The ground was dry and cracked already, just an hour after dawn. It still smelled like blood, like piss and death, and the flies mercilessly swarmed the dead man’s face, climbing in and out like they’d found their promised land.
Sisk ran his finger along the edge of a footprint, its heels dug deep into the mud, the sharp edges still clear all these hours later. The blood had seeped into the bottom of the print, highlighting the shape of it. Every time his finger got to the heel, he reset his motion, like he would be able to feel out the owner if he crouched there long enough.
“He’s one of ours?” he asked, voice even, despite his growing anger. “Yer sure?”
“Yes, sir, Mr Sisk,” said one of Aylen’s lackeys, keeping a safe distance. “New recruit, but a good man. Loyal and strong.”
“Hmm,” said Sisk, wiping the dirt and dust on the dead man’s pant leg before standing.
The space they were in was out of the way, not leading anywhere useful, easily overlooked. But it was within spitting distance of an Irish tavern, which made it a good place to lay in wait, if you were on the hunt. The other attacks might have been happenstance, but this was targeted. This was the damned Englishman looking for blood, deep in Shiner territory.
“No one saw anythin’?” he asked, eyes still locked on the footprint. “No one out of the ordinary?”
“No, sir,” said the lackey, but in a way that made it clear there was more to the story. Sisk glared over his shoulder, and the lackey cowered, hand moving to his pocket instinctively.
Sisk’s eyes narrowed even more. “What did ye find?” he growled.
“Mr Aylen gave us standing orders to deliver any evidence straight to—”
Sisk pinned the lackey against the wall, knife at his throat, and snarled: “What did ye find?”
The hand came out of the pocket, trembling furiously, holding a little bit of metal, caked with mud. Sisk didn’t move the knife from the lackey’s throat, but took the metal, scraping the dirt off it—and onto the man’s face—as he examined the prize.
It was a button. From a coat. Heavy, but not too heavy. Mass-produced. And embossed on the front was—
He let go of the lackey and stormed out of the alley.
“Mr Sisk!” called the lackey. “Wait, you can’t—!”
Sisk didn’t hear him, he was moving so fast. South-west, down through Lowertown, knife tight in one hand, and the button in the other. The farmers at the market dropped their wares and moved aside when they saw him coming, not knowing where he was going or why, but terrified that they might get caught up in it.
There, ahead of him, he saw Sapper’s Bridge, stretched across the canal, the first obstacle on his way into the lions’ den. The soldiers posted there, at the midpoint, were drifting off to sleep, so close to the end of their shift. Neither one saw him coming—their rifles were resting just a little too far away to get to, in a crisis.
His hand tightened on the knife as he imagined what came next. What he would do first, what they’d do in return, and how far he would get before it all became too much to handle. He wasn’t scared of dying, he realized—his only concern was he wouldn’t kill enough of them before their guns took him down.
He neared the eastern side of the bridge, and the soldiers still didn’t see his approach. He took a few quick breaths to sharpen his focus, and then—
A hand pushed at his chest, and he very nearly slit Aylen’s throat by mistake.
“What the Hell do you think you’re doing?” Aylen hissed, trying to keep his voice down.
“It’s them,” said Sisk. “The English did it. They killed ‘im.”
“Killed who?” said Aylen, trying to push Sisk away from the bridge, but getting nowhere.
“Another Irish lad,” said Sisk, rotting teeth bared. “Beat to a pulp last night. Left to rot. And it’s their fault!” He shouted, pointing at the soldiers, who suddenly noticed the commotion, even if they didn’t understand it.
“Careful now, Mr Sisk,” said Aylen, working hard to smooth things over, and doing a terrible job of it. “Don’t go throwing around accusations we can’t back up with—”
Sisk showed him the button. He turned it around so the embossing was clear. “The coat of arms. The Royal coat of arms. The only ones ‘round here who’ve that on their coats’re—”
Aylen took the button, studying it carefully, like he hoped he might find a way to explain it all away. But his jaw was tensing, the longer he stared, until it looked like he might crack under his own pressure.
“This was there? At the scene?”
“Aye,” said Sisk. “And th’other one, the other day, he said we don’t own this domain. That the English own—”
“Wait, who said that? When? I don’t—”
“The lads who went after the girl,” said Sisk.
“The girl you killed?” said Aylen, and Sisk frowned, took a step back. “Where did you leave her, hmm? Where are they going to find her?”
“I didn’t kill the girl. Why would I…” The betrayal stunned him, but he was quickly rebuilding his anger. “The girl counts for nothin’. It’s the English we need t’worry about, or they’ll—”
Aylen’s eyes narrowed as pieces came back together: “Jesus Christ, that’s why you killed the Ashburys? Because you thought—”
“He was no saint.”
