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Then Noah leaned back again slowly. Rory was shaking. His dark face, Gaelic dark, paled as he stared back at the shadow hovering in front of his vision.
Noah moved back slowly, still gripping the rifle. “Come with me.” He jerked his head to the shed at the edge of the house yard. “Does he still keep the shed lit?”
There was no answer, but Rory was following. They stepped into the shed and Noah closed the door carefully before flipping the light on.
Rory collapsed on the old chair in the corner and stared back at him. His gaze was dark with pain, anger.
“I thought you were my brother,” he whispered. “Hell, I hoped you were.”
Noah watched as his brother rubbed his hands over his face and shook his black head.
Noah removed the
night vision glasses he wore. A new toy the unit was playing with. One he had taken advantage of. He stared back at Rory, realizing the color of the eyes he saw every morning in the mirror was wilder, bleaker, much darker and more dangerous than his brother’s.
Rory blinked.
“Do you still sneak in here to smoke?” Noah asked, remembering how his brother used to slip a cigarette when he thought no one would catch him.
Only he and Rory had known that.
Rory’s hand shook. He gripped the arms of the old chair and stared at Noah as though he could force himself to see what he needed to see.
“Who are you?” Rory finally breathed out painfully, his voice filled with more disappointment than Noah had expected. “And what the hell do you want?”
Noah shook his head. “I don’t have time for games, Rory.”
“You’re not Nathan,” Rory whispered.
“I’m not the Nathan you remember.” He moved to the wardrobe in the back of the shed, opened the small door in the bottom and extracted the bottle of whiskey he knew his grandfather kept there.
He hid his spirits from his Erin, he would always grin when he slipped a sip. Even though his Erin was dead, his grandfather continued the tradition.
Uncorking the fine imported Irish spirit, he tipped the bottle to his lips and took a healthy drink. He didn’t grimace as it went down, he savored it. Recapping it, he returned it to the drawer and turned back to Rory.
The boy was staring at him now as though he had seen a ghost.
“No one knows about Grandpop’s stash,” he whispered.
Noah nodded shortly. “You knew. I knew. Grant never knew.”
Rory breathed out roughly. “You stopped calling Grant dad after you found out about me.”
Noah lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “He couldn’t be your dad, then he was no dad of mine.”
Rory shook his head as though to shake the confusion clear. Nathan almost felt sorry for him. He didn’t have time for pity though.
He grabbed an old wooden chair and pulled it to him. Straddling it, he stared back at his brother.
“You’re not making sense,” Rory said, his voice forceful. “You’re not Nathan, but you know the things only he knew.” The younger man’s gaze looked him over desperately. “Who are you?”
“Nathan’s ghost.” He sighed. “I’m Noah Blake, Rory, and you can’t ever forget that. From this second on, believe Nathan is dead, because that man is long gone. Only Noah exists.”
And still Rory was trying to find Nathan within him. Noah watched the desperation in his brother’s gaze, felt it lashing at his soul.
“I need your help, Rory.”
“My help?” Rory shook his head again. “Hell, I don’t even know who you are.”
