FicWad

Jack sits at the head of his table. To his right sits his wife, Lynn. To his left sits Shane. Lower down the long table sit several of Shane’s friends. Kerrigan, wife of Hell’s heir, serves dinner wearing a long, white apron over her simple, black dress. Kerrigan prepared roast venison and hare, pheasant, quail, and duck, a strawberry cobbler, and chilled drinks of vanilla liqueur and thick cream with a plate of strawberries for Jack. It is strange for Jack to have the cream and strawberries separate, but it is not unpleasant to his sensibilities.

“Lads,” says Jack, lighting a cigar, “I’ve the papers. Ye can’t stay here because I can’t swing it wi’ Julius, the Roman bastard what hates me, for ye to stay in District Five. ‘Sides, ye’d never find work here wi’ the bigoted scum what I call, ‘neighbors.’ I’ve a place for ye. ‘Tisn’t ideal, but ‘tis a place where I’ve friends what’ll hide ye. Have ye ever been to Bridgeton?”

“They’ve not, Jack,” says Shane.

“Well, many o’ me military men come from there, an’ some fresh blood’d do the area some good. I’ll be ridin’ tonight to fetch the people to hide ye. There’s a bit o’ paper what has to be filled. I need copies in me own files in Bridgeton, so’s ye can prove the papers I give ye. ‘Twill be fine. I’ll have ye all somewhere by mornin’, I promise. Lynn, I love ye, but we’re off. Shane, d’ye mind drivin’? Kerrigan, thankee, an’ leave them dishes to Lynn.”

The men stand up to leave. Jack brings the leather satchel with the addition of ink, pens, matches, cigars, whiskey, and wax. His new signet glistens on his hand. He steps into the coach last after he sees Kerrigan depart for her home. He knows Morietur has a candlelit dinner waiting for her. Perhaps it is the drug telling him so, but he believes it. Shane drives the coach through the cool dusk into Bridgeton. The part of the city where they are headed is just south of the river. It is deep in the heart of the city where Jack once lived. He stops outside The Hawk’s Nest, which has just closed for the evening. Sullivan O’Shea is standing outside on a ladder washing the windows. He almost falls when he sees the coach, for they are rare in the District Thirteen portion of Bridgeton, and they usually mean trouble, since the coach seen most often is known as ‘Black Mariah’. Jack steps out and waves to his friend who comes off the ladder.

“Sullivan, I’ve the need to ask ye a favor.”

“What?”

“I’ve refugees. They need a home. Ye seem to need a hand. Mind takin’ one in?”

“Not a problem. Let’s go inside.”

“Jack summons the men from the carriage and buys a round of drinks. Some business can only be done over alcohol. “Sullivan O’Shea, meet William Gaffin.”

“Call me Billy,” says a man of average height and slight build with dark hair and eyes, small, silver, oval glasses, and a bushy beard to which he is unaccustomed. His clothing consists of tattered, brown trousers, a matching vest, and an equally tattered, loose, white shirt. Through the chest on the right side of the shirt and vest is a small, round hole surrounded by bloodstains, which reveals a bandage beneath from his gunshot wound.

Jack produces a stack of paperwork for both of them. “This,” he says, handing a paper to Billy, “says why ye, a citizen of enemy territory durin’ wartime, are here in a nation against which your fatherland is wagin’ a war, that reason bein’ that ye were evicted for knowin’ me brother Shane an’ came here to flee persecution, though I’ll be damned if I know how ye got past the border guard.”

“Saw a man what looked like ye, a Captain, I think, an’ mentioned Shane, an’ he let us through.”

