FicWad

Jack is laying across the sofa. He is deeply in a state of intoxication. He can hardly move, but he manages to scramble to his feet when he sees Kerrigan. Shane and Morietur move extra chairs from the wall to the center of the room while Kerrigan leads her son to the sofa. She sits between Lyritur and Jack, Morietur in Jack’s armchair, Shane opposite him, Farinina and Lynn in armchairs opposite the sofa. John sleeps in Lynn’s arms. He is as comfortable with his stepmother as he is with his mother. Kerrigan pours wine for everyone. She studies hers carefully and breaks the silence.

“Jack, the man I brought with me is my son, Lyritur. Lyritur, the man on my left is your uncle Jack. Next to him in the armchair is his brother Shane, who is a Werewolf, but believe me, he would never harm a fly, unless, of course, the fly truly deserved it. Jack has severe Lycanthropy. Please do not jump, Jack. Do not make any sudden moves. Lyritur is now blind and has a weak heart. In his youth, he could have passed for your twin.”

“What would you like me to call you? Senator? General? Senatorial General? Prince? Sir? Uncle?”

“Jack’ll do or uncle Jack.”

“Uncle Jack has a nice ring to it.”

“It does.”

“I have suffered for three years with Lycanthropy. I, like you, had a very public position. I first heard about your case when my wife read the Vampiric paper to me. She has learned Vampiric and Banshee since we were married. My manservant can read Werewolvish. The press followed my case as well. You are lucky to be recovering at home and not in a hospital. I suppose your coronation will have to be postponed, as was my wedding.”

“Coronation?”

“Jack,” says Lynn, “you married a princess. That makes you a prince. You were knighted after the revolution. The ceremony is similar. Father will perform it as soon as you are well.”

“Jaysus…”

“He will not be attending, though he is your wife’s uncle,” says Lyritur.

“Faith! I never knew…”

“I have arranged for your old friend McAlpine to make the jewels,” says Kerrigan.

“Jaysus…” says Jack softly.

Lyritur sips his wine and says, “I’m as bad as Lycanthropy gets. As my mother said, I have a weak heart and am blind. I cannot eat solid food or go out of doors in sunlight, and I walk with a cane. I still fathered two children. My wife has cared well for me, and my mother has always been there. I have read about your military prowess, self-sacrifice, and dedication to the poor in District Thirteen. I admire your work greatly. I only wish that you might recover quickly.”

“As do I. Nobody’s been able to help me.”

“You’re probably a difficult case. You have other injuries?”

“Aye. Me face’s scratched up. Me side’s ripped to pieces. Me back’s messed up, an’ so’re me ribs. Me arm’s broke, an’ me hand’s crushed.”

“That would do it.”

“Aye. ‘Twould. Faith, how d’ye live wi’ this?”

“My wife saved me. She never left my side, and we married after I was well, in relative terms.”

“Did they put ye on opium ever?”

“No. They did that to you?”

“Aye. For me shoulder. ‘Tis a terrible bother, that shoulder.”

“I cannot help you other than to offer you my sympathies, uncle Jack. For what it is worth, you are one of the calmest Lycanthropy patients I have ever met, and I have met hundreds.”

“’Sprobably the drink. D’ye drink anything’ ‘sides wine?”

“I do. I drink whiskey, rum, gin, port, brandy, claret, bourbon, and the occasional ale.”

“A man after me own heart.”

“You are a whiskey drinker. You usually smoke cigars, but you have been smoking a pipe tonight. You have a rough bass voice, but you can sing fairly well. There has been a considerable amount of pine burned in your fireplace, leading me to believe that the surrounding woods probably contain a lot of pine. You do not trust my father very much. You have not been using opium very long. An infection is setting into your crushed hand. It has been mentioned that you are quite tall, and I can tell by your handshake that you have long, thin, strong fingers. You are wearing shoes, and, if I am not mistaken, have fairly large, narrow feet with long toes.”

“All correct. How in Jaysus’ name did ye know that? I’m impressed.”

“I can tell by scent and sound. As I said, I have been told you could have passed for my twin, and I know my own height, so I can fairly accurately guess yours. I can tell about the whiskey, cigars, pipe, pine trees, and infection by scent. I could tell about your fingers from your handshake. Tall men tend to have fairly large feet, and long fingers tend to be found on the same people who have long toes, but I can also tell by the way you sounded scrambling to your feet earlier. I can tell about your voice from hearing it, and I can sense your uneasiness around my father. I know it is not visitors, for you have too public a job to be uneasy about visitors, and I know you know my mother well, so it therefore must be my father. As for the opium, long-time users tend to shake and nod, and you are doing neither, so you are not using much, and you have not been using it long.”

