The rain was slowing, but not done yet, which gave Liam the cover he needed to cut across Lowertown unseen. He kept his coat over his head, hunched over like he was truly concerned about messing his hair, which made him no more notable than anyone else caught outside on a day like this. He moved with purpose, but took a circuitous path to his destination, just in case someone tried to follow. After a half hour of this, he was confident he was alone, and made his final approach toward the stately old house at the edge of the Lowertown chaos.
He skipped the front door entirely, and the side one, too. In ‘round the back, where the last of the family’s belongings had been left out for poachers, he found the servants’ door unlocked, and let himself in without a sound. He took off his muddy shoes and left them upside-down, to keep them from leaving a trace. Today was a day for caution.
The house was still, and stale-smelling. There was a thick layer of dust on the hearth, and all the dishes were either missing or stacked in the basin, from back when someone had imagined they might one day be washed.
Liam paused at the entrance to the living room—the carpet was still there, the furniture, too. On the mantle were the knick knacks and baubles of a family that hadn’t yet broken. That still felt like memories were something to cherish, and not fear. A small painting hung on the wall next to the fireplace: Mr and Mrs Crowley, back when they were young. Liam crossed himself, said a silent prayer to both their memories.
There were no clothes or footwear downstairs—he checked everywhere—so after a careful check out the window to be sure no one was watching, Liam started up the stairs, careful not to make a sound.
The rain had lessened the heat somewhat, but the humidity still made everything unbearable. Worse still with the windows open—and there was a window open, because Liam could hear the sound of water streaming off the roof. Had it been open since winter? He hated the thought of what he might find upstairs. Birds nesting in the beds, raccoons burying themselves deep in ruined linens. He’d have to come back, once this was all over, and close the place up for good. But for now, his only role was to be a ghost—in and out, without leaving a trace.
There were four bedrooms upstairs. All were closed but one, through which he could see the faint glow of the stormy Bytown afternoon. It was hard to tell which one was Mr Crowley’s room, so he opted for the easiest choice first.
He crept along the hall—light steps in his socked feet—until he could see inside. The curtains were hanging outside the window, drenched so completely they were making the road bow from the weight. The bed was a mess, sheets everywhere, and stained, too. Someone had been sleeping there. Squatters, probably. It made him sick, and angry, to think of it, but he kept that anger to himself.
Once he was inside, he could see this was not Mr Crowley’s room at all. There was too much lace, too many frills for the master of the house. He saw a dress by the window, half-soaked by the rain, and knew it instantly. His fingers touched the fabric at the right arm, tracing the shape lightly. Colleen’s. Her room.
He fought to maintain his composure—not that it mattered, being all alone—but it was hard. The injustice burned in his gut.
He took a sharp breath, let go of the dress, and turned to—
“No!” he gasped, and raced over to the spot behind the door where Colleen sat, half-toppled, limp and pale as a ghost. He hadn’t seen her before but now…
He pulled her upright, but her head lolled to the side, and then he realized her eyes were half-open, staring into space blankly. Her lips were so pale, and her skin so cold, and bruises around her neck, like someone had squeezed the life out of her.
He choked on a sob, hands holding her tight, as he crumbled before her, the last vestiges of his composure completely wasted by the sight of her poor, ruined body. He touched her cheek, tears streaming down his face, and lowered his head and whispered: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”
“For what?” she asked, her voice quiet and croaking, and he looked back up in shock.
“Colleen?” he asked. “Colleen!”
“Is this heaven?” she wheezed.
He shook his head, a smile breaking across his face. “No, no it’s not heaven.”
“Good,” she said. “Was expecting more.”
He lifted her off the floor—struggling with his leg, but not letting it stop him—and set her down on the bed, keeping her head propped up so she could see him. She settled into the spot easily, like she’d done it a thousand times before…and he realized, horribly, that she had.
She wasn’t herself anymore. Her endlessly cheerful self, the one who had always had a devilish quip in even the worst of circumstances, she was gone. This new Colleen was thinner, weaker, with dark circles ‘round the eyes and oddly vacant, even when she didn’t seem dead. She wore a nightgown he suspected hadn’t been washed in weeks—it was stained with vomit and sweat, which had started beading on her forehead the second he’d woken her up.
She looked like someone who was in the middle of dying, and doing it slowly. It made him want to scream. At the world, yes, but at himself, for not finding her sooner.
“I…I thought you’d gone,” he said. “When your sisters left, I thought—”
“I thought you were dead,” she said, then squinted at him. “Are you dead?”
“No, I’m still here.”
She nodded like she was reassuring herself that she wasn’t quite that insane yet. “Maggie lied to me.”
That jabbed at him. Hurt him more than he could express. “I…I think she was trying to protect you. Protect us.”
Colleen gave him what would have been—under any other circumstances—a cute smile. “Well done, Maggie.”