“That’d be me son, Liam. Anyhow, it says here that your stay is one of indeterminate length, an’ that, as a refugee, ye have the rights to live, work, own or rent property, petition your Senator, in other words, visit me for drinks, prosecute or defend yourself in a court o’ law, build credit, an’ basically do anythin’ other than carry a gun in the first five years, commit crimes, live outside of District Thirteen without notifyin’ the proper offices, which it lists as me an’ the Senator o’ the District ye want to move to, or travel outside the Vampire District without advanced papers. After a year, ye can join the army an’ carry a gun on’y if ye do. We can’t draft ye. If ye marry a Vampire, ye can apply for joint citizenship or full citizenship. Joint citizenship means ye’re still a Werewolvish citizen as well. Full citizenship means not bein’ a Werewolvish citizen no more an’ changin’ all your papers. After three years, ye can apply for that without marryin’, an’ it means ye can carry a gun as a civilian, but it also means we can draft ye. All this really is is your options an’ why ye’re here an’ how long. At the bottom it says to send me a letter or come find me if ye have questions or trouble. Sign there. As for this paper, ye both need to sign it. It says that Sullivan O’Shea, who lives at this address, is sponsorin’ William Gaffin to be here an’ will help him get settled. This one’s for me records. This one’s also for me records, says I explained your rights to ye an’ ye know how to find me should ye have trouble, which means me givin’ ye this,” he says, handing Billy a sheet with his business and home addresses and the address of the Senate building. “Then there’s these. They explain ye’ve the right to fair wages as well as the right to work in any profession ye choose, except police or military in the first year. These’re your immigration papers an’ workin’ papers. Don’ lose ‘em. If ye does, find me right off an’ I’ll fix ye straight away. Don’ go nowhere, ‘specially to other Districts without ‘em. If a policeman finds ye without ‘em, ye’ll be in prison for a long time. That’s why ye’re here. Not many policemen, lots o’ people willin’ an’ able to hide people, lots o’ people who know the value o’ keepin’ secrets, an’ people what’ll understand ye when ye talk. They know what ‘tis like because this city burned down, was starved, an’ gave birth to a revolution. Sullivan’ll tell ye ‘bout that if ye get him drunk an’ pull out his old army uniform from the closet in the hall.” Jack smiles smugly. “I sign here, put a seal there; you sign here, Billy, here, an’ here; an’ ye sign here an’ here, Sullivan, an’ we’re done. Best o’ luck to ye. I’d stay, but I’ve four more o’ these tonight an’ a lovely wife to get home to who’s probably missin’ me bad after I’ve been sick so long.”

Jack leaves with the other men and a promise to send them all a copy of where their friends are on the morning post. Shane drives them to a nearby house where an old man is sitting by the window playing a slow air on an old fiddle. He rests his instrument in its case and picks up a small child as the coach approaches. The man is missing his right leg below the knee. A pretty, though harassed-looking woman answers the door. “Ah, Jack!” she exclaims, her face brightening up as she shifts the weight of the toddler on her hip to allow her to shake Jack’s hand. “Is Eamon alright?”

“I’ve heard nothin’ to the contrary, Mrs. Malone.”

“Please, Jack. We’ve known each other for years.”

“Indeed we have, ma’am.”

“Call me Bevin like back in the old days. Ah, go on Jack. Ye must remember.”

“Aye, the old days ‘afore ye married a man what slit throats for a livin’.”

“A good friend of yours.”

“Aye. He was and is. I still don’t fancy the idea of getting him angry.”

“But I slept wi’ ye long ‘afore I met him.

“Aye, ye did, but that was the past.”

“But I gets so lonely here, what wi’ only grandda’ to talk to.”

“I’m a married man, ma’am, and you are a married woman. Please, put the past behind you.”

“Do I look awful after havin’ the childer, then?”

“Nay, ye’re lovely, but I’ve a wife, an’ not the sort who’d like me messin’ about, either.”

“What kind of wife’d mind a little roll in the hay wi’ an old friend. Tell me, what woman stopped Jack Shepherd from doin’ whatever he wants whenever he wants wi’ whoever he wants wi’ no exceptions.”

“The kind that rich old bastards like me marry. Her name is Lynn. Besides, I’m sure Eamon wouldn’t want ye messin’ about wi’ his old war buddies. He knows where we’ve all been. Besides, I’m here for another reason entirely. Is Evan about?”

“Aye, but ye know how he is, Jack. He don’ like bein’ bothered, ‘specially when he’s been home sick from work.”

“What’s he got?”

“Broken hand. Serves him bloody right for-”

“I’d one meself up ‘till today.”

“Ah, I’m so sorry to hear that, Jack. Ye know, I really wish ye’d stop by more often, what with Eamon gone, an’ grandda’ always loved ye like a son, Jack. Eamon told me once that friends-”

“Please, Mrs. Malone, I am here on business.”

“Would ye like some tea?”

“That would be lovely, Mrs. Malone.”

“I knows ye takes a drop o’ whiskey in it. Ye always have. See, I remembered after all these years. How’re your sons, Jack?”

“Fine, ma’am.”

“Lovely. Wish I could say the same, but we’ve plenty o’ childer, an’ someone’s always sick wi’ somethin’ Anyway, I’ve not been out since Yule, save for the shoppin’. ‘Tis strange, ye comin’ here, when jus’ this mornin’, or maybe ‘twas last week, grandda’ was askin’ ‘bout ye.”