“Jaysus…”

“Uncle Jack, how long have you known my mother?”

“Since I was jus’ small. I was born on fifth December fourteen-forty. I was a babe in arms when I met her. Your da’ too, I suppose. They lived next door to me aunt an’ uncle. Me parents left me wi’ the family.”

“I am about twenty years older.”

“On’y a wee bit older’n Mike Crane, then.”

“Who’s that.”

“Bartender. Poor man’s got a wife what’s scarce seen an’ beats him whenever she’s there. He’s got five boys an’ a wee girl. That wee girl’s the on’y reason he’s not dead. He lost two childer when he died. He lost his baby brother in the revolution, an’ ‘snot been the same for him since.”

“He is indeed a poor man,”

“Aye. He’ll do anything’ not to lose them childer. I think o’ him when I’m sufferin’, an I hate meself, for me friends jus’ suffer an’ die, but I’ve the money to survive. Why should I be any different? Why should I think I’m good enough not to deserve the same?”

“You are here for a reason. You protect them. You are their voice. You help them to live. You came from nothing, and you will soon be crowned a prince. If anything, those of us born into it are worse. We have no right. We have done no work to get here.”

“Jack,” asks Kerrigan, “would you like some food?”

“Nay.”

“Would anyone like something?”

Nobody replies. After a few minutes, Morietur notes the time, and Jack offers them beds upstairs in the guest rooms. They sit up drinking for another hour, and John is handed to Kerrigan with minimal fuss. They go upstairs to sleep. Around three, there is a knocking at the door. It wakes Shane, who answers as quickly as he can. He sees an old friend. Ciran McCree was his neighbor before his flight. They often drank together with William Gaffin, James Dwyer, Declan Burke, and Ewan O’Donnell. Ciran is severely wounded and shaking. Shane takes him inside.

“Ciran! How’d ye find me?”

“They’re comin’ t’kill ye here tonight.”

“Who?”

“Assassin. Wake the woman an’ your poor brother.”

“Ciran, how’re the old gang?”

“Billy Gaffin’s been shot in his chest, missed his heart, though, mercy be. He’s in the barn wi’ Deaclan an’ Ewan. We carried him here. Jimmy Dwyer’s out near the bushes.”

“Fetch ‘em here. Jack’ll find room inside.”

Shane wakes Kerrigan gently. She wakes her son and helps him into Jack’s hideaway. She then helps Jack and John. The newcomers are brought through the barn entrance by Shane. Lynn and Farinina hide with the ill, injured, and infant. Deaclan Burke, Ewan O’Donnell, and James Dwyer join Shane and Morietur outside to wait for the assassin. Kerrigan sits by the drawing room fire. She would not allow herself to be hidden with the women. She sees a glimmer and runs out to fight, despite what her husband told her. She is snatched by the door and held captive. All of the men reply by swiftly transforming. She is suddenly dropped, but she is trampled in the fray, though she bites her assaulter’s leg with all of her force, crippling him and ensuring that, should he live, he will suffer from Sanguinaria. He ultimately does not survive the ambush, though. Four grown men are sharing the only bed in Jack’s underground shelter when Kerrigan descends, carried by her husband. She cannot breathe, and she is unconscious with pain. Jack, Lyritur, William, and Ciran all adjust to make room for Hell’s matriarch. The men bandage their wounds and sleep on wooden crates under heavy woolen blankets. Morietur weeps openly as he wraps his wife in a woolen blanket and lays her shattered body on the edge of the bed by the wall.

“Mother will survive, father,” says Lyritur. “She always does.”

“Your mother is an amazing woman, but I doth doubt that she will come through this, and I knoweth I hath done her harm, for were I but a bit swifter, she wouldst not be abed.”

