Asbjorn waxed nostalgic for his Navy days, when such insults were a commonplace part of his life.

  It seemed they passed some sort of a test. “Mom, they’re all right, they can join us anytime,” Sean heard Erin say to Auntie Iveragh in the kitchen, and he smiled, surprised that his cousins subjected them to their form of hazing.

  They slept on a shared pull-out sofa bed in the family room. “I must apologize for the inconvenience, dearie,” Auntie Iveragh said when she surveyed the sleeper sofa piled with covers and goose down pillows.

  “We’ll be fine, really,” Sean assured her, and only rolled his eyes as his aunt walked away with a small smile on her lips.

  ASBJORN WATCHED SEAN unkink into a depth of relaxation he hadn’t had the chance to witness yet, but only after they were finally alone. He stepped behind and rubbed Sean’s shoulders. This was supposed to be a calm winter break, intended to dissipate all the stress and tension of Sean having been stalked for all those weeks and of the manhunt that followed.

  “I’m sorry, sunshine,” he whispered by Sean’s ear as his hands kneaded the tension away.

  “What for?” Sean asked as he leaned back, enjoying the attention.

  “Just stay relaxed, all right? We are still on a vacation. We still have three days.” Asbjorn knew Sean wasn’t as easily startled as right after the assault, but he did notice Auntie Iveragh’s curious glances to Sean’s precipitous reaction when she dropped a pan in the kitchen or when Aidan happened to slam the door. She probably did not miss Asbjorn’s subsequent attentiveness either, and he had caught her frowning on occasion. There was no way she could know. Sean’s family didn’t know – not unless his father had been informed by Sean’s aikido sensei, who had been told of the events by Ken Swift.

  Loose lips sink ships. The word was spreading. He knew the big news would spur well-meaning questions and expressions of concern, putting Sean in the center of attention. And his man didn’t need that right now. He needed the peace and quiet of a normal life – as normal as it could be under the circumstances – if only for the next three days.

  SEAN SAW ASBJORN’S eyes brighten with glee as they climbed the hills around Galway. Their grass was green despite the fact it was midwinter, and even though there were occasional overnight frosts, the weather was mild compared to both Copenhagen and Boston. Asbjorn reveled in the moist, almost warm air as they worked their way to the tallest point. His cousins did not accompany them on their jaunt, but they did join them in the kayaks once again. Once he got over the shock of the cold and his body warmed up through exercise, Sean found he enjoyed the sea and its salty tang. A kayak wasn’t all that different from a surfboard, after all.

  He saw the satisfaction of physical exertion on Asbjorn’s face as they worked their kayaks against the wind out of the harbor and into the choppy waters of the Atlantic. They returned three hours later, hot and cold and happy all at once. Sean saw Asbjorn’s skin was starting to look red and chapped.

  “I
wish we could stay longer, Sean,” Asbjorn said as they stood on the pier, their boats stowed away and their arms interlaced around each other’s waists.

  “It will be okay,” Sean said with all the conviction he could muster. He tilted his head up slightly to see Asbjorn’s face. The difference in their height was just a few inches, but Sean still felt as though he was always looking up. He was surprised to find that he didn’t mind. His hard-won independence of several weeks ago, when he and Asbjorn had worked and fought to draw their personal boundaries during a time of peril, now seemed petty and unimportant. The relaxed look on Asbjorn’s face meant everything to him. Sean didn’t know what awaited them in Boston, and he would have loved to be able to plan and strategize, but such talk would get his partner all agitated and tense. After the strain of family tensions in Denmark, he wanted them to grasp as many quiet moments as they could.

  “We could get sea kayaks in Boston,” Sean whispered, but as soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them. He shouldn’t have mentioned Boston at all.

  True to form, Asbjorn left no doubt about his opinion. “I don’t give a damn about sea kayaks while someone’s trying to take you out.”

  The wind picked up. Small droplets began to sting Sean’s face. “Rain?” He wondered.