“Could I speak with him?”

“He’s in the livin’ room.”

“Grand so.”

Jack takes his tea into the dark living room and the old man’s eyes light up. He has long gray hair, a full beard, and pale blue eyes. Despite their grandfather’s stern influence, the younger Malones became hardened criminals while their oldest brother grew into an intellectual. The eldest brother never left his grandfather’s house, staying in the attic room and professionally cursing at anyone brave enough to disturb him. His only crimes were in the name of the revolution. It is with him that Jack wishes to speak.

“Jack, feel free to try and coax him down,” says the old man. “Ye won’t have much luck.”

The Malones live in a narrow, wooden house wedged into a long row of connected, identical houses. Most of the houses do not stand out, but the sheer noise of the Malone house sets it apart. The row of houses and the identical one across the alley were a makeshift barracks for the king’s army during an occupation which started about a hundred years before Jack arrived in Hell and continued until shortly after the great fire that destroyed much of Bridgeton. These buildings, though the clapboard exteriors suffered mild singing, were not destroyed. The buildings still lean into each other for support, though the windows have mostly fallen out, and many of the floors have been haphazardly patched by fathers of at least ten children who just want to sit down to their share of the tea and go to sleep for the night after twelve-hour shifts on the docks. The timbers themselves very nearly ring with curses, and, in the case of the Malones’ front room, there was also apparently a soldier who accidentally shot himself in the foot while drinking. The bloodstain, though faint, is still slightly visible on the wall behind Eamon’s grandfather’s chair next to the fireplace that is never lit, for lack of money with which to buy firewood or coal. There is a certain aura about the house that makes it unique in a row of identical houses to someone who knows what is really there. To a stranger, there is nothing unique about the house.

The three lower floors are crowded. The ground floor bedroom belongs to Eamon’s grandfather, who cannot climb stairs with only one leg. The first and second floors are where most of the family sleeps. The third floor is Evan’s attic room. He is by far the eldest son of the family, and he likes his solitude. The Malone family are well-known for lengthy criminal records. He grew up to hate his mother and only trust his strict, honest grandfather. The Malone dynasty was ruled by crime, starvation, and premature death. Eamon’s military salary supports the many children and his wife and grandfather, but Evan has amassed a fortune working from dawn until dusk being a sober, quiet intellectual with a desk job in District Five. He hates children, and most of Eamon’s children have never seen their uncle. He only comes downstairs when his family is away or asleep. He only speaks to his grandfather.

Jack mounts the stairs and gingerly knocks on the door. There is a loud admonishment from inside the room, lest the knocker be one of Eamon’s children, but Jack announces his presence, and Evan unlocks the door. To Jack, he is a fairly small man, though he is of average height. Unlike Jack, his hair is cut short on the sides, with only a long lock on the top, and he is clean-shaven, unlike almost every other man in the neighborhood. His cornflower blue eyes and dark hair are characteristic of the entire Malone family, but he lacks the muscular frame of every other family member. He is very slight by comparison and wears large, round, copper-colored, wire-framed glasses. His small attic room is filled with books and papers, many relating to his job, the rest literature. His normally slick hair is somewhat disheveled, and his left hand is tied in a bloody bandage.

“What happened?”

“Fell down a flight of stairs last evening. Fortunately, it was at work, and a doctor was down the road. It didn’t heal with blood, so I am stuck here until I can ignore the pain.”

“How about aspirin?”

“It helps some. It is not a quick-fix, Jack, and you know I won’t knock myself out with it. I am not my brother.”

“I ken. Was there any reason your sister-in-law might say ye deserved a broken hand?”

“I swore at one of her children for coming in here and breaking the lock on the door. I may have hit him a few times as well. So, why did you come to see me?”

“I needed someone trustworthy and responsible.”

“What for?”

“I need someone to hide a refugee. He looks like he could be your brother. Me brother’s friends were evicted. They ran to me. Ye were the best man for hidin’ men durin’ the revolution. Faith, ye’re the best I’ve met.”

“Who is he?”

“Ewan O’Donnell. He’s got to stay in District Thirteen. I don’ ken anyone better to hide him. He don’ have to stay up here wi’ ye. He’ll take anything’, but he needs to stay in this house. He can stay wi’ the childer.”

“I’ll take him.”

“Ah, thankee. Jus’ a bit o’ paperwork. Oh, an’ I’ll tell him not to sleep wi’ Bevin.”