Jack moans and plunges opium into his veins. Morietur carefully plucks the bullet out of William Gaffin and bandages Ciran McCree’s injuries. Then he sees his wife, shattered and bruised and gives her a bit of opium to ease her pain. Morietur falls into a restless sleep sitting against the wall. He illegally transformed, and the effort tired him greatly, though he ensured his wife’s son’s and brother-and-law’s lives. Because he cannot legally transform, he does not transform often. Because he does not transform often, the effort required tires him far more than it would someone who transforms even monthly. Morietur feels strangely ill though very relieved to have saved their lives. He is tormented by fearsome nightmares where the room melts before him. He drinks three bottles of whiskey and finally relaxes enough to return to sleep. Kerrigan moans softly as she tries to breathe. Another night passes in a lonely Hell.

In the morning, Lynn rides for Brendan Sparrow. He patches the men’s wounds and turns his attention to Jack and Kerrigan. Jack is not able to move, but his injuries are healing on their own, and his fever is diminished. Kerrigan’s body is too shattered to heal except by blood or magic. Brendan sets what large pieces of bone are left and gives her his own blood to heal her. Lynn and Farinina prepare breakfast. Lyritur, of course, cannot eat solid food. He only drinks alcohol that morning. His wife worries, but there is nothing in the house for him to eat. He has no help to navigate the house, so he wanders aimlessly with his arms outstretched.

Kerrigan remains in the basement shelter. She recovers very slowly, her fearsome presence diminished to sorrowful mourning. The Werewolves make Lyritur uneasy, but they prove themselves to be very kind. Lyritur holds John for some time, and the baby does not wake. Jack’s Lycanthropy is slowly improving, though the infection in his hand causes him great pain. Morietur holds Jack down while Brendan cleans his hand. The hopes for Jack’s hand are grim unless his Lycanthropy clears. The Devil visits in search of Morietur around noon. When he hears of Kerrigan’s injuries, he promises Brendan a knighthood if he can heal her fully. Morietur leaves to deal with royal business, but Kerrigan cannot be moved in her condition. She will not be able to be moved until at least dinner. Morietur fears to leave her side, but he entrusts her to Lynn. Lyritur sits by his mother’s side for several hours, though nobody else would look upon her. His blindness makes him braver than the others, for he can comfort her, immune to the sights that instill fear in others. Lynn cannot draw near to her sister, for she is afraid of what she will find.

Jack rests in his own bed. There is a knocking at the door in the afternoon. McAlpine is there, having walked up from Bridgeton and left his shop in the care of his apprentice. Brendan allows him to see Jack, but he will not allow the signet to be placed on Jack’s shattered hand. McAlpine does not stay for dinner, instead returning to Bridgeton to spread news of Jack’s status to Michael Crane, Sullivan O’Shea, and a host of his military men’s families, who know him from the revolution. Nobody in that part of Bridgeton can afford or read the newspaper. Either they lack money, literacy, or time. For them, the news is spread like wildfire by word of mouth.

Kerrigan wakes in pain just before dinner. Her son gropes for her hand and whispers words of comfort through her screams. Brendan has gone home to his wife and ordinary food. Though he lives in the wealthier part of Bridgeton, Brendan is not personally very wealthy. Perhaps one day, his practice will lead to money, but thus far it has only paid for his wedding and part of his house. Jack paid Brendan’s way through medical school, a favor for which Brendan will be forever grateful.

Jack comes down to dinner, though he is exhausted from fever. He cannot harbor the refugees forever, and Kerrigan is too incapacitated to help. The once-proud warrior has been brought to his knees by sheer indecision. Without Kerrigan, he realizes, he is nothing. He goes into the basement to visit with her and finds her still horribly bruised but far less broken. The room is dark, and Jack can barely see. He likes it that way, for if he could see the extent of Kerrigan’s injuries properly, he is sure he would make an obvious gesture of revulsion which would certainly upset her. He does not mention the subject of business while he is with her for fear that it would be inappropriate. She notes his relative calm, and he fidgets. Jack is apprehensive about Kerrigan’s praise. She is injured, and her breathing is labored. Jack wants desperately to help, but he can do nothing. For Jack, a proud military man, helplessness is a fate worse than death. Lyritur smiles weakly at Jack in a sympathetic gesture that says everything. Lyritur is powerless, but he has accepted this fate. He remembers having been proud like Jack once, but this did him little good when he developed Lycanthropy. No amount of courage can overcome Jack’s fear of seeing Kerrigan injured and completely helpless. Kerrigan insists that she will be fine, as always, but Jack has his doubts. Lyritur sends him upstairs. Lyritur cannot see people’s faces and expressions, but he knows from his own illness when people can take no more of the sight of an invalid, he can read Jack remarkably well.

