“But worse, they’re responsible for the vandalism in the Cathedral and the attack on Father MacGowen. Planning a second attack tonight.”
“No fucking way,” Mac says, shaking his head. Every fucking Clan from here to the coast knows the Cathedral is sacred ground, but the Aitkens especially are aware that MacGowen is our Clan chaplain.
“Why?”
I shake my head. “Who knows, but not only is it a power move, I suspect foul play as well. You know some of the chalices and the like are worth a good sum.”
“Right.”
Even though I’m in the driver’s seat, I can feel the men behind me sitting up straighter. Mac cracks his knuckles, Tate’s muttering to himself, and Clyde’s large bulk is taut like a bowstring.
“We’ll fuck ‘em up good,” Clyde mutters.
“Aye, we will. But we’ll do so anonymously.”
“What?” Mac says, outraged. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I am not.” They fall into silence, some of them silently fuming.
Tate speaks up quietly. “Not showing our faces is a sign of weakness, Leith.”
I shake my head. “They deserve to be punished for what they did, but I want them guessing who it is. I want them looking over their shoulders when they go to bed at night. I want them afraid for their women and children. I want them questioning every fucking dirty move they make.”
We drive into the city in silence. Darkness has settled with the finality of evening, only moonlight illuminating the road before us.
“I’ll not back down or show cowardice, you know that,” I tell my men. “But sometimes stealth is the better choice.”
* * *
Chapter Two
Cairstina
I stare out my window at the moonlight sky, and for a brief moment, imagine myself sitting atop the large, glowing orb. I’d dangle my feet, reaching for the stars with one hand while anchoring myself with the other. Once I got a handful of stars, I’d swing right back up to the moon, nestling the stars in my lap and looking at each one in wonder. They’re all unique, you see, just like people, no two stars alike.
I’m yanked out of my reverie with the crash of a door. I sit up in bed, gasping, my journal and pen falling to the floor. Shite. I try not to make noise when my brother comes home.
“Where the fuck is she?” Oh no. Oh no. He knows, then. He’s found out already. I toss off my blanket and look about for my shoes. If I hadn’t let my damn imagination take me away again, I’d have kept track of the time and realized my brother would be back from work at any moment.
I’d have already hidden until he got drunk off his arse and forgot about me.
Dammit.
“Where do you think she is?” my mother mutters in her oily, high-pitched voice. “In her fuckin’ bed being useless as always.”
Her words don’t hurt me like they used to. Now it’s more like a scratch on a scabbed wound. Still painful, but not as much.
I shove my mobile in my pocket, find one shoe, scrambling for the second, as his heavy boots come up the stairs. I find it just as he reaches the landing, shove them on my feet, and as the door to my room bursts open, I make my move.
I duck his swinging fist, using the element of surprise to my advantage. He’s clumsy when he’s drunk, and if it’s anywhere near past midday, he’s drunk.
“Fucking useless whore!” he roars. I’m halfway to the stairs when he grabs me by the hair. I open my mouth as if to scream, but as always, no sound comes. I thrash my hands at him, but it’s too late. He’s dragged me back to him and hauled me up in front of him.
“Think you can get away?” he says, his face contorted in fury so he looks like a rabid dog. I bat at his hands, but I can’t get away from him. Even when he’s drunk, he’s a damn man, and stronger than I am by mere biology.
There was a time Dougal and I were allies, but that was long, long ago. So long ago, it might as well be another universe. By the time he was ten, he’d learned from my father’s vicious blows and wicked strop that beating people weaker than you was a means to an end. Make others fear you, and you can have anything you want.
“Why’d you do it?” he asks, yanking my hair so hard it feels as if he’s pulling it out. Tears blur my vision.
My mother laughs humorously. “As if she’ll answer you.”
“Why!” he bellows. I know exactly what he’s talking about, though even I could speak, I wouldn’t tell him why I pilfered money from the broken jar in the kitchen. What he doesn’t know is that I do it every week. I have a stash under my mattress, along with the money I’ve earned from my photographs, and by this time next month, I’ll have enough to leave here for good.