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Malcolm leaned forward, peering at him through narrowed eyes. “No, it’s not. I thought you might cooperate for your release. By confessing to all the bad things the arts center is secretly up to.”
Liam forced his muscles to relax again. “The arts center is one of the strongest and most forward-thinking community projects in the west of Ireland. It serves Caisleán—”
“But it has all that money,” Malcolm said, rubbing his hands swiftly together. “And I do so love money. I can’t have enough of it, especially after growing up in near poverty.”
“As another human, I have compassion for the child you were, but you’re an adult now. Only a weak man continues to use childhood experiences as an excuse for making the wrong choices. That’s talking like a victim, and Malcolm, I fear my impression of you is as wrong as yours is of me, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”
The man’s face went mottled red. “You little prick. No one speaks to me like that.”
Liam fell into his breathing, keeping his face neutral. The stare-off commenced, and Liam knew it was one Malcolm would lose. No one could beat him in such things after all his training in meditation and mindfulness. He could sit for hours at a time without moving. His Summercrest roommates had discovered that in a playful challenge one night.
“You seem to think you’re smart, Liam O’Hanlon,” Malcolm said, rising slowly as he took a couple of steps forward.
Liam only tipped his head back and looked at him, aware it would infuriate Malcolm that he wasn’t intimidated.
“It appears we’re not going to get anywhere.” He spat on the ground inches from Liam’s knee. “You’re just like your mother. How does it feel to know she could have gotten you out of this whole mess if only she’d agreed to close the arts center? What kind of mother sacrifices her own son for something so stupid? She clearly doesn’t love you.”
Liam shook his head in pity. “I believe you’re speaking of your own mother now, Malcolm. Not mine.”
The man had his hand wrapped around Liam’s neck in a heartbeat, and Liam dropped into his heart to find calm after the initial shock. The man’s grip tightened, restricting the flow of blood in his neck. Liam struggled for breath, refusing to look away from Malcolm’s wild eyes.
The man released him, his own breath whooshing out as Liam dragged in oxygen. “You’re a cool one, aren’t you? I could use someone like you on the payroll. But fine. You want to rot in here longer, it’s your choice. Only you might be interested in another visitor, one I thought might ruffle your feathers. Guards!”
The door opened. His aunt Mary walked in, dressed in an old black dress Liam recognized. She’d had it for twenty years, he figured, going back to when her husband had died. He’d never been one to judge other people’s clothes, but the color, he now understood, only vibrated with the darkness inside her.
“Hello, Aunt Mary.”
She took the chair when Malcolm pointed to it, her black serviceable shoes crossed at the ankle. “Your father would be disgraced to find you here.”
So that was her play. “My father—your good and kind brother—would have been outraged at this injustice. But surely he would have been disgraced by his own sister being a party to killing sheep and sawing their wool off so badly they left their bodies bleeding and scraped. You do know that more might die from the cold with the near-winter nights upon us, don’t you? As a woman whose family was in sheep—”
“I’ve hated them all my life,” she gritted out, her eyes as dark as her dress now. “Putting words on them was ridiculous, something Carrick did in the madness of his grief. When Keegan O’Malley took up the torch, everyone in Caisleán groaned. Now they’re famous. Sheep! Because people want to hear aboutkindness.The world is full of poor, pathetic fools. And you’re one of them, Liam O’Hanlon. Your mother raised you wrong, and my brother let her.”
He simply looked at her. Whatever blood tie or physical resemblance they might have, he was not related to this woman in spirit. “The mural showed you for what you are. The children in the fable symbolize lambs being led to slaughter. Innocents. From now on, people are going to call you a sheep killer as you walk by them on the streets or in a store. I personally can’t imagine anything more humiliating than that.”
“You little shite!” She flew to her feet, and for a moment, he thought she was going to slap him. She’d done that to his older brother Rhys once. It had happened at Christmas dinner—he’d called her a mean lady for making their mum cry. That was the last Christmas they’d spent with her in attendance.
Malcolm clapped his hands slowly. “You forgot to tell me how entertaining your family is. I can’t wait to meet your son, Mary. Liam, you should know I’m working on his release while you remain imprisoned. Unless you’ve decided to change your mind.”
A nod wouldn’t suffice. “I haven’t and I won’t.”
His aunt pointed at him. “See! A fool.”
“Liam,” Malcolm said, sinking to his haunches, “we have a number of Irish laws we plan to use to keep you under lock and key without anyone’s knowledge for a long time. Hate crimes are taken very seriously in this country, and we don’t want you or anyone associated with you to incite more hatred. Enjoy your stay. Come, Mary.”
He rose and walked to the door. Liam’s aunt leveled him another hateful look, one he had to repel due to the punch of dark energy that came with it.
“One last thing,” his aunt said as Malcolm knocked on the metal door for it to be opened. “You tell Sorcha she had better stay away from me. Her little stunt by the fence so I’d tear my dress was pathetic.”
“And yet the Garda has a piece of your dress as evidence—”
“Which I burned in the stove when I got home because I’m not the stupid one here.” She walked over until she was directly over him and leaned down so close he could smell the offensive hair spray she used to keep her gray curls in place. “You and yours would be wise not to underestimate me. And you tell Sorcha…I know the old ways. I can make sure she never appears again.”
He fought a shudder as an unnatural cold entered the room. He could feel its fingertips touching him as a wraith-like form swirled around his aunt. He closed his eyes and brought in the light. He heard her gasp as the cold vanished.
“You forget, Aunt Mary,” he said, meeting her hard gaze. “That power runs in my blood too, a blood you can’t curse without cursing yourself. Only I use the good, and believe me, there is more on our side than Sorcha alone.”
He was aware of Malcolm watching. His aunt only smiled, a feral smile, the kind he imagined a fox gave before it killed a sheep. “We’ll see.”