  “Freezing rain. We were lucky it didn’t catch us out there.”

  ASBJORN DID NOT TURN around to shield his face from the onslaught of the elements. The weather reflected his disposition. It looked good on the outside, but only as long as you didn’t linger. Biting bits of ice hit, and he narrowed his eyes and leaned his forehead into the wind. He remembered weather like that onboard of one of his ships, and he recalled the North Atlantic waves, taller than a house, with their craft riding them up and down in an effort to get out of the storm.

  The waves would come. He was certain of it. This placid interlude wouldn’t last. He didn’t want to bring up Boston, or Frank Pettel, or the escaped convict’s new association with organized crime. Sean would be a hunted man as soon as they made landfall, and he’d do all he could to prevent that.

  Asbjorn didn’t want either one of them to weather another five weeks of Sean playing bait. They had classes to attend and work to do. No, if the perp wasn’t caught by the time they landed, it would be Asbjorn’s turn to put himself in harm’s way in the name of public good.

  ON THEIR LAST DAY, Auntie Iveragh took them shopping. “There are all kinds of specials right after Christmas, you know. And you’ll be wanting some nice things for yourselves and for your family. And what are you bringing for Sean’s family from Denmark, now? Not much in those backpacks, I’d wager.” She smiled, reminding Sean of Dr. Margaret Verbosa.

  She knew just where to go and what to get.

  “Now, this is traditional Irish linen, Sean. What would your sisters like best? Remember, they may never have the opportunity to get this for themselves. And they should have some, it being part of their heritage and all.”

  Sean had selected two blouses he was sure would fit and two sets of embroidered hankies when his eyes fell on a square tablecloth. “My mom used to have one just like it.” He fingered the precise, fagotted edge and watched it extend into delicate, intricate cutwork lace. “Even the design is the same.”

  “It might be at that.” Auntie Iveragh smiled. “The patterns are traditional to this area.”

  Sean’s fingers stroke the fine embroidery. How impractical, having a piece of delicate linen needlework on your dining room table, waiting to be splattered with tomato sauce. Yet the light in Sean’s eyes went out as he left the tablecloth behind and turned to pay for his purchases.

  “Sean,” Iveragh said, “when you’re done paying, I was wanting to show you some pretties next doors. Come follow me, my lad.”

  Sean followed his aunt two stores over. “We don’t really need that much stuff,” he said with an apologetic note in his aunt’s direction.

  “Yes, I know that. This is just a little curiosity – I’ve been wanting to show you some traditional Celtic metalwork, Sean. It’s very different from what you would buy in America, and this artisan makes reproductions of ancient pieces that are on display in the museum in Dublin. Too bad you didn’t have enough time to go there. Now, look here....”

  Sean gazed at amazing knot-work figures, brooches and rings, and pendants made of intricate, weaving lines. Some flatwear had figures of men and mythical beasts, and those were worked in silver and pewter. His eye, however, was caught by a single design of three spirals originating from the same point. It had a zen-like simplicity to it, and he was sure he had seen the design before. He gazed at the coiled wires and marveled at the deliberate tool marks that gave the piece its unique character.

  “You like the triskelion? Us locals call it ‘tylfot’.” Auntie Iveragh’s Irish lilt had become so familiar in the course of the days that Sean barely noticed it anymore.

  “It looks much like the Japanese mon for Asbjorn’s dojo,” he said. “The symbol stands for the unity of the mind, the body, and the spirit.”

  “The symbolism is much the same here, love. The movement of the spiral also signifies progress.” She talked to the merchant in Irish for a bit, and Sean couldn’t understand, which irritated the hell out of him. She turned to him again. “Would he like silver, do you think?”

  “I would like to get it for him as a gift, Auntie.” Sean found he was fingering the amber disc seated between his clavicles.

  Her eyes drifted to his absent-minded gesture, and she smiled. “Would you, now.” She nodded. “Then how about you do that, and I’ll go choose something little for your sisters.”

