He couldn’t even wait for the sun to go down—he had to get out of the house. He buttoned his black shirt, sleeves down to his leather gloves, and shoved the mask into the pocket of his coat. It was too hot to go out dressed like this, but it was too dangerous to do it any other way. If they’d had a little more time to spare, he could have put these heavy nights off until the nights were cooler, but by the time that happened, Peter Aylen would be dead. And maybe Liam, too.
He paused by the door, checking his pocket one more time.
“Have what you need?” asked Ada, standing by the staircase, sherry poised for drinking.
He flashed the soldier’s button.
“And?” she asked.
He cleared his throat and said in a crisp English accent: “Go back to hell, Catholic bastards.”
She smirked, took a sip, and went back into the drawing room without another word.
The trip north into Lowertown was changing every day: someone was laying the groundwork for a new road, and little markers dotted the field at the top of the hill, signaling someone’s intent to build. New homes with a perfect view down into Ada’s domain. It wouldn’t be long until the whole area was dotted with houses and farms. The only question—the only one that mattered—was whether it would be Aylen’s Lowertown, or something else entirely.
Liam kept his head bowed as he approached the streets off the south of Rideau Street, just in case someone bothered to take notice for a change. That was the cardinal rule of Rideau Street: keep your head down, never take note of the wrongs you’d otherwise see, and never let yourself be wronged either.
A drunk was chasing a pair of young women, calling obscenities to them as they tried to get back home before the real wolves came out. The sight of him made Liam angry, but the man spoke French. Tonight was for Irish, and Irish alone.
He slipped into the alleys between the half-baked buildings, keeping to the shadows until the sun was properly down. He’d lived in Bytown for years, and seen half these homes and shops being built in the first place, but he hadn’t fully understood the labyrinthine nature of Lowertown until he’d had to navigate it in the dark. Until his life had depended on knowing every quirk and confusion by heart.
He paused around the corner from a La Croix Verte, listening to the rowdy revelries inside. Sometimes he got what he needed, just stalking Canadiens; duller Shiners couldn’t help but go looking for a fight in the worst spot possible, and some nights Liam just had to wait nearby to hear them formulating so-called plans to jump this Frenchman, or to corner that pretty girl in the alley. But for whatever reason, tonight was different: no Irish tongues on sight, and no Canadiens taking needless risks. It was like all his efforts these last few weeks were starting to pay off—at the worst possible time.
He gave up on the tavern and headed deeper into Canadien territory, pausing every few steps to listen for voices that didn’t belong.
He was just about at the western fringe, where Irish families lived, when he heard the distant sound of a woman trying to scream. A hand around her throat, probably, pinning her to a wall. A sight he’d seen too many times to count. Stifled voices like that ended in bloodshed, every damn time. It was impossible to know who was responsible, or who was being attacked, but it didn’t matter: he had to intervene.
He followed the sound until he was sure he was closing in, then quickened his pace, taking the mask from his pocket and pulling it over his head. By the time he rounded the last corner, his fists were tight at his sides, his blood pumping so fast his limp was almost gone. He saw two men up ahead, saw blue fabric on the ground at their feet, and there, pinned against the wall, was—
Liam’s breath stuck the second Béatrice saw him. She reached for him, and the sight of her bruised eye sent him into a rage.
He caught first Shiner with a blow to the neck so hard, it knocked him down and out on contact. His comrade, a heavy-set man with a greedy grin, turned to face his opponent, and let go of the hair of the second victim—the girl Liam had saved the other night. She was crying in terror, and huddled close to Béatrice the second she was free.
Béatrice had taken a few powerful blows, and seemed a little dazed—but not so much she couldn’t gesture, with her eyes, to the darkness behind Liam.
“Thought this’d work,” laughed the heavy-set Shiner. “Killin’ all the birds with one stone.”
Liam heard the sounds of at least two more men coming up from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and saw them there, knives at the ready, spread out to cut off his escape routes.
“Now let’s see how tough you really are,” said the Shiner.
Liam slipped the club from his sleeve, held it tight. “Let’s.”
He whipped around, catching one of the men behind him in the face so hard he heard bone crack. He grabbed the man’s arm and jerked him around, using him as a shield as one of his compatriots lunged, stabbing the wrong body in the gut. That left the stabber off-balance long enough for Liam to swing the club back out again, hitting him in the throat.