Lyritur waits for his father to return. His wife has gone home to the children, and Morietur must lead him home. The crushed bones in Kerrigan’s face reset, and she finally opens her eyes and looks up at her son in the darkness. For Kerrigan, it is just another injury and one for which, for once, her husband cannot be blamed. Morietur returns before Kerrigan can return home, so he leads Lyritur home at dusk and returns. The refugee Werewolves are camped in Jack’s drawing room playing cards after dinner. They make Morietur a little uneasy. He once had a major row with the royal house of the Werewolves. These men seem fairly benign and are all playing cards with Shane, who is in better spirits than he has been in a long time.

Kerrigan journeys upstairs shortly after Morietur returns. Brendan has returned from dinner with his wife, and when he sees her, he knows that a knighthood is in store for him, as well as probably enough money to pay off the rest of what he owes for his house. He finally has some genuine good news he can tell his wife. There is finally a way into real business, which, for a man from as humble an upbringing as he, seemed unattainable. Michael Crane came with his brother-in-law, leaving his children with their aunt. Bridget has yet to return home. Kerrigan embraces Michael warmly. She pities him. She cannot help herself. Michael is slightly embarrassed to be hugged by Hell’s nobility. Kerrigan smiles at him. She has a certain amount of grace that charms men universally. Michael is quite wary of her, lest her husband should perceive something he does as sexual in nature or rude. Michael Crane is a tall man, but Morietur and Jack easily tower over him. Kerrigan, who is an extremely petite woman, always seems to garner the most respect and command the conversations that erupt in her presence.

“Michael, it is quite a pleasure to see you outside of Bridgeton. How are your children?”

“Fine, ma’am. They’re wi’ Brendan’s wife. She’s a fine aunt, an’ Brendan’s a fine uncle. I on’y wish they could’ve met their uncle Frank.”

“Do not despair, Michael. At least he did not suffer. I presume that the bar is running well.”

“Aye. ‘Tis.”

“Bridget is in prison, Michael. She will be home soon. I have done what I could to keep the courts from taking your children.”

“Thankee, Miss Kerrigan.”

“It is no problem. I do what I can.”

“Is Jack alright?”

“He is improving. His hand, unfortunately, is not.”

“Dear Jaysus, no. ‘Tis his pistol hand.”

“He is out of bed, though, and his coronation ceremony will be held soon. Do not despair, Michael. Jack will be alright. He always is.”

“I know,” says Mike sourly. “If only, just once, his luck could belong to anyone else.”

“Come now, Michael. Do not be so sour. Jack needs all the luck he can get at the moment.”

“A’swell, I suppose.”

Kerrigan bids them farewell, and Morietur leads her home after she promises Jack that she will search for somewhere safe to keep the refugees. Jack sits up smoking cigars in his office and playing with his new signet ring. He did not order it. McAlpine never mentioned who had. Michael Crane is eating the remnants of a steak dinner offered to him by Lynn. Jack never invites friends into his office, but the Werewolves are in the drawing room. Shane is different. Shane is family. Lynn is not put off by the foreign visitors. She is not easily intimidated and always wants to be a good hostess. Her husband, who has fought against Werewolves in the army, is slightly wary of them. On the surface, Jack seems afraid of everyone, and he does not like the idea. Michael and Brendan sit with Jack in his office due to lack of other comfortable, appropriate spaces on different floors from the Werewolves. Jack offers Mike a cigar, and Mike accepts but ends up choking on the bitter smoke. Jack paces for a while in silence. Brendan inspects Jack’s hand and politely accepts a glass of whiskey. Like his brother-in-law, Brendan finds Jack’s hospitality incredibly grating on his system. Jack does not notice Brendan choke on the whiskey. He wants to know who ordered the ring for him. It is identical to his old ring, but he was going to purchase a new one himself. Who bought it remains a mystery to his addled brain. His shoulder twinges, and he injects himself with opium. He can no longer think for the drink and opium in his system, so he retires to his bedroom for the night. Brendan and Mike set off together. At The Crane and Sparrow, Bridget is waiting. Sullivan O’Shea is standing in the evening street with a fire poker and a determined expression. Mike brings the children home to forced domestic tranquility.