Jack, Ewan, and Evan fill out the paperwork, and Bevin finds Ewan a bed in the boys’ room. Then Jack leaves, and Shane drives the coach toward the river. Above the riverbank is a small, one-floor cottage. Jack knocks on the door of the Callahan house, and the lady of the house answers. Rose-Marie Callahan is a beautiful woman with green eyes and dark red curls. The Callahans have four sons living at home with them. Neighbors have been taking care of them since Keegan, one of Jack’s other generals, has been away from home. Keegan Callahan is a fairly tall, red-haired, green-eyed, muscular man with a gentle, yet strict demeanor. His men love him because he rarely shouts and forgives easily. He never orders them crossly, instead asking them to do things, and he consults his longer-serving officers about moves he might make. He lacks the temper to be authoritarian. He does not tolerate bad behavior from his children or his men, but he is never cruel in handing down punishment. It is not in his nature. The four Callahan boys at home are sixteen, ten, four, and two. The Callahans celebrated their wedding shortly after the Revolution and have adult sons who come by from time to time to chop firewood and fix things, but they, like their father, are all in the army and stationed in Crosspoint for the time being.

Rose-Marie goes into the yard and dips a jug into the basin at the end of Keegan’s still. She does not drink much alcohol herself, certainly never in front of the children, and certainly not poitín, but she makes it well and sends it to her husband and sons while they are away. She pulls out a set of roughly-hewn wooden cups and pours alcohol for the men at the simple kitchen table. Jack asks Rose-Marie if she would mind helping James Dwyer, gaunt man with dark hair and eyes, acclimate to life as a refugee. Her hesitation in that she is a married woman is assuaged by the fact that James is a quiet bachelor who never tires of working and Jack’s assurance that, should Keegan disapprove, he will take care of everything personally. Keegan was a refugee himself once, so he understands what it is like. He also trusts Rose-Marie immensely and knows that she would never cheat on him. They file the paperwork, and Jack leaves for his next destination.

Shane drives to the residence of the schoolteacher David Byrne. He is a quiet man with a young wife and a newborn son. Surprised to see Jack, he pulls out a bottle of gin he had been saving for a special occasion. Jack introduces him to Ciran McCree, who is still quite injured but is capable of helping with the school until he heals. He had been a schoolteacher at his prior residence, and he is not suited to manual labor in his current condition. Immediately, David agrees to help and hide Ciran for Jack, though Jack does not know him as well as he knows the other people he asked. David has a new wife and child and a second child on the way already, and he knows he will need the help with the school, for there are nearly twice as many children as he can watch himself, and he will need to care for his family.

Only Declan Burke remains with Shane and Jack. Shane drives to the outskirts of town where there is a simple cabin with a blacksmith’s shop on the same property. Jack has known Saxen O’Casey for years. Saxen was a trained blacksmith before Jack was born. He was one of the Celtic priest-smiths. At one time, the Celts believed blacksmithing to be the art of the gods. Jack remembers blacksmiths and ships’ captains performing weddings. All three of Jack’s weddings on earth were performed by a blacksmith because Jack was not baptized, so no priest would perform his wedding.

Jack knocks on the door of the cottage, but Saxen does not answer. Saxen was once a military man. Now, his son is a general. Saxen’s wife died when his children were young, and Kerrigan helped them to survive through a fire and Saxen suffering a serious injury. He had been shoeing a horse during inclement weather, and the horse, spooked by thunder, kicked him into the anvil just as the last shoe was affixed. Saxen’s eldest son found him with a broken leg, a cut forehead, two cracked ribs, and burns from sparks flying from the fire. Saxen’s son woke Jack, Keegan Callahan, Mick McMahon, and John Murphy, who had been hiding with the O’Caseys that night, and who carried him to bed and patched him up as best they could.