He threw the stabbed man onto the ground and grabbed his friend by the back of the head, and then smashed his skull into the wall with enough force to kill.
The last Shiner, the heavy-set one, realized he was alone. He backed up, snagging Béatrice by the hair and pulling her next to him, holding onto her throat with his heavy, calloused fingers. He sneered at Liam.
“One more step and I swear I’ll do it.”
Liam cricked his neck, and spoke in a deliberate whisper: “You’ll do what?”
The man saw the club, dripping blood, and lost his nerve. He kept one hand tangled in Béatrice’s hair, but reached the other down to his belt, fumbling for—
“Missing something?” she said, and flipped his knife around backhanded and plunged it into his gut.
He gasped in surprise as she twisted the blade. He pulled himself free from her hair, stumbling forward in shock—one, two, three steps until Liam’s club caught the back of his head, and he crashed to the ground in a heap, the last of his breath oozing out like the thick blood seeping into the Lowertown dust.
Béatrice dropped the knife like it was on fire, before being pulled into an embrace. Liam held her so tight he thought he might break her, but couldn’t stop. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to break right down.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered into her ear.
“I’ll be—”
But then they heard it: more voices. More Shiners, heading their way. He grabbed her hand and pulled her back toward the street—but she resisted. At first he didn’t understand, but then he saw what she was doing: her hand was out to Sophie. She was trying to take the girl with them.
He squeezed her hand, and gave her a warning shake of his head.
She ignored him and said something to Sophie in French that did the trick: she got up and hurried after them.
They were deep enough into Lowertown that getting back to Ada’s would be a challenge, but there were no better options on offer. If Liam had had his way, they would have sent Sophie back home and slipped back south when things calmed down. But since they were a trio now, there was only one way out: south. And it would not be an easy trip.
They cleared the first street easily enough, but Liam could feel the eyes watching them from windows and doorways. The voices shouting to each other in the distance were getting more determined, and suddenly a masked man with two women—one with a dress soaked in blood—stood out more than usual. He heard Irish voices cursing loudly as they discovered their dead and dying friends, and the calls echoed off walls all around the town as calls for vengeance grew more and more frantic.
Down through another maze of alleys, they paused to let a handful of Shiners rush past with torches and knives at the ready.
Béatrice whispered something to Sophie, which seemed to calm the younger woman a little. Liam checked around the corner—all clear. He led the women across a small square to another set of passageways deeper into the mess of housing just north of Rideau. They were too far west to come out there just yet—they’d get spotted immediately if they tried—but with a little careful maneuvering, Liam knew they could get—
He stopped suddenly, steps away from a young Shiner with a club in his hand. The lad looked terrified of Liam, of the situation he’d found himself stuck in. He stumbled backward, holding his club out like it might keep him safe.
The kid couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and was all alone in the dark trying to live up to a standard he clearly wasn’t meant for. Liam held out a hand to calm him, to give him a chance to walk away.
But the boy looked off to the side, at the sound of other Irish voices in the distance, and he took a deep breath to shout.
“Don’t…” Liam warned, but the lad was committed: he started to scream—
—and got clipped in the side of the head with Liam’s club. He slammed into the side of a building and slumped to the ground, unconscious. Liam cursed under his breath, waiting to be sure the lad was breathing.
Then, more voices—and not Irish. Béatrice leaned close and whispered: “Les Gens know you’re here.”
Liam shook off his concerns and led the others east, then south, then around in a half-loop before emerging out on the eastern edge of Lowertown, a short dash away from the pitch black nothingness that acted as the moat around Ada’s estate. Off to the west, toward Sapper’s Bridge, torches raced this way and that as all manner of man went looking for the scoundrel or hero who’d taken down even more Shiners on their own turf.
There was no right moment to try, so Liam squeezed Béatrice’s hand and they ran for it.
The moon was nearly gone, and covered by thick clouds, so it didn’t take long for them to race straight into a domain so black they had no idea which way was up anymore. Still, Liam kept moving as fast as he could, strides limited by his limp and the fear that he might lose Béatrice’s hand, and never find it again.