“Ada tried to get to you,” he said. “But in those first days, Aylen had this place locked down tight, and she couldn’t risk being seen, or they might have—”
“Who’s Ada?” she asked. “Is she your…”
“No,” he said, and a flash of Béatrice’s face, came into his mind. And for some reason, talking with Colleen now, he felt guilty about that. He cleared his throat, pushed the image and feelings away. “Ada Honeywell. She lives—”
“The rich spinster?” asked Colleen. “The one who wears trousers and top hats?”
He smiled, nodded. “She’s eccentric, but a good person. She kept me from—”
“Going over the edge,” said Colleen, eyes shifting as she remembered something from a lifetime ago. “That was the last thing Maggie said to me, before she left. ‘Keep him from going over the edge.’ She meant you. All this time, I couldn’t…she meant you. She thought I would understand, but I—”
“If we’d known you were still here, Colleen, Ada would have taken you away. We were all so sure you were safely gone from Bytown, and we didn’t want to—”
“To what? Tell me that my nightmare was a little less awful than I thought? Hmm. Yes, how kind.”
He was at a loss. “Have you been here the whole time?” he asked.
“Is she truly dead?” she asked, like he hadn’t said a thing. “Is Maggie really gone?”
He had asked that question himself more times than he could remember, but it still stung just thinking about it again. “On the road to Perth,” he said. “They—”
She rolled over, away from him. “Fine.”
He wanted to say something more on the subject, but knew her reaction well: he’d done it countless times when Béatrice had tried to talk to him about Maggie, in those early days. There were words to be spoken, truths to be teased out—but not right now, and not like this. At a certain point, the reality of their situation became so mundane it didn’t warrant a reaction at all, but Colleen was not at that point yet. Not even close.
“Why are you here, Liam?” she asked. “I was trying to die.”
“Why?” he asked, trying to roll her back over, but finding her much stronger than he expected. “Wait, why would you want to die?”
She turned her head to the side and glared at him. “My father is dead. My family abandoned me. Maggie is murdered, and you…” She frowned. “I can’t tell if your survival makes it better, or worse.”
She turned away again. He rested a hand on her arm.
“I’ll bring you to Ada’s,” he said. “Tonight. After dark.”
She pulled away. “I’m fine here.”
“No you’re not,” he said. “This place is…” He tried to find a word for it that didn’t make it sound like the crypt it was. “Do you even leave this room?”
She shrugged. “The stairs are dangerous for a lass in my condition.” She half-turned again. “You never answered. Why are you here?”
He didn’t know how to explain it—or even if he should explain it—so he settled on: “I need a pair of boots, and I thought—”
“You’d raid my dead father’s closet.”
He said nothing for a moment.
She pointed at the door, vaguely. “Across the hall. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He always liked you Kelly boys.” She tucked her arm in again, like she was going to sleep. “We all did, didn’t we. Maybe that was the mistake.”
He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. Then he took hold of her shoulder and rolled her onto her back to see her eyes full of tears, fighting to avoid looking at him, even though she wanted to.
“Colleen, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I know how hard this has been and—”
“Do you?” she laughed, bitterly. “Do you really? Because I don’t think—”
“I loved her, too, you know,” he said, just shy of a shout, and immediately regretted it.
“Ah yes, your dead brother’s wife. I remember now.”
He stood up suddenly, pulling away like just sitting next to her was toxic. But as much as her words hurt, it didn’t hurt enough to leave her. Besides, there was truth behind the cruelty.
“It took me a long time, and a lot of prayer, to come to terms with what happened,” he said. “And I don’t think I’ll ever accept it. I don’t think that’s possible. But it hurts less, now. I’ve made it hurt less.”
She flashed him a smile, and it was just like her old self again. “And I, as well,” she said. “I’m just out at the moment…” She reached underneath the pillow, feeling around for something. “Might have a few drops left somewhere…”
“A few drops of what?” he asked, but when she didn’t answer, he sat back down and pulled her up by the shoulders, because suddenly the picture made sense: the weight loss, the vacant stare, the hollow cheeks, the…whole picture. “What are you taking?”
“Laudanum,” she said, with a mischievous smile. “Do you have any on you?”
“No…” he said.
“No, I suppose not,” she said. “You’re too proper for that.” She let her head fall backward, though Liam was still holding her upright. “Maybe when he gets back, then.”
Liam’s jaw tensed. “When who gets back?” he asked.
After some effort, she lifted her head again, and this time her mischievous smile was tainted with bitterness and hurt. “It took you a lot of time,” she said. “A lot of prayer. And I’m glad you’ve moved on, Liam. I wish I could. But you see, I share a bed with the devil, so my prayers don’t go as far.”
“The…the devil…?”
She leaned forward, lips brushing his cheek until they reached his ear, and she whispered: “Cedric Sisk.”
His eyes went wide with horror, and he pulled back, seeing the hurt and sickness in her expression as she watched his reaction, like she wanted to be convinced that she wasn’t mad, that it really was awful, what she was living through. Like she had lost her sense of self, and needed someone else to remind her what it was to be human.