In the same accident, one of the other men in the shop, Ardal Malone had a leg that was mangled so badly that nothing, not even blood, could save it, so his leg had to be amputated to save his life, thus rendering him unable to work. He was never able to afford a wooden leg in its place. Jack remembers watching Keegan heat the hatchet in the fire and looking into John’s terrified eyes. Saxen’s eldest son Faolan, John, Mick, and himself held Ardal down on the table, which had been cleared most unceremoniously by Cianan, Saxen’s second son, who had pushed the iron cutlery off onto the floor quickly. Laoise, Saxen’s eldest daughter, distracted her brothers and sisters, but Ronan’s curiosity was insatiable. He snuck outside and rolled a barrel up to the window of the smithy, atop which he stood in order to see what was happening inside. Jack remembers seeing Keegan heat the blade red hot in the fire, working the bellows like a madman, and he remembers the makeshift bandage Keegan had made from his own shirt and packing string to stem the blood until the hatchet was ready. He remembers watching Keegan sweating shirtless pumping the fire and checking the iron until he decided it was hot enough, then he remembers slitting the string and removing the bandage with his knife. John and Faolan held Ardal’s arms. Mick held his left leg. Cianan held Ardal’s head and covered his eyes so he could not see what was being done to him. Jack was terrified. He had been chosen to hold the top of Ardal’s right leg, closest to the burning blade. He and Mick were judged to be the strongest and Keegan the steadiest hand. While waiting, Ardal consumed a considerable amount of O’Casey’s poitín. Jack put all of his weight behind holding Ardal’s leg down. He felt the heat of the blade as it passed only a few inches from his arm. They feared having to use two blows to remove it, but Keegan’s aim was true, his stroke fast and powerful, and the blade sharp and hot, so the leg was removed and the wound cauterized quickly. Ardal shook something terrible, even getting a hand free and knocking John Murphy and Faolan O’Casey off their feet. Jack let go of his leg stump and jumped on top of him, pinning Ardal to the table by sitting on his chest. Jack wrapped his long legs around the edges of the table to pin Ardal’s hands, figuring that he probably could not injure anyone with what remained of his right leg, and hit him as hard as he could in the side of the head.

“Jaysus, Jack, ye tryin’ t’kill ‘im?” asked Mick.

“Naw, Mick. He’s still breathin’,” replied Jack. “He’ll be out a good long while.”

The other man in the shop had gotten away with no broken bones. He went to catch the horse and deliver it to the customer. He came back half an hour later when they were burying the stump of a leg in the yard. Jack remembers the summer night being so hot that his shirt was soaked through. He and Keegan, not eager to see Ardal wake after what they had each done, volunteered to dig the grave for the mangled stump of a leg. Keegan’s shirt was utterly destroyed already, having been used as the bandage. Jack and Keegan dug a hole six feet deep and big enough in which one might bury a leg so that no dog could dig it up. Jack, being the taller man, dug the last foot himself ensuring that the gravedigger would be able to get out of the hole which he had dug without a ladder, as they did not have one. Jack scrambled out to the sight of Niall Ó Seachnsaigh’s boots. Niall Ó Seachnsaigh was the third blacksmith in the shop, who had gone with the horse. He was later to be known as Niall Mór Ó Seachnsaigh when his son Niall Óg Ó Seachnsaigh joined the revolution, but Niall Óg was only eight years old when Ardal lost his leg.

“Shepherd, Callahan, what in blazes are ye doin’ out here? Ye’ll be killed.”

“Burryin’ a leg,” replied Jack.

“Ye have to be jokin’.”

“Nah,” said Keegan, “look in the sack, there.”

“That’s bloody disgustin’. Whose is it?”

“Was. ‘Twas Ardal Malone’s up ‘till about an hour ago,” Jack says.

“Is he who’s hollerin’ an’ screamin’ an’ cursin’ a storm?”

“Aye. He’s said things even I’d not dare.”

“Jack Shepherd, ye can’t tell a lie. Not least to me. I’ve heard ye say worse’n that last time ye was drunk.”

“Ye mean this mornin’?”

“I do.”

“Ye didn’t hear what he said earlier, then.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t remember what order he said ‘em in, but ‘twas somethin’ like, ‘Son’ve a motherfuckin’ bastard cunt whoreson’s arse wi’ a bastard son’ve a bitch’s pussy, damn the bastards, fuck the whores, teach all them little cunts some damned manners. May the divil come up an’ bite them on the arse if I’m wrong.’”

“Only yourself’d repeat that, Jack.” Jack shrugs. “Oh, an’ fill in that bloody hole in the ground.”

“Feck yourself, Niall!”