Jack lies awake on the bed. He knows subconsciously that getting out of bed would lead to bizarre and painful repercussions, thus he remains immobile. He is not sure if he could move his limbs. His brother and the other Werewolves are in the drawing room, and he hears an occasional howl of laughter drift upstairs. Jack smokes a cigar propped up on his good elbow and drinks more whiskey. He falls out of bed doing this and spills the whiskey all over his suit. It is an old suit that already has cigar burns and whiskey stains, and it is far too large for him anyhow. He cannot get up and knows this, so he does not try. Lynn comes upstairs three hours later to find Jack soaked with whiskey, fully dressed, shivering, entangled with blankets, awake, in severe pain, staring at the ceiling, in a mental haze of drug and alcohol, humming a lullaby gently, and feeling as cold and stiff as a corpse. She is not a remarkably strong woman, but Jack weighs so little that she is able to, through a combination of lifting and pulling, put him on the bed. She helps him into pajamas and soothes him with a lullaby.

Dún do shúile a rún mo chroí
A chuid den tsaol is a ghrá liom.
Dún do shúile a rún mo chroí
Is gheobhair féirín amárach.

Kerrigan once told her that it is Jack’s favorite. Jack curls up under the blankets and drifts into a gentle sleep by her side. She follows shortly, exhausted from the day’s exertions. Jack slips further away, though he wants to stay, and she does not want to see him go.

He is falling. He finds himself somewhere familiar. He is in a tavern he has not seen since the night he died. He sees himself at every table. He is eleven and tasting liquor for the first time. He is sixteen and bidding his family goodbye. He is twenty-seven and drinking to the deaths of his old friends, to the lives, marriages, and childbirths of others, and to a place called home. He is twenty-eight and in two places drinking to his marriage and his wife’s death shortly thereafter. He is twenty-nine and drinking to his second marriage. He is thirty and drinking to the death of his second wife and their stillborn son. He is thirty-one and drinking to his third marriage. He is thirty-two and drinking to the birth of his son. He is thirty-three and drinking to the birth of his daughter. He is thirty-five and drinking to the loss of his family, drinking unknowingly for the last time in a lifetime. He sees his own face, fresh and young before he left, tired and experienced, though youthful, upon his return, and more haggard as time caught up to him. He had stupidly kept running. He, like any other man, could not outrun Death, his dear friend’s son.

He walks up to the bar and orders a drink. He expects to see the once-familiar bartender, but when the man turns around, he is different. The man shares Jack’s tall, thin frame, bright blue eyes, fiery red hair, and cocksure smile. It is not his uncle. The face and frame are far too thin. It is not himself. It is his hated father. The glass handed to him is full of blood. Jack is a Vampire. He has consumed blood countless times, yet he knows that this blood is different. Blood is thicker than water, and this blood is Jack’s poison. Jack looks at his clothing. His familiar old suit has vanished. He is wearing a woolen leine and green woolen trousers. There is an iron horseshoe nail in place of his silver wedding ring, and his shoes are made of soft leather. He pulls back the draped sleeve and sees his hand made whole again. His father pushes the glass toward him. Jack tosses the drink back as quickly as possible and searches for something to rid him of the taste. None of his former selves see him or each other. Even to Jack, a Vampire accustomed to drinking unpleasant-tasting liquids, the blood tastes awful. Blood tastes like a very sticky liquid rusty nail. Jack calls for another drink. His father turns to him again, strangely older. The figure staggers forward and dissolves to dust. Jack hears the words, “Like father, like son, Jack,” from the dissolving corpse. He feels a tugging on his trousers leg.

“Da’, bring me home,” says Jason.

“I don’t know the way,” admits Jack.

“Please?”

“I’ve nothin’ for ye.”

“Please.”

Jack lifts the boy and walks out the door, uncertain of where the path will lead. Jason is torn from his arms, and he is suddenly six years old. He hits the ground running from what he cannot see, but he knows. He has always known, from the time he was a child, in fact, that the parish priest disliked him. Jack was born the bastard son of a soldier and a scullery maid, both illegitimate and poor, thus the most unholy thing the village had ever seen. He was born on the night that the old parish priest died. That priest absolved his parents of their sins, and Jack was named after that priest, who was his father’s uncle. The new priest refused to baptize him. He abused Jack through his childhood by encouraging the village to ostracize and beat him, but Jack survived because of a few select villagers who put more stock in the sídhe, Cúchulainn, Fionn mac Cumaill, the Tuatha dé Danann, and the Fianna than they did in the young parish priest and his tales of saints from far-off lands and moral instructions against their traditions of Brehon law and hospitality. He is running from the rod the priest used to beat him publicly. His aunt and uncle, the Hartes, the Murphys, and the McMahons are not here to save him. Insults rain down on Jack’s head. Suddenly, he trips and falls.