He put a hand to her cheek, trying to find the words he needed to comfort her, to undo the damage. But all he could think was: “I’ll kill him.”
She laughed. “Then you really will be dead.”
“I can’t just—”
“Liam,” she said, and kissed his palm. “You’re a good man, but a dumb one. This isn’t something you can fix. I don’t need saving. Not anymore. Not after what he’s done to me.”
“But—”
“Forget about me, Liam. Forget you ever saw me. Take my father’s boots, take whatever else you fancy, and just disappear back into the haze. I won’t remember you, this time tomorrow. You don’t need to remember me, either.”
He couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t find any words to express how angry and tortured and despondent he felt in this moment.
“Colleen…” he said, voice cracking. “I’m—”
She let her hand fall away from his cheek, and lay back down in the bed, rolling away from him again. “Good night, Mr Kelly,” she said. “It was nice to dream of you again.”
He didn’t go back to Ada’s. He lurked in the shadows in the boots that didn’t fit him, waiting for the rain to stop and the sun to quit. By the time men started to stagger to and from the taverns, he had worked himself into such a rage, it took all his energy not to let loose at the first man who crossed his path.
He had no mask—the plan had been to regroup first, make any last revisions to the plan, and then venture forth again. But he did have the button, and the boots, and the fury. He was as ready as he needed to be.
He made his way through the alleys, back and forth, trying to find a Shiner—any Shiner—who would step out of line for him. Maybe it was the weather, or maybe it was the fear of the masked vigilante wreaking havoc for weeks on end, but there didn’t seem to be any good candidates. It was like everyone had chosen to behave themselves for once.
And strangely, that made him angrier.
He made his way down to the loudest tavern, the rowdiest tavern, and tucked himself into a corner, near enough to the action to hear, but too far to spot. Drunkards and lightweights tumbled into the streets, vomiting up their days into the mud, only to head right back in again for more. Laughter, songs. cries of joy…but nothing wrong. No ill will to be found at all.
He squeezed the button tight, in his pocket, until it started to cut into his skin. It gave his anger a little more life, helped him focus a little bit more.
Then he felt it. The slightest of touches, at his right flank. The tip of a blade.
“Like the view?” asked a voice from behind. An Irish voice.
Liam didn’t move a muscle.
“Couldn’t help but notice you spyin’,” said the man. “Can’t tell if yer up to no good, or just shy.” He put a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “But either way…”
He turned Liam around, and in a fraction of a second, both men knew the other’s face. It was one of the men from Liam’s lumber crew, in the winter. One of the smart ones, who hadn’t joined the raid with him and Adam. But by the clothes he wore now, and the blade in his hand, he’d given up and joined the Shiners after all.
Which is exactly why he knew Liam was supposed to be dead.
“Kelly…?” he asked, and then fully realized what he was up against, and wound back to stab—
Liam hit him, hard, in the face. The man staggered back, dazed, but still nowhere near ready to give up. He tightened his grip on the knife and slashed—
—but Liam avoided it easily. He caught the man’s arm, slammed his fist against the wall until the knife came loose, and then shoved at the elbow, breaking it instantly. The man cried out, but only for a second before Liam’s knee caught him in the gut, and he doubled over, gasping for air.
He reached up with his good arm, pleading for mercy…and Liam paused.
“Kelly, wait, please…” he wheezed, trying to keep from falling over. “Please, don’t…”
Liam was trying to catch his breath, trying to remember who he was, and why he was doing this. None of them had ever asked for mercy before. None of them had stopped, even for a second. It made him remember, somewhere in the back of his mind, who he’d been before Maggie had died. The man who had thrown a weapon away, rather than use it to dispatch a crazed Canadien in the forest.
That Liam would hate this. That Liam would have risked everything, ruined everything, to defend his immortal soul.
He realized, strangely, that this new Liam did, too.
The man seemed to sense the pause, and looked up, face stricken with fear, as he pleaded: “I’m not meant for this, Kelly. I never wanted it, I swear. But he said if I don’t pull my weight, he’ll take everything I have. He won’t let me be, Kelly. Mr Sisk never lets me be…”
Sisk.
The name burned up through Liam’s core like a burst of molten metal, shooting through his body until his fist tightened, and his arm tensed, and he just let loose, smashing the man’s face over and over again until he felt bone break. By the time he realized what he’d done, the man’s body was crumpled onto the ground, twisted strangely and so battered it was impossible to tell who he was at all anymore.
Red seeped into the mud, right up to the toes of Mr Crowley’s boots. Liam took a step back to protect them, as if that mattered.
He reached into his pocket with a trembling hand and took out the button. He turned it over in his fingers, just to be sure it was right, and he wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
The button hit the mud near the dead man’s body, and whatever soul Liam had had left went with it.