“None of them are! But we don’t go killing them, and do you know why? Because it brings them” he pointed at the redcoats “crashing down onto my head!”
Sisk sneered at that. “They drew first blood.” He tried to get past, but Aylen put a hand on his chest, holding him in place.
“No, one of them may have drawn first blood,” said Aylen, pushing Sisk back a little. “But if you go starting a war over it, we’ll never—”
“So what would ye do instead?” shouted Sisk. “Tuck yer tail and accept it? These bastards killed yer kin! Ye can’t just let ‘em walk ‘cross the water and do what they like in your house! This is Irish land!”
Aylen pushed him back one more step, bearing down on him. “You watch your tongue,” he said, quietly, clearly concerned about the British overhearing them. “No one cares more for the Irish than—”
“No, no one cares more for Irish coins in yer pocket than you. But if it comes down to protectin’ yer kin and protectin’ yer income, ye—”
Aylen grabbed Sisk by the shirt, jerked him forward. “It doesn’t need to be one or the other,” he growled. “If you’d stop acting like a wild animal all the time, it wouldn’t have to be one or the other.”
Sisk gripped Aylen’s hand in his, digging his nails in, the knife held back in his other hand. Not like a threat, but as a reminder of who they both were.
“Without this animal on yer side,” he snarled, “where d’ya think ye’d be?”
“Where would I be? Where would I be without you? I’d still be in business.”
Sisk’s face twitched, betraying his confusion.
“Ah, yes, you didn’t think of that, did you? You never think more than two steps ahead. Someone wrongs you, and you go straight for the jugular without pausing to see the lay of the land. You went looking to kill and Englishman—any Englishman—and your petty bloodlust got you no closer to justice, but got the rest of us banned from our own lifeblood!”
“What d’ye—”
“Bowen’s sick of your little adventures. The more you act out, the wilder Bytown starts to look, and the greater the odds that he’ll get replaced before his time. So he does what any fool would do in his position, he takes it out on the ones he hates the most: the Irish. And now we’re not even allowed to work our own land, sell our own lumber. Because of you.”
Sisk laughed. “Because of me? Or because you are too scared to do what needs to be done?”
“Excuse me?”
“I remember when the great Peter Aylen wasn’t scared of anythin’. Ruled this place like his own personal kingdom, answered to no one. Sent bodies ‘cross the river as warnings, or as reminders of warnings. But now? Now all ye seem to know how t’do is beg for mercy from Bowen and ‘is masters. When ye gave up yer kingship, ye gave up yer kingdom.”
Aylen pulled Sisk closer, matching his bared teeth, and speaking in a glow rumble: “This is still my town. Don’t you forget it.”
Sisk spat in his face.
Aylen snapped. He swung his fist like he hadn’t in years, catching Sisk’s face with such force, he knocked the rat-faced man clear off his feet. The knife tumbled off to the side, but Sisk made no effort to retrieve it. He spat blood into the dirt and tried to get up—
—but Aylen kicked him in the gut before he could. He laughed like a madman, rolling back a little before pushing himself to his knees as Aylen stripped off his coat, tossing it onto the ground, pulling his sleeves up to reveal tense muscles up his arms. Tensing with anger.
“Remember your place, Mr Sisk,” he said, circling at a safe distance. “Remember who you are.”
“Oh, I remember,” said Sisk, blood dribbling from his mouth. “Do you?”
“Aye,” said Aylen. “You’re a good and loyal Shiner.” He swung again, hitting Sisk enough to break his cheek, and sending him crashing down, out cold. Aylen sneered at him. “And I am the King of the Shiners. Never forget that.”
The door opened as Bowen was pulling on his red coat, but he stopped short when he saw who was waiting outside his cabin—his brow twitched with confusion and displeasure. “Ms Honeywell? I didn’t realize we had a—”
“We didn’t,” said Ada, hands gripping her closed parasol tightly, like she was about to snap it in half. “And yet the day’s events demand it.”
He got his arm through the sleeve and handed his hat to a lieutenant. “Very well, but we’ll have to stay moving. As you say, the day’s events demand it.”
She opened the parasol and took a step back to allow him room to exit. He whispered orders to his underlings, then joined Ada at her side, strolling across the camp on his way to the eastern lookout.
“You’re here about the Ashburys, I presume,” he said.
Her eyes widened at the mere mention of them. “A gruesome crime. And a tragedy, to be sure. Especially Mrs Ashbury. But no, my concerns are closer to home, and based on the whispers I’m hearing, quite disturbing.”
“The French girl?” he asked, pausing and keeping his soldiers at a safe distance. “Why? What have you heard?”