There is no hit from the rod. Instead, he falls through the ground. He is an adult again, and he is in a prison cell in Hell. The fortress is high over a river. He can hear the water sloshing against the stone so many floors below. He is laying on a straw mattress. At the end of the mattress is a skeleton chained to the wall. It looks hauntingly familiar. Jack takes a flask from the pocket of his tattered uniform and drinks a pull of whiskey. He is numb and cold. The thin woolen blanket hardly helps at all. He hears the sounds of two guards dragging a man between them. The voices are unfamiliar.

“Come with us, man.”

“No!” shouts a man with a youthful voice. There are the sounds of a fist against flesh, a grunt of pain, and three sets of hurried footsteps. There is a sickening crack, then silence, except for the dragging. Then there is a rattle of keys, the grind of an iron key in an old lock, a click, and the groan of a rusty door opening. Jack watches as the guards brutally throw a young man into the cell. He is unconscious and nearly dead. Jack lifts him onto the straw mattress and lifts his head, tipping a little of the whiskey from his flask into the young man’s mouth and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. The man chokes to consciousness. The last light of day filters into the cell through a small, barred window. The man’s dirty, matted hair and beard shine as orange as flames in the glittering dusk. His face is skeletally thin. His feet are bloody and bandaged, lacking shoes. His clothing is dirty, tattered, and haphazardly patched. The rope holding up his pants reveals that he is thinner even than Jack. His dirty hands appear at a glance to be bandaged, but he is wearing gloves of an unknown color with the fingers cut off. Jack offers him a drink, and he accepts. The guards let Jack drink in prison because trying to care for Delirium Tremens is beyond their area of expertise. The thin face looks hauntingly familiar as well. The younger man stares at nothing. Jack recognizes the look. The younger man has been drinking for several days straight and has been taking opium. Jack gives the shivering man his uniform coat, though it is tattered and frayed. Jack cleans his fellow prisoner’s wounds with whiskey and splints his leg with some wood from a smashed chair in the corner and a strip of the blanket. Jack sits next to the younger man when he is finished with the splint.

“How old’re ye?” he asks.

“Just twenty yesterday.”

“I’ve a son who’d be nigh on that age now, I’d figure. Why’re ye here?”

“Barfight. I was the on’y one left standin’.”

“Been there.”

“An’ yourself?”

“Murder.”

“Who?”

“Bastard what owed me money.”

“Ye sound familiar.”

“I might. I was a public figure ‘afore I got here.”

“So was me da’, but I’ve not seen him for half me life, not like he was ‘round much ‘afore he left.”

“Boyo, I’ve been in here half your life. What’s your da’s name?”

“Jack Shepherd. He disappeared ten years since, said ma’. Left his wife Lynn in a big house wi’ all his money an’ none for company. Guess he ran an’ ne’er returned.”

“That’d make ye Jason.”

“Aye. Say, who’s the skeleton?”

“Been here longer’n me. Terrible comp’ny he’s been. Ne’er said a word. ‘Course he was dead when I got here…” Jack pushes aside the half-rotten jacket and pulls a letter out of the inside pocket. He opens the envelope and finds an aged army discharge and will bearing the name Patrick Shepherd, that of Jack’s father. At the end of the will, Jack reads aloud the final words, “Like father, like son, Jack.”

“Hmmm?” akss Jason.

“’Tis me da’, Jason. I should tell ye while ye’re lyin’ there, I’m your da’. That skeleton was your grandda’.”

“Ye bastard! Ye abandoned me! I was but a child, an’ ye never even wrote!” He tries to stand and fight Jack, but he is unable to balance on his broken leg and falls back on the mattress. “I’d kill ye. Like father, like son, Jack.”

Jason loses consciousness and dies, and Jack knows he must escape. He is very thin, but he cannot slip through the bars, so he runs from the door into the opposite wall, which shatters like glass, though it is made of stone. Jack falls from the high fortress into the river below, somehow missing both the rocks in the river and those falling from the building as he lands in the icy water under the twilight sky. He cannot breathe, and he cannot make his limbs move. He will not return to prison alive. He is not like his father. He is not like his son. He is dying, but he is free. He stops fighting.