After Saxen’s injury and the loss of Ardal’s leg, Jack asked Kerrigan to see that the O’Casey and Malone children were cared for, and the O’Caseys, especially General Ronan O’Casey, still call her “Ma’ Kerrigan.” Jack sees smoke coming from the shop’s chimney, and he paces across the yard warily. Jack knocks on the door, and the banging stops. Saxen crosses the shop and opens the door as warily as Jack approached it. Upon seeing an old revolutionary, he beams and pulls out a jug of poitín from under a rough, wooden table by the forge. He very casually takes down a set of clay mugs and pours drink for the four men. He is accustomed to visits from all manner of people at any hour of the day or night. In tradition, the blacksmith was the priest, mayor, and sometimes doctor for the town, as well as making horseshoes, nails, and other everyday objects. Saxen has always been a traditional Celtic blacksmith. Despite his name, he is entirely of Celtic blood, having been named “Saxen” for his aunt’s marriage to an Anglo-Norman soldier, the joke having been that he would make his nephew into a Saxon. For him, a military man like Jack showing up at his shop in the middle of the night is nothing new, nor is it unusual. He remembers the days when Jack visited almost daily during the revolution. The O’Casey family was once the family that hid the revolutionary leaders before they were leaders. Saxen commanded them from behind the scenes and taught them how to command. Jack slept amongst the O’Casey children in the house, in the root cellar with the vegetables, in the barn with the animals, and in the smithy itself beneath the oaken table by the forge, safely hidden behind O’Casey’s jug of poitín. For him, the O’Casey homestead is like an old home, familiar and hardly changed.

“So, Jackey boy, what is it can I be doin’ for ye?”

“Well, General O’Casey, sir-”

“’Tis Saxen. Me son’s General O’Casey now. How is the lad? Are ye here to tell me that me boyo’s dead?”

“Ronan is fine, Saxen. I am here to ask a favor o’ ye. I’ve a man named Declan Burke what needs a place to stay an’ a spot o’ work. Catch is, he’s a Werewolf, friend o’ the family.”

“Your brother’s?”

“Aye, he’s Shane’s neighbor…he was. They were evicted when Shane went missin’. His old drinkin’ buddies found me house, but I can’t keep ‘em there, for Julius’d never file the papers for me.”

“Bastard!”

“Aye, but he’s reason enough not to trust. I’ve me brother wi’ me, an’ he agreed to it. Mark me words, there’ll be more. The town was destroyed in an attempt to burn Shane out when he was already gone. Jaysus…I dunno how they keep power like that, killin’ women an’ childer lookin’ for one man. Anyhow, Mister O’Casey-”

“For the last time, Jack, call me Saxen.”

“Anyhow, Saxen, Declan needs to be kept safe an’ hidden, an’ ye’re the expert.”

“Not a problem. What’s your trade, son?”

“Blacksmith, sir,” replies Declan, a muscular, though gentle, raven-haired man.

“Brilliant! I’m in need’ve a third man. Used to be me, Malone, an’ Ó Seachnsaigh, but Malone lost a leg, an’ then ‘twas me, a son o’ mine, an’ Ó Seachnsaigh, but me sons have all gone off to fight, so I’m in need’ve a third man. Ye’d be surprised how much comes out o’ this little shop. Bridgeton’s a city’ve iron, an’ most’ve it started here. Jack, where’s the paperwork? There has to be paperwork. There always is with ye politicians.”

“Here ‘tis.” He explains the paperwork and files it. Jack stays for a little while before going to an empty building overlooking the river. During the day, it is the bustling main office for District Thirteen. Every census and trial record ends up here. At night, nobody but the woman who sweeps and dusts can be found there, but she has already gone home for the night. Jack lets himself inside and files the paperwork, leaving a note to inform the people who run around inside the office by day of the filing and asking them to inform the Bridgeton City Hall of the refugees. He then returns to his home for the night, where Shane slips into a deep sleep as soon as he sits down in the drawing room, still wearing his clothing and shoes, and Maire has already come to bring John home with her. Lynn and Jack go up to bed. He will return to Crosspoint with Kerrigan in a few days, as her injuries and his have healed. He intends to spend the rest of his time at home with his wife.

Jack does not like war. He tries to think that perhaps the war will end. In order to minimize the casualties, Jack has ordered his men to fight defensively, to always stay in pairs or groups, to always be armed, and to kill on sight anyone acting suspiciously. Jack returns to Crosspoint in the middle of a pitched battle. He finds himself with the average soldiers at the front line of the war. Nobody knows that he is back, so he can hide behind his leather armor and fight hand to hand with the enemy. He slays a path through the enemy soldiers, fighting fiercely with his sword. He uses a Claymore that is as long as Kerrigan is tall. It is a crushing weapon with a sharp blade. They push the line back from the attack. Every few days, new soldiers come to the front line to die. The Werewolves have numbers on their side. The Vampires are skilled fighters. Jack returns to the cabin, his armor covered in blood. Kerrigan arrived while Jack was fighting, and she is busy opening her trunks and setting her things back on the shelves.