  The shopkeeper strung the flat disc of wrought and beaten silver wire onto a braided leather thong, arranged in a gift box, and wrapped it in a bow. She handed it to Sean with a smile, refusing any payment.

  “Go raibh maith agat,” he said. It meant “thank you” and it was all he managed to pick up during his brief stay. He figured he probably garbled it, making it sound more like “guruma ugat” with the accents in all the wrong places, but the woman said something more, smiled, and waved him away.

  THE DAY PASSED AND the night before their return flight was short and restless. Sean knew they were leaving a safe zone. Asbjorn knew it too. Sean could tell from the tension of his body and the rhythm of his breath that he wasn’t asleep, but he didn’t call him on it. If they both remained silent, they were both more likely to get at least some rest.

  Their good-byes had been said the night before. Only Auntie Iveragh was up at three thirty in the morning to make them tea and see them off.

  “The taxi will be here any minute,” she said, eyeing the pile of bags by the front door. She gave them a wistful look. “You lads can visit anytime. Just call or e-mail first. And take care of one another. Don’t you think you can pull wool over my eyes!”

  She hugged them both, and Sean didn’t know whether she was bidding them to be considerate and kind partners, or whether she somehow got the wind of the Boston situation. She would have said so, wouldn’t she? And he would have heard from his dad, at least.

  “Thank you, Auntie. Guruma ugat,” he said uncertainly, and the smile she beamed at him was worth any level of linguistic effort and embarrassment.

  Sean and Asbjorn hoisted their rucksacks onto their backs, holding their smaller book bags in their hands. They headed off to the waiting car, still in her line of sight, when their fingers met and twined together. Sean looked over his shoulder one more time, only to see her smile.

  CHAPTER 5

  The flight attendant directed their attention to the small screen in front of them, where a multilingual video demonstrated safety procedures. Neither Sean nor Asbjorn were strangers to flying. They checked for the nearest exit, located the life rafts, and made sure the flotation device was, indeed, stored under their seat.

  Once they reached cruising altitude and drinks were distributed, Sean spoke up. “You know, I loved seeing people and visiting new places, but I’m definitel
y ready to go back to school.”

  Asbjorn chuckled. “Considering your polite, reserved tone, you make me wonder. Did you really have a good time, or are you trying not to hurt my feelings?”

  Sean sipped ginger ale from a plastic cup and set it down before he looked at Asbjorn cautiously. “Well... it did have its high points and its low points.”

  Asbjorn chuckled. “Yeah. My mom wanted you to be a girl, my siblings were acting jealous for the first few days, I attacked an apple tree, we had very limited privacy, everybody tried to make you eat dairy products... what else went wrong?”

  Sean sighed. “Nothing. Actually, your mom really came around in the end, and I couldn’t ask for feeling more welcome than that. And Auntie Iveragh was pretty mellow over us being together too. I think somebody must have told her.”

  The roar of the jets settled to background noise level, but the cabin noise was still high enough to force their heads together for the sake of both communication and privacy.

  “It’s weird when these old people start using e-mail and social networks,” Asbjorn said in a deadpan voice. “It’s like they are talking behind our backs.”

  The comment caught Sean as he was taking another sip, which resulted in a minor coughing episode. “Thanks, dude, now I have soda up my nose,” he said once he settled down. “They look healthy, anyway. That’s good.”

  Sean was glad the conversation turned away from his stress points. The trip had been packed with new experiences. He saw something new every day, he met new people and ate new foods and experienced days so short, he might have as well been north of the northernmost outpost in Canada. The language barrier didn’t help any. Sure, most people spoke English, but even in Ireland, his ear had to adapt to the local lilt and flow of everyday speech. He was pleased to have picked up a few phrases in Danish toward the end – he could order his beer and say thank you and pay – but he still felt like a country bumpkin. Asbjorn didn’t need to know that.