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Sionnach’s shoulders collapse under the shame he’s worn as a yoke for two hundred years. “I have the blood of a priest on my hands.”
Olk growls through gritted teeth. “The confession of a blackened soul.”
Máthair turns on Olk. “Do not speak of my son’s soul.” Tears brighten her eyes as she looks back to Sionnach. “Why did you do it?”
“Weakness, Ma. Cowardice.”
Timothy watches his son. “Did you offer up the priest willingly, son?”
“Faith, no. ‘Twas torture wrenched such words from my lips.”
My heart threatens to stop beating at the thought of Sionnach being tortured at the hands of Cornwallis and his terror.
Timothy gazes intently upon his son. “’Tis wrong you’ve done.”
Máthair shakes her head but stops as the rope chafes her throat. “Did you confess this betrayal to a priest?”
From behind them, Olk lets out a low laugh. “There is no absolution for your son’s sin.”
“Yes, straight away,” says Sionnach to his mother.
Máthair pushes a strand of hair that’s strayed in front of her eyes. “You should never have put your life in a world of such danger to send us money.”
Timothy reaches a hand toward Sionnach. “I’ll bless you, not condemn you, for taking on such a burden.”
Sionnach lowers his head in deference. “Forgive me for choosing ambition instead of staying here and seeing you through hard times.” He meets his father’s eyes. “And for causing the death of a sainted man, bringing disgrace to your house, Father.” Slowly, he turns and bows to Máthair. “To you, Ma—” Tears rain down the faces of both mother and son. “I thank you for the thing you’ll be doing for me soon.”
Olk growls as his gloating smile is replaced by gritted teeth. “Silence, priest killer.” The bones of his face press against his skin as he teeters on the precipice of failure. He rocks the table, drawing cries of pain from the elder Lohos.
The room brightens from an unseen source. Olk gags and chokes. The air around us is charged with sweetness and warmth. Our tormentor forces out a breath, fogging the air around his head as his final assault threatens to fall apart.
The grace of forgiveness swirls through the cottage like a whisper of breeze through wildflowers. I feel the Veil acknowledge truths told—virtues restored. The last soul in the soulfall, my Sionnach, will rise tonight.
I take in the twisted version of Jeremy Olk. The whites of his eyes are filled with red, crisscrossed lines. His hair has no more luster than matted straw. The skin of face and hands is covered with wrinkles and veins like the bark of a very old tree. His voice is stone grating against stone. “It’s time to bargain, spy.”
Even the essence of forgiveness bearing down on him does not stop this creature in a priest’s robe, blinded by his damaged perception of celestial justice. He will fight until he or Sionnach are destroyed.
Olk crosses to the front of the table. “Your soul for theirs. Come back to the tower with me and forfeit your grace, or I will force them to leap off the table and take their own lives.” His laugh is soot and bile. “Suicide is a mortal sin. Do allow me the favor of tormenting their souls for all time in our shared purgatory.”
Where Sionnach’s arm touches mine, his muscles ripple, a dry branch catching fire.
With a roar of “Devil take you,” Sionnach streaks past me and tackles Olk. In a few twists, Sionnach is captured in a headlock, his leine torn open. The tip of Olk’s knife pierces the skin of Sionnach’s left breast above the heart. A thin stripe of blood trickles below the blade.
I lunge forward, screaming, “No.”
Sionnach groans in pain as Olk compresses his windpipe while pressing the dagger farther into flesh.
Olk shows his teeth. “No farther, Eala, or you’ll forever bear the stain of these three ruined souls.” I freeze, trembling with absolute helplessness.
My existence is defined by Sionnach’s success in freeing every soul in the soulfall given into his care, including his own. How can I stand here and watch a soul-rotted Jeremy Olk drive a knife through my love’s heart or kill my grandmother and Timothy Loho? What happens if Sionnach dies in this time? He will never become a Veil guide. Little Harriett, Strongbow’s squire, the Earl of Rosse, Alaina Kennedy, and Arthur Vicars will be condemned to fall into disgrace for all of eternity. Olk’s evil will triumph, and I’ll bear the stain of more than three cursed souls.
Olk sneers. “You’ve played your part well, leading me to this Veil guide.”
The accusation is a blow. “I didn’t.”
“Oh, but you did, stupid woman, even after your petty rift with him.” My stomach drops. The man I knew as Jeremy charmed me, and then acted the hero to rid my life of the annoying local. His fabricated romantic advances, stories of pitch-capping and Faeries, were machinations to drive me back to Sionnach so he could follow.
Rage surges through me. The energy of the Veil vibrates beneath my feet, shaking the cottage floor. It’s as if a crust of winter ice upon a river falls from my spirit. Planting my feet, I raise a fist. “Stupid, I am not.” I am the essence of oak and swan created by Finnbheara, great King of the Connacht Fae. “And you are no priest. Your Father Colm would damn the fetid soul you’ve become.”