Suddenly, he is jerked upward and his body crashes into his escaping soul in a painful manner, recapturing it but shocking him at the same time. He can hear sobs and distant voices. They are faint and echoing as though either he or they are under water. He hears his name being shouted from the distant red twilight sky. The voice is so familiar and comforting to him that he relaxes completely until he is jerked upward again, this time into consciousness.

“Jack! Jack! Can you hear me?” asks Kerrigan. He nods lazily. “You gave us quite a fright. It is almost noon. Lynn had to leave the room because she was so worried about you. Jack, stay with me.” He moans. “Let me know when you can manage words,” she says rocking John in her arms. Kerrigan seems to be naturally good with infants, but perhaps, thinks Jack, it is due to her having raised so many. “Jack, you probably should see Lynn as soon as your are able. You know how she worries. We lost you for a while. You were as cold as ice with neither pulse nor breath. You died, Jack.”

“Wouldn’ be the firs’ time. Won’ be the las’.”

“I am relieved to see you sentient again.”

“Always happens in the end.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Quite ill. I’ll spend the day in bed if nobody minds. I’ve a query to ponder anyhow.”

“You do not know where to house the refugees, and you do not know how to explain them to the Senate, particularly if you have to house them here with you in District Five and have to plead their case before Julius Invernus, a Senator whom you despise, and who despises you.”

“Aye, that’s about it, ‘cept one bit.”

“The dream you had bothered you immensely.”

“Aye.”

“Tell me.”

“Like father, like son. Me da’ was the bartender in the pub back home, an’ I saw meself everywhere, an’ Jason came lookin’ for me. Then I fell an’ was runnin’ from that bastard of a priest. After that, I was in prison wi’ me da’s skeleton, an’ Jason comes in, an’ he dies there at twenty after I’d been there half his life. He turned out jus’ like me. Then I broke free leavin’ me father an’ me son dead in prison.”

“It is alright, Jack. It was only a dream.”

“I know, but ‘twas awful.” Jack takes a sip of whiskey to calm his nerves. “An’ them refugees? They can’t stay here, for someone’ll notice, an’ all’ve us what knows’ll be in prison for harborin’ enemies ‘fore we can even say they’re refugees. We can’t sneak ‘em over the Demon, Banshee, or Witch borders. They’ll be found an’ sent back, an’ we’ll go to prison for aidin’ an’ abettin’ the enemy. I’ll never convince Julius to let me keep ‘em here. ‘Twas a miracle he agreed to let me own brother stay wi’ me. We can’t send ‘em back from whence they came, for they’ll be killed right off. What do we do?”

“I have nowhere to hide them, but perhaps Bridgeton could use the extra hands.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“I figured out a solution for you. You would be the only one who would have to sign off on their innocence and residence. Bridgeton is a city without a memory. It was once a glittering jewel of a city, and since it was reduced to ashes, it has lost itself. In Bridgeton, a man can hide without fear of being found, for the residents will take him in as one of their own and protect him from anyone who might be looking for him, no matter what he has done. Also, about a third of the working men in District Thirteen Bridgeton happen to be in Crosspoint at the moment, so I am sure there are jobs that need doing in their absence.

“What d’ye mean?”

“As soon as your hand is healed, we can set out for your office in Bridgeton. All you have to do is sign a statement giving them refugee status. It allows them to stay and work. The only question left is who will take them in while they are getting settled here. They may be persecuted for who they are, but it is the best thing we can do for them. They are not guaranteed to be successful.”

“Could we expedite the paperwork?”

“No, we need a signature. It has to be signed. In fact, they will have to stay here until your hand is healed.”

“Feck! ‘Scuse me language.”

“Jack, you must not fret. Brendan said he was reasonably sure that the Lycanthropy cleared enough for him to heal your shoulder, and the cuts have probably healed themselves by now. I shall ride to your office and fetch the forms. It is not far.”

She leaves Jack under Lynn’s care and returns with a leather satchel full of papers. She walks briskly up the stairs. She would run, but she is a dignified woman, and dignified women do not run. Brendan has healed Jack’s shoulder and shattered hand and declared him free of Lycanthropy. Jack is holding John in his left arm and experimentally flexing his right hand. Kerrigan is overjoyed for him. He is finally able to work again. She knew Jack was resilient. She smiles. Jack is not going to work until after dinner, so Kerrigan lights the fire and takes down the cast iron pots and pans. She will make dinner. She only wishes she did so more often.