Jack says nothing as he sits on the bed wiping blood from his sword and cleaning and oiling his armor. He finally takes off his helmet and acknowledges Kerrigan with a stiff nod. She does not reply. By the time it is too dark to see, Jack has bathed and is preparing for a night out. Kerrigan still says nothing. She is writing to her husband. He politely waits for her to finish her letter before clearing his throat to get her attention.

“What do you want, Jack?”

“I want lots o’ things. I want this war to end, so’s I can be in me wife’s arms. I want custody o’ me two sons. I want to see old Ireland again. I want me sister to forget about that bastard blacksmith she’s so fond of. I want to see justice for Shane. I want Julius to stop bein’ a stuck-up prick. I want to ride through the woods. I want to sleep in the grass. I want to sleep in me own bed. I want to sleep wi’ me wife. I want to sleep a’ ‘tall. I want Frank Crane to be alive, an’ I want to see Bridget leave for good, because I want to see oul’ Mike smile again. I want to see me brothers. I want to see me oul’ unit, an’ I mean everyone, not just the few who lived, an’ I want to sit by a peat fire an’ drink whiskey ‘till dawn wi’ yourself an’ Liam.”

“The last one can be done. Strictly speaking, he is not supposed to become intoxicated, in case a battle begins, but you can always pardon him.”

“That we’ll do. Get yourself dressed, an’ I’ll find Liam.”

“Bring a sword.”

“Why?”

“I dislike this town at night, and we are sure to attract attention.”

“’Tis still District Thirteen.”

“Name six people outside of the army that you can trust in this town.”

“Bobby O’Rourke. Dan Kelly.”

“You trust an innkeeper and a former Colonel. Can you think of anyone else?”

“Mrs. O’Rourke, Mrs. Kelly, an’ Joe Kelly, Dan’s son.”

“That is five. I asked for six.”

“I can’t think o’ anyone else.”

“That is precisely my point. Crosspoint is not Bridgeton. You do not know the men in the bars. You do not know the merchants in the shops. It is not Kilainaigh city. Crosspoint is not an academy town. We will be noticed. Bring a sword. Tell Liam to do the same.”

“An’ yourself?”

“I am a lady.”

“So I’ll have to watch your arse too?”

“I will be carrying concealed weapons.”

“Like the knives that look like keys an’ hairpins?”

“Do not be absurd. I am dressing in a simple manner. I left all of my gowns, save the one for regimental balls, at home.”

“So what’ll ye carry?”

“I will carry two daggers and a loaded revolver.”

When Jack returns with Liam, Kerrigan is wearing a long, black dress made of simple wool. Jack can tell that it is very old and saw much use before he was born. It reminds him that he is not as old as he thinks. While ancient, Crosspoint is new by Bridgeton’s standards. The buildings mostly date before Bridgeton’s famous fire, though. They sit in an inn called The King’s Head. The sign over the front door shows the last Vampiric King without his body, a bloody reminder what happens to those who take too much power for themselves. It is in the city’s poorer district near the cottage where Jack and Kerrigan are staying. There is only one other woman in the bar, the bartender’s wife. The men turn around as one to view the newcomers. They do not return to their conversations. Jack has been there before. His tall, slender figure is recognized, but he has always worn a hooded cloak. Kerrigan has not been out in Crosspoint before, but she is immediately recognizable.

Liam and Jack lay their swords before them. Kerrigan sits daintily in the back corner of a booth with Jack to her right and Liam to her left. Her back is turned to none. She can see the windows and door. The bartender comes over to them, so as not to inconvenience anyone so obviously bearing weapons. A peat fire burns nearby, and, though he is far from his wife and brother, Jack feels at home.

Liam, so recently a silversmith’s apprentice, is still somewhat surprised that his father and Kerrigan are so well-known. His father, especially, since he reminds him of everyone he has ever known. He has seen pictures of Kerrigan in her finery and knows how famous she is, but to see her in a bar in a dress as plain as the one his own mother might have worn, he forgets who her husband is. Liam and Jack are not wearing anything to garner attention. Jack is wearing wool trousers and an Aran sweater. Liam is wearing a simple wool suit and an ivy cap, his only civilian clothing. It is worn threadbare at the knees and elbows, and the shirt below has been torn and stained many times in his previous lines of work. Jack knows the bartender, Bobby O’Rourke, from the revolution. Most of the O’Rourkes returned to District Six in the far north after the fighting ended to resume their normal jobs of fishing the coast, but Bobby O’Rourke married a girl from Bridgeton and borrowed money from his father to bring her to Crosspoint, a city with little rebuilding to do. Bobby tells his wife to mind the bar for a while, pulls up a chair, and sits with the newcomers, taking his seat outside the booth, opposite Kerrigan.

