Resistance (3 page)

“Don’t worry, Fi,” Patrick says; using the hand that
is not on Maeve’s back to squeeze her shoulder. “Your mother and I
are only leaving to follow up on something Hugh mentioned. You know
what to do. You’ll be fine.” He releases his wife and pulls Fi into
a tight hug. I can’t make out all of what he says to her, but as he
pulls away he adds, “Take care of your brother. They’ll come for
him.”

Smarty. A+ for your knowledge, sir.

Fianna, who didn’t seem to understand the weight that
hung on that last statement, just shook her head. “Wait — Hugh
mentioned something? Why haven’t I heard about this before now?
Since when do you listen to anything
he
has to say?”

I sigh. The tone in which she says things astounds
me.

Patrick opens his mouth to reply, but Maeve sticks
her nose in the air and speaks over him. “Fianna, we are not so
stubborn as to ignore information that could help our cause because
of who it came from.” These people get dumber by the second.
“Everything will be fine, I promise you.” She pats her palm against
Fi’s cheek and pushes her hair out of her face. “We will see you
soon. Why don’t you try and get some rest? Tomorrow will be busy
for you.”

Fi still looks like she may vomit, but she nods and
accepts the hug her mother gives her. She kisses her cheek and
whispers, “Be safe, my sweet. And look after your brother.”

They walk away from her then, hand in hand. I leap to
the next tree so I can see them further. Once they are out of
sight, Fi pulls in a shaky breath and rushes back inside, followed
shortly by her uncle. Patrick’s footsteps slow and I hear Maeve
say, “What’s the matter?”

“Do you think we should tell her?” he asks, unsure.
He is about to continue when his wife huffs. “No, dear.”

“Maeve, if something happens to us she’ll go into
this blind—”

“Listen to me,” she snaps. “
Nothing
is going
to happen to us. We’re going to go, find these things and return in
one piece. Everything will be fine.” I’m right above them now. She
places her hands on his neck and kisses him. “Why stress her when
we don’t have to?”

After a moment of hesitation, Patrick sighs and nods
his agreement. It’s obvious he doesn’t agree with his wife, and I
have to concur that her statements are foolishly optimistic. He
takes hold of her hand again and they step outside of their
boundaries. The guard at their exit nods his head and they’re
gone.

A fortnight comes and goes and Fianna’s parents have
still not returned. Weeks pass after that without disruption, and
the hope slowly burns out of everyone’s eyes. It becomes more and
more apparent that Patrick and Maeve are either dead or have been
captured, either of which means they won’t return. No one says
anything. It’s as if they never were.

It’s early morning about eight weeks later, and the
guard who nodded at them as they left is getting coffee. Fi sits
outside on the patio with a mug of her own and looks at nothing in
particular. I am on the ground, shielded by a pile of bright red
autumn leaves, glowering up at the clouds above. An early winter
would be just my luck. Fi doesn’t look pleased about it either,
huffing to herself as she eyes the green-gray sky. She grips her
coffee mug a little tighter and shakes her head.

The tall guard comes out and nods to her;
interrupting her train of thought. “Fi.”

“Sean,” she replies. “Sean?”

He stops and looks at her; lifting a brow. He’s
tired, but he pulls himself out of a slouch and sighs, “Yeah?”

“Any sign of them?” she asks in a sad voice. She
already knows the answer.

“No.” He shakes his head, obviously tired of this
conversation already. “Fi, they’re not coming back.”

“You don’t know that,” she snaps back at him. “They
might. There’s no proof anything happened to them—”

“Fi…” He’s softer this time, but still holds his
ground. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

She deflates a little and nods; looking into her mug
of coffee. He ruffles her dark hair, which hangs loosely around her
face today, and walks away, nearly stepping on me as he goes. I
shoot out from under his foot and hiss at him before taking off up
the tree I’ve been hiding in all this time.

“God!” he cries; stumbling back and cursing up at me.
If I weren’t so irritated with his ignorance I would laugh at
him.

“Sean, calm down,” Fi huffs. “It didn’t bite you or
anything.”

“I hate rats,” he says.
Rat?
I knock an
abandoned bird nest out of the tree and watch it explode on his
head before leaping into the next oak; making it look like an
accident.

“I don’t think it’s a rat,” Fi snickers as Sean
freaks out, smacking twigs and eggshells from his hair. He is
thoroughly pissed off now, and I’m finding way too much pleasure in
that. “I don’t think it liked being called a rat, either.”

Sean scoffs and continues swearing at me; something
about how he’s going to fry me over hot coals. I’d love to see him
try. He looks utterly ridiculous right now, screaming into the sky,
and part of me wishes video cameras were still in existence just so
I could watch this repeatedly.

I’m not sure why I don’t like him. I’ve only seen him
a few times now, and this is the first time I’ve heard him speak.
Perhaps it’s because I cannot pick up any emotion from him. Even
now as he spews threats my way, I don’t feel any energy. It’s a bit
unsettling, and I don’t like that.

After a few more minutes of bitching he finally
stomps off, promising Fi he’s bringing me home for dinner tonight.
I am unimpressed with his bratty attitude, and positive he won’t be
catching me any time soon. Fi doesn’t seem to believe him, either,
but she just nods and waves. Seamus, who stood in the door watching
the whole encounter, moves to sit beside her. “It’s not a rat.”

She startles for a moment before staring at him.
“No?”

“It’s a fox,” he continues. “A little one, but it is
a fox.”

She nods. Neither of them is curious about me, which
is a relief. I don’t need anyone shooting arrows at me. I really
am
here to help, and being shot in the head is not on my
agenda.

“They’re not coming back, are they?” Fi asks quietly;
glancing in his general direction but not actually meeting his
gaze. Again, she is asking questions she already knows the answer
to. She just wants someone to tell her she’s wrong.

“I’m not answering that,” Seamus replies. “Frankly, I
think your father just managed to get lost. I’ll bet Maeve is
yelling at him right now.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders and
pitches his voice into a screech. “Patrick, I’m telling you, we’ve
seen this tree before!”

Fi snickers but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She leans
into him and sighs, and they sit there in companionable silence. In
spite of their joking they both look absolutely miserable, and in
spite of their optimism they both know the truth… Patrick and Maeve
aren’t coming back.

Not in one piece, anyway.

Chapter 2—Fi

January 2102

The moon is full overhead; its pale light
illuminating a macabre scene unfolding in the valley below. I hear
sounds of a struggle, a woman’s terrified scream and then the sound
of a blade meeting resistance in the form of flesh that rips and
tears. From where I’m standing at the top of a hill, I see my
mother fall in a heap to a bloody patch of grass below. Her
assailant bolts to the south, and stifling a cry of disbelief, I
race down the hill determined to save her. I see her struggle to
move as I run as fast as I ever have, trying to reach her to see
how badly she’s injured. I’m still twenty feet away, the cold air
slapping hard against my face, when the gurgling noises she’s been
making cut off and she goes still. My mind refuses to explore the
possibility that my mother might be dead. I push myself harder and
choke on the tears I can’t let fall.

It can’t be her, can’t be her…
is repeating in
my mind as I push myself harder. That woman lying there bathed in
her own blood can’t be my mother. I’m ten feet away when the
coppery smell overwhelms me and I stagger to my knees, retching.
Heart pounding, I try to take gasping breaths through my mouth and
look up to take in my surroundings. Merely feet away, lifeless eyes
stare out of a face frozen in terror; a face I know almost as well
as my own. I can see now that her throat has been cut and the wound
resembles a gaping smile above her collarbone. I hear someone
scream and realize in some small corner of my mind that
I
am
the one keening and sobbing.

Disbelief floods my system and I shake my head,
looking around belatedly for her attacker. Whoever it was they’re
long gone now, I realize. I make myself look at the body again,
knowing what I must do. I crawl the remaining distance to reach my
mother’s body. On my knees by her side, I try to staunch the tears
running down my face. I tremble at the very core as my eyes pass
over the wound that took her from me. This isn’t her; the already
waxy gray complexion and the dull brown eyes. This isn’t my fiery,
fiercely opinionated mother. It can’t be her. Tearing my eyes away
from her neck, I close my mother’s eyes with a shaking hand, bow my
head and murmur, “Go dté tú slán, Mama.”

I stay bent over my mother’s body for what feels like
forever, shaking with sobs. I hear a wet, sputtering sound and
tense all over, not knowing what to expect next. Moving slowly, I
lift my head to peer around my mother’s death scene. I try to make
myself as small as possible, just as my father taught me, so I’m
less of a target in case her assailant has returned. I start
inching away from her body and try not to think about the fact that
I’m moving through a puddle of my mother’s blood. I turn my head
both ways, terror making my heart pound, and when I hear the
gurgling noise again I realize it is now coming from behind me. I
spin, staying on my knees, and gasp when I see my mother’s brown
eyes are now open wide in panic and confusion. Her mouth opens and
closes like a fish out of water and I scramble back to her
side.

“Mama!” I yell, forgetting about the unknown enemy in
my shock. She must not have been as badly injured as I thought, I
tell myself. Her hands are flailing weakly and she sputters again
as I reach her side.

“Wh..Wha…?” she manages, and I take hold of one of
her hands; trying to get her to focus on me instead of the pain I
know she has to be in. I think it’s working when she looks at my
hand holding hers.

“Mom! Listen to me — you’re going to be okay. Look at
me, Mom.” I brace her head and hold her eyes with my own as she
continues her struggle to say something. “I’m going to get you out
of here. Don’t try to talk.”

I’m using my shirt to try and soak up the blood from
her wound before attempting to move her when my mother gasps out,
“Wh…why? Y...you…your fault!”

“Mom?” I manage; frozen at the unmistakable hatred in
her voice when she chokes it out again. “Your fault, Fianna.” And
then her freezing, bloody hands are scrabbling at my throat, trying
to strangle me. Her nails dig into my neck while I try uselessly to
pry her off, and I start to see spots in front of my eyes. I try to
drag air into my starving lungs and fail, and then the blackness
slides in and takes over my consciousness. My mother’s hate-filled
eyes are the last thing I’ll ever see. I feel myself fading and
everything goes black.

I bolt upright in my bed with my heart pounding and a
cold sweat coating my body. I can still feel my mother’s cold, dead
hands digging at my throat and smell the blood surrounding her
body. I struggle to bring air into my lungs as I shake and focus on
my environment; reminding myself for what feels like the millionth
time that it was just a dream. One of many I’m plagued with these
days. Sometimes it’s my mother I fail to save, and sometimes it’s
my dad. The worst nights are when it’s my brother’s face looking at
me with hatred etched in his normally jolly blue eyes. Incidentally
I don’t sleep much anymore. I take in the familiar surroundings:
the four poster bed and large dresser against the opposite wall;
both relics I salvaged from my grandmother’s belongings after she
passed away. The handmade patchwork quilt bunched in my shaking
hands was hers as well; one of the few things she brought with her
from Ireland. Shuddering, I get out of bed. There will be no
returning to sleep for me, that much I know.