Ada’s mouth hung open for a moment as she tried to think of a way to handle this situation. “Ah, I’m sorry, Captain, I…I haven’t heard any whispers about Ms Sophie—”
“Sophie?” he asked.
“I believe that was her name,” said Ada, weakly. “Truth be told, I’m rather distracted by the other issues roiling around me. You heard another Catholic was killed last night?”
Bowen nodded, kept walking. “Face beaten so viciously, there was nothing left.”
“I think you’ll agree the state of anarchy in the streets is reaching critical levels, sir.”
“Yes, but as I’ve made plain before, Ms Honeywell, Lowertown is a domain unto itself, and if you choose to live there, a little unpleasantness is the price of admission.”
She frowned at him. “Do you know who they say killed him? The Catholic?”
“Some French—”
“An Englishman. Word has it Mr Aylen has sworn vengeance upon any and all Englishmen. Especially those east of the canal.”
They stopped at the outlook, looking through the trees at Lowertown across the canal locks. The bustling market, the mess of buildings into the distance, and there, further south, the distant hint of Ada’s house, alone in enemy territory.
Bowen sighed angrily, despondently, at the sight, then shrugged. “Stay here. We’ll find you accommodations in Uppertown, and I’ll send men to—”
“No, Captain, I will not,” she said.
“But Ms Honeywell—”
“These Catholics have gone too far, sir,” she said. “Killing each other? Fine, have at it. But threatening good English subjects? No, sir, that cannot stand.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Send your men, as promised,” she said. “To guard my house against the hordes.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s no way,” he said. “Defending a single position deep in enemy territory would take more men and resources than I can afford.”
She gave him a pleasant, knowing smile. “Captain Bowen, believe me when I say: if you do this for me—for my father’s cherished daughter—there is very little in this world you will not be able to afford.”
Bowen looked across the landscape, settling on the spot where Ada’s house sat, and took a long, steady breath. And then wagged a finger in the air to summon his lieutenant.
Sisk had to stop halfway up the stairs, blood dribbling from his mouth, and catch his breath. It wasn’t that the pain was any worse than he’d felt in the past, but he wanted to make sure he shook any sign of weakness before he got to his destination. The whole way home, walking through Lowertown looking like a maimed dog, no one had dared come close, and he’d made sure to keep it that way. Between the door and the stairs, that confidence had started to crumble—but now he needed it back again.
He spat a heavy splatter of blood onto the steps, swallowed the rest, and kept moving.
Colleen was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling like she’d downed a bottle of Laudanum she didn’t have. She saw him, he could tell, but didn’t react. Not even when he sat on the bed by her knees and let out a low groan.
“Yer still alive,” he said.
“Quite the failure, you are,” she said, then gave him a sideways glance. “In all ways, it seems.”
“I think I know what’s wrong, now,” he said.
“Does it rhyme with ‘risk’?”
“We’ve grown soft,” he said, staring off into the distance, and nothing at all. “We’re descended from kings, but we’ve gotten so used to bowing down to pretenders, we’ve forgotten who we are. What we are.”
“Monsters?” she asked.
He grinned at her. A bloody, gooey grin. “Exactly.”
He lay down on her belly, smearing red all over her nightgown. He tried to rest for a moment, but she put a hand on the back of his head and shoved him clear off the bed. He hit the ground with a thump, more shocked than hurt.
“If you want a pillow, you know what it costs,” she said, checking her clothes and sighing angrily. “And clean up first, too. Jesus Mary.”
He rolled his eyes at her, reaching into his pocket and pulling out another vial that drew her attention instantly. He opened it, and then crawled back onto the bed, laying atop her, the vial creeping ever closer to her lips. She opened her mouth to accept it—
But he poured it into his own mouth instead.
She looked ready to kill him, until the corners of his mouth curled cruelly, and she realized what he was asking. She lifted her head to meet his, and kissed him. At first, he didn’t react, making her drag her lips across his bloodied and blistered face. But then he relented, and let the Laudanum pour down her throat—along with more blood—as he kissed her back.
A few minutes later, as her pupils opened wide and her senses blurred out of sight, he had them both largely undressed, and wrapped up together in agonizing bliss. He kicked off his boots, and they crashed against the dresser on the far wall.
He kissed her neck, bit her ear, rough and awful hands crawling up and down her body as she stared off to the side, unable to see properly, but focused so intently on one spot.
“Your boots are disgusting,” she said, vacantly, the drugs swarming through her system so much, she wasn’t even sure she was saying words anymore.
“Just like the rest of me?” he breathed into her neck as his hands wrapped ‘round.
“Mmm,” she nodded. “You should take my father’s,” she said. “When Liam’s done with them.”
Sisk froze, eyes wide, and—