“Now there’s a face I never thought I’d see again. How’re ye, Jack? New life treatin’ ye well?”

“Not as well as ye think, Bobby.”

“Ah, now, ye’re only jokin’.”

“I’m not. I’d rather be sleepin’ in O’Casey’s smithy than in some great manor.”

“An’ your bird?”

“Don’t call her that. Lynn I’d miss, for I doubt she’d love a tramp. ‘Tis hard to believe she loves a soldier.”

“Jack,” chimes Kerrigan, “I have known Lynn just slightly less than forever. Believe you me, she has loved many a tramp before. She has quite a fondness for bad boys with strong shoulders, particularly redheads. She always has, even, from what I have been told, since she was a girl.”

“Who’s this broad?” asks Bobby.

Jack nearly chokes on his whiskey hearing his old friend speak thusly of Kerrigan. “She’s Senatorial General Sheehan.”

“I thought Sheehan was a man.”

“She isn’t.”

“Well, I at least thought she’d be taller.”

“She fits in me trunk. Very convenient when gettin’ rooms on the road. I can get a single wi’ extra beddin’ an’ make a place for her in the trunk.”

“Are ye, well, ye ken what I’m askin’.”

“No. I’d never. Her hsuband’d kill me an’ have me for dinner.”

“Broads…always need protectin’. Bet she stays so close t’ye for safety.”

“I was jokin’ ‘bout keepin’ her in me trunk, though she’d fit easy, but I’ll never joke about her value. ‘Tis I what stays wi’ her.”

“Come, now, Jack. Ye’re on’y jokin’.”

“I’m afraid not. She knows the land an’ the nature o’ people better’n I ever will, an’ she’s always got an escape plan.”

“An’ this one? He your bodyguard? Your secretary?”

“He’s me son. Before ye ask, the answer is no. Ye don’ ken his ma’. She was a pretty little thing in Mullingar back when I was seventeen.”

“Looks just like ye.”

“Not really. From what I remember o’ her, he’ s his ma’s chin an’ hands, but I don’t want to think o’ his hands doin’ what hers did to me.”

Bobby guffaws before seriously asking, “How’s Bridgeton? I’ve not been back since.”

“The city’s a shadow. The buildin’s finished, but it still has neither memory, nor soul.”

“An’ the old friends?”

“O’Casey’s son’s a General. Ronan, his youngest. Malone an’ Callahan, too. They’ve never left.”

“Which Malone?”

“Eamon.”

“An’ King? Crane? O’Shea? Murphy? McMahon?”

“Daniel King’s still fairly dead. Not been the same since his brothers died. Mike Crane married Brian Sparrow’s girl Bridget. She’s a boy that’s not his, an’ they’ve four boys an’ a wee girl together, but ‘tis far from happy. Brian’s boy Brendan’s a brilliant doctor wi’ knighthood comin’ for his work. Sullivan O’Shea’s close to Crane. He’s probably best off. Murphy’s an officer, as is McMahon. Difference bein’ McMahon knows how to behave like one. Murphy’s a Brigadier, McMahon a General.”

“An’ your brother? Is he wi’ ye or a against ye in this war?”

“He ran away wi’ nothin’ rather’n betray me. Almost died runnin’.”

“Jaysus…”

The old friends talk until dawn when Kerrigan and Jack return to their cottage and Liam to his tent with a note excusing him from any work for the day and of his drunkenness per order of his father. Kerrigan, who drank far less than the men, sits up in bed reading a book. She has read it countless times before, but it is still a personal favorite. She first read it when Lyritur was hospitalized. She spent many long hours by his side while he slept a drugged sleep. The book she is reading was new then. Morietur had given it to her. It is not romantic, like the majority of books he gives her, mistakenly thinking that she would rather read about a fantastical romance than a hunt for a killer. This book was written by a Banshee she once taught. He was only too eager to learn what she had to teach. He was the rare good history student, the one in five-hundred or more. His novel seems like it came straight from his notes on her lectures, and there are no anachronisms, though it is historical fiction. The heroine was heavily based on her, which is why Morietur bought it for her. Her one complaint about the book is that her flaws do not show through nearly enough.