Page 59 of When Kings Rise

“I don't know who you think you are,” I growl into the phone, my voice a low rumble of barely contained rage, “but you'll regret this call.” My mind races, trying to place the voice.

When the caller speaