Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series) (9 page)

Then one morning, he had started out early for work, the sky just beginning to lighten along the horizon and the trees sleepy smudges. And there it was—Vega, his father’s star, so blue and bright, pulsing against the fleeing of night. He had stood transfixed, watching the sky band itself into a softer and brighter blue, and still that star had stood out like something alive against an unconscious world. He couldn’t breathe, and though he might well melt into a panic, he could not look away from that star.

Finally, when Vega had all but disappeared, he had found himself moving again, placing one foot after the other, and he had known then, whether he liked it or not, he was going to survive Sylvie’s death.

He looked up now, the night a perfect one for stars—frosted, clear and empty of other human beings. Intact if not whole, he stood there on a small island of
terra firma
with an illimitable ocean stretching out toward all horizons. Within that ocean, he knew, there were vast, dark spaces, bodies that moved in all directions at speeds that inspired terror. There was also beauty that stole a man’s breath, and moments of awe and wonder that were like an oasis where a weary pilgrim might rest long enough to regain the strength to take that next burning step, and the one after that.

And maybe, just maybe, even for the walking wounded, for the terrified and the sick at heart, for star stuff with the ability to contemplate star stuff, there was still some form of life out there.

Chapter Eight
Should Old Acquaintance…

It had been a very long week at the Fair Housing office
and when it ended, Pat had been more than grateful to head out into the countryside to look after his brother’s stead for the weekend. He had meant to arrive before dinner but a last minute call from an utterly desperate family who had been evicted from their cold water flat had delayed him. His car had spent the week choking and coughing and finally died with a sigh two days before. He’d caught a bus out as far as Newry and then tramped the rest of the way. When he turned down the drive, the yard was dark as a nun’s habit, the moon well hid behind cloud as dense as a bramble hedge. The trees only shapeless patches of greater darkness within the swallowing whole. The dark here did not disturb him. His brother had chosen well when he bought this house for there was a peace to the wee hollow that embraced one as soon as one left the roadway and took the ambling drive down toward the house.

He came around the corner of the house, still deep in his thoughts, to find someone standing there, face turned up to the night sky above. He startled, not expecting anyone here at this time of night. The person reached toward his waistband, a gesture so swift and automatic that Pat knew whoever he was, he carried a gun at all times.

He reacted swiftly, throwing himself to the corner of the house and rolling into the safety of the wall. He cursed himself roundly in his head, backing along the wall and trying to hear steps approaching. He had let his guard down in a way he never did in the city and now he was going to pay for that bit of foolishness.

He raised his head, eyes scanning the area. There was no sound of footsteps, but that could mean the bastard was circling the house in the opposite direction and coming up behind him. He doubled back, sliding along the wall, cursing Pamela’s penchant for large thorny rambler roses up against the house. This time of year they had yet to sprout new leaves and the thorns were only the more brutal for the lack of protection.

He slid behind the largest one, which ran up the west wall to the windows of Casey and Pamela’s bedroom. From here he would have a view both ways as the person circled the house.

He stood there for an agony of an age, slowing his breath and hoping his heart wasn’t audible on the still night. There was no sound and he wondered fleetingly if the intruder had fled? No, his senses told him someone still lurked in the shadows, that even if he could neither hear nor see him he was still nearby, and no innocuous presence either.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled suddenly, telling him someone was within feet of him. He turned his head slowly, not wanting to give his own position away.

The dark figure slid around the corner of the house, pistol at arm’s length, silent as a snake in the grass. Something seemed familiar about the man, even through the adrenaline rush currently clouding Pat’s mind. The hedge of cloud opened a little and a rogue beam of moonlight struck the intruder for a second. It was enough to see the shape of him.

“David?” he said blankly, his mind not quite able to fathom what a British spy might be doing in his brother’s back yard.

“Patrick?” He stepped out into the light, tucking his gun back into his waistband as he moved.

“Aye, it’s me,” Pat said, extricating himself from the enormous thorns of the rambler. “It’s the helluva shock to come upon yerself though, here in the middle of the night.”

“I imagine it is,” David said. “I think it might be best to take this conversation inside though.”

It hardly seemed likely to Pat that anyone was lurking around the sheep pen in the hope of catching their conversation but he was chilled and damp from his dive into the leaves and grass and in need of a cup of tea to steady him. He had not expected to see David in this setting. Part of him was glad to see him, the part that had found in this quiet British soldier/spy one of the best friends he had ever known. Another part was angry. Angry because of the man’s admittance that his feelings were more than those of simple friendship. Angry because as much as Sylvie’s death had not directly been David’s fault, it had been Pat’s relationship with him that led to that tragic Sunday.

Once inside, Pat lit the fire while David put the kettle on.

David was the same and yet entirely changed. His hair had grown long over his collar and was dyed almost as dark as Pat’s own, the planes of his face seeming harder and more forbidding than they had before. Well, Pat supposed, they were both changed and too much had happened, too much grief had been ladled out in over-generous portions, for them not to bear the marks of it. Some days he barely recognized the man in the mirror himself. And it was part of David’s job description to be a chameleon, not to be recognized from one day to the next, to always blend, never to be in context. Part of the scenery, yet part of nothing. A life of loneliness lived by a man whose feelings ran deep.

“You’ve changed as well,” David said, smiling and pushing the teapot across the table toward Pat.

“I know,” Pat smiled, realizing his thoughts had played across his face as visibly as print in a book. “Life will do that to a man.”

“How are you then?” David asked, as Pat poured out tea into the heavy mug David had placed near his right hand.

Pat shrugged. “As well as I can manage, I suppose.” There wasn’t any way to tell the man the truth because he didn’t know the truth himself. How does anyone survive life-altering grief? How does anyone wake up every day feeling like he has shattered glass in place of the heart that used to beat in his chest?

David nodded, a wise enough man to know when to leave a subject lie.

“I wanted a wee break from the city, thought I’d come out an’ stay. I’ve keys an’ Casey is always tellin’ me to come an’ stay when I like so I thought I’d finally take him up on the offer. But yerself, well, that’s a bit more puzzlin’. After all, Casey is my brother, an’ the last time I checked him an’ you didn’t exactly have a warm relationship.”

“No, we didn’t and likely never will, but it was him that came to ask me to go see you after Sylvie died.”

“Oh,” Pat said, shocked that his brother would do such a thing. But if he were honest with himself, he knew Casey would do far more and far worse to ensure his well-being.

“I was hoping to talk to him tonight but when I arrived the place was dark and you were skulking about in the shrubbery. It’s not the first time I’ve been here.”

“What do ye mean, this isn’t the first time ye’ve been here?” Pat asked, not bothering to hide the shock in his voice.

David took a heavy breath and gave Pat a hard look, one that reminded him that this man often had to interrogate people in his line of work. He saw clearly why David had been the one assigned to work with Jamie, one bastard spying on another.

“I’ve been in contact with your brother for a bit. There was some work that I felt he was suited to. We needed someone inside, so to speak, or at least someone who could access certain groups without raising too much suspicion.”

“Ye expect me to believe that my brother
willingly
works for a British spy?”

David grimaced slightly. “Willingly might be an overstatement, but yes, that’s the fact of it. If I tell you that he’s helping me to get testimony about the ring of men who are running young boys as prostitutes, perhaps it will make more sense to you.”

Lawrence. Of course. It made sense to him now, even as it made him furious at Casey. If anyone knew better than to hitch any sort of wagon to the British, it was his brother. If anyone was to find out it would be an automatic death sentence—no questions, no time for reasoning, just a bullet to the back of the head after lengthy torture. But if there was one thing that would cause Casey to behave in such a dangerous manner, it was Lawrence’s death, and the notion that he owed the boy some form of posthumous justice. Still, it was pure goddamn nonsense. Justice was an airy notion when, no matter the verdict, it could not bring back the dead.

“Christ,” Pat said, the tea tasting bitter as aloes on his tongue. “I should have known. Fockin’ Brits can never resist sinkin’ yer claws in when ye see an opportunity.”

David raised an eyebrow. “I see you’re still angry with me.”

“Still angry? No, I’m freshly angry, ye bastard. Yer goin’ to get my brother killed askin’ him to work for the enemy, knowin’ if ye dangled the idea of avenging Lawrence in his face he’d be unable to resist. The man has a family he’s responsible for now. Or is nothin’ sacred to your sort?”

“My sort?” David said, still maddeningly calm. In fact the man seemed almost amused by Pat’s outburst. “Do you mean the spy sort, or the pervert sort?”

“The spy sort. I’ve never called ye a pervert so don’t insult me by implyin’ that I have.”

David flushed slightly. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I had forgotten how easily you get under my skin. My defenses are not quite what they would be, had I been prepared to see you.”

“Nor mine,” Pat admitted.

“Well, you wouldn’t know it,” David said, and smiled. “You’re the same formidable bastard to me that you’ve always seemed.”

It was Pat’s turn to crook a brow in disbelief. “I hardly think, considerin’ what ye do, that I put any fear in ye.”

“Not as much as your brother, admittedly, but you’re an intimidating man when you so choose, Patrick Riordan. Certainly you’ve a temper on you.”

Well, Pat thought, that much was true. His fuse was long and slow to light, but as his brother had often said, when the explosion came it was best to stay clear of him for a good length of time. There weren’t many people who had seen him angry, but David certainly was one of them.

“This—what you’ve told me about my brother. Ye shouldn’t have.”

“No, I shouldn’t have. But I’ll tell you, Patrick Riordan, in a world of people I either don’t trust, or am not allowed to—you, I trust. Allow me that. It’s been a rare gift in my life.”

It was true, Pat knew, for despite the times and the country in which they had met, despite the tragedy and the loss, David and he had formed a friendship, and they had trusted one another regardless of being natural enemies due to politics and birth.

“So will ye be workin’ with Jamie again?” Pat asked, and was gratified to see the flash of surprise in David’s face.

“How on earth do you know about my connection with Jamie?”

“I didn’t, just half guessed, bein’ that I’ve an idea of some of Jamie’s more secret lines of work. I know the man is well connected an’ I doubt ye could do much on his turf that wouldn’t have to somehow lead back to him, information-wise if nothin’ else.”

“Jamie,” David shrugged and looked toward the ceiling, as though appealing to heaven for a way to explain the situation.

“I know him quite well,” Pat said, smiling. “Ye don’t have to explain. I was determined to hate him when I met him. He was everything I thought I stood against and now… well, now I can honestly say he’s a very dear friend. The only people I trust more than him are my brother and Pamela.”

“He thinks a great deal of you as well,” David said. “He made it clear that if I hurt you in any way, shape or form he’d have me tarred and feathered and heading for the gibbet in short order.”

“He tries to look after those he loves, though I fear it’s been a bit like tryin’ to herd mice at a crossroads for him, between Pamela an’ myself.”

David laughed, a light and charming sound. “I can well imagine. Your sister-in-law has a strong will and decided opinions. I doubt even Lord Kirkpatrick is immune to her other charms either.”

“No, he’s not,” Pat said quietly. “It’s why he left.”

David raised a fine, dyed eyebrow. “Why he left?”

“He loves her.”

“Ah,” David nodded, as though a piece of puzzle had slipped into place that he hadn’t realized he was holding. “And she him?” he asked, words light and hesitant as if he knew it wasn’t quite appropriate to ask Pat, considering that the woman in question was his brother’s wife.

“Aye,” Pat replied, “she does, but she loves my brother as much an’ it’s him she’s married to. It’s not simple, but somehow they’ve all managed to get through it intact.”

“More than intact, I’d say, I’ve seen your brother and Pamela together. There’s enough passion there to singe an innocent passerby, much less those actually living inside it.”

“It’s been that way since the first time they set eyes on one another. They couldn’t keep apart. It was like watching two magnets dance about in a limited space. But if ye’d ever seen her and Jamie with one another, ye’d understand there’s another dance goin’ on that’s just as potent, but made up of entirely different steps.”