And who the fuck is S?
I reach my truck and climb in. Before I start the engine, my phone buzzes. Excitement rips through my core. Finally, Daley’s calling. I can tell her about this little piece of information and see what she has to say, and maybe she’ll come to my apartment again and I can spread her legs and make her scream—
Instead, it’s a number I don’t recognize. “Hello?”
“Rian.” Chief Fergal’s voice is cold and intense. Instantly, adrenaline pumps into my veins, making my body go numb.
He never, ever calls like this. Not directly.
“Sir, what’s wrong?”
“Aiden’s dead and Daley’s missing.”
Chapter 26
Daley
The world comes back in pieces.
First there’s light. Then there’s a deep, ugly throbbing in my head. I groan, which means there’s sound, and I blink a few times and try to roll over, but the pain’s too much so I stop.
I’m not dead. I’m staring at a bland drop ceiling like you’d see in an office. The lights are fluorescent and buzz ever so slightly. A spider built a web in the corner, and there’s something stuck inside: a little fly. My mouth is dry, and I’m thirsty, and I feel like I might be sick.
I manage to sit up and survey the room.
I’m lying on a thin cot. There’s a pillow behind my head, and a blanket is laid over my legs. I guess someone put me here and tried to make me comfortable, which is almost nice. Except I remember what happened to Aiden, the blood pumping from his throat, and Maceo kicking me in the face—
I touch my cheek. It’s bruised and painful. I push harder, wanting the pain now, wanting to invite it in and clean me out and leave me numb—
I start sobbing as I curl up in a ball.
Aiden’s dead.
My brother is dead.
I watched him die, his throat sliced open like mine was nearly sliced open all those weeks ago. I remember his blood pumping out all over the table. I still feel the boot connect with my face as I screamed. Everything’s fuzzy like placed through a filter, but it’s real.
It’s all real.
I remember Aiden and me when we were kids, back before Shane died. When life was still easy. One afternoon, we were running around the house playing tag, running from room to room and laughing. We did that a lot in those days. The house seemed like an oasis, a playroom built just for us. We were the kings of our castle, and we explored it with childish wonder, flitting around from room to room, pretending we were knights and dragons and dinosaurs. That day, Callum and Nolan were it and chasing us, and me and Aiden were running together, laughing stupidly and having fun, until I slammed into the corner of a table and knocked a clock onto the floor. Its face cracked and splintered. The glass shattered. We stood there staring, not sure what to do, until Aiden put it back and said, don’t worry, I’ll deal with it.
When Dad asked about it hours later, Aiden took the blame. He winked at me and Dad slapped him in the face three times until he fell to the ground and curled up in a tight ball and told him never to do it again. When it was over, and we were all back in the hall, Aiden’s face already blooming with an ugly bruise, he asked if I was okay—like I was the one that got hit instead of him.
I have other memories. Hundreds of memories of him, dozens of them. A lot of them are good, especially the ones from when we were younger. The man he turned into after Shane’s death was a long time away in so many of my memories, and so many of them make me smile. What he became later, the man in the car who was so willing to sell me off to the Turks and utterly disinterested in my pain, that man was completely different from the Aiden I grew up with. The Aiden I still love with all my heart.
That Aiden died a while ago, but whatever was left of him, the scraps of my brother, finally perished in front of me.
I cry hard. My eyes are blinded with tears, and it takes a while to calm down. Another brother dead, another victim of the clan. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much hatred before in my life, but I despise my father so much right now it aches deep in my guts. I hate what he did to Aiden and what he did to Shane and what he’ll do to dozens of other boys until the day he finally follows them all into the grave.
And after him, the cycle will continue. That’s the real horror. Fergal Halloran isn’t the clan, he’s only its current leader and steward. He shapes it, but he doesn’t define it. The clan will eat its young, corrupt them, ruin them, for years and years after my father’s gone. It’ll turn them into shadows of their childhood selves. It’ll cut all their throats and bleed them at the altar.