A few seconds after Lowertown was too far away to loom over them anymore, they came upon the slope down toward Ada’s house. Liam’s foot missed a step as the ground dipped ahead of them, and he tripped, tumbling down in an uncontrolled spin. His shoulder hit a rock, but he kept his yelp deep inside.
He landed on his back at the base of the hill, staring up into the starless sky above, and tried to tell if he was still alive.
His leg hurt, just as before. That was as good a sign as he could get.
“Come on,” said Béatrice, above him, and he saw, faintly, her hand reaching down to help him up. And then, next to it, Sophie’s hand, too. He took them both up on their offer, and they pulled him upright again.
A short distance away, Ada’s house was visible only by the single candle in the parlour window—a sign the coast was clear.
They made it inside and slammed the door shut behind them. Béatrice sat Sophie down on a chair and rushed to Liam, hands moving fast over his body, looking for injuries. He wanted to tell her not to worry about him, to ask her if she was hurt more than he’d seen, but before either of them could whisper a word to each other, Ada came down the stairs and gasped.
“Good God, what happened?”
Béatrice turned to answer, but Ada—holding a candle—blanched at the sight of the bloodstained dress. “Oh dear God, Béatrice. Are you alright? Liam? You?”
Liam swore under his breath and pulled the mask off. There was no point pretending any more. He pulled his coat off, dropping on the floor. The thing was so heavy in the summer, it felt like it was strangling the life out of him.
Sophie looked up at him, eyes wide in amazement, and he realized this was the first time she was seeing the man who’d saved her. She was probably overflowing with questions, but he knew they couldn’t afford to answer any of them.
“It was an ambush,” he said, forgoing the English accent altogether. “They were using her as bait. The girl and Béatrice.”
“I’m sorry,” said Béatrice. “I thought we could make it back safely. I should have stayed put.”
Ada was confused, and not afraid to show it. “Stay where? And who is this?” Suddenly, she realized: “The girl. The one you saved.”
“Aye,” said Liam. He gave Sophie a nod. “Nice to see you again.”
She smiled meekly in return.
Béatrice touched her cheek gingerly. “I need a drink.”
They settled in the parlour, curtains drawn for privacy. All four had glasses of sherry, but Ada had the bottle on her lap, watching the others with suspicion.
“She was hiding in the bakery,” Béatrice said. “Les Gens were looking for her, and I very nearly offered to let them search upstairs. Good thing I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sophie, eyes downcast. “I didn’t—”
“Hush now, child,” said Ada. “Never apologize for surviving.” She glared at Béatrice, though, and said: “This is a right mess you’ve made. If they find her here, we’ll never explain it away.”
“But then where should I—”
“At the bakery,” said Ada. “Sneak food in and—”
“And if they found her there, we would be in just as much trouble,” said Béatrice.
“Bé is right,” said Liam. “There were no good answers, but this was the one that made the most sense. It wasn’t her fault they caught her. I just wish I’d found them sooner…”
Ada turned her attention to him instead. “And you? Did you stick to the plan, at least?”
Liam felt his pocket: the button was still there. He shook his head, and felt Ada’s anger peak. “It was too chaotic,” he said. “There was no time to—”
“Ah, and I’m sure now is the perfect time to try again,” Ada said. “God knows the streets won’t be crawling with Aylen’s men so soon after another sighting.”
“We can try again tomorrow,” said Béatrice.
“Tomorrow might be too late!” snapped Ada. “I’ve got Bowen wound up so tightly that if the Irish and Canadiens go at each other tonight, there’s no telling what he might do. Timing is everything with this plot, and you’ve gone and—”
“I’m sorry,” said Liam, finishing his drink and getting to his feet. “I’ll fix it. I will. Don’t worry.”
He started to leave, but Ada caught his hand. “Wait,” she said. “Don’t.”
“But you said—”
“Bowen might react wrongly, but if you go out there now, you will die for nothing. So no, we plan again. Read the wind tomorrow, and see where we stand. There’s no point in winning this war if we’re not all around to see the victory.”
He pulled his hand free. “I’m not afraid to die.”
“But she is,” Ada said, and he looked over to see Béatrice’s eyes filling with tears. “She needs you to do this right, Liam. We all do.”
Sophie pleaded with him, with her eyes, to stay. She looked terrified at the thought he might go.
“Alright,” he said, taking the bottle from Ada. “Tomorrow we fix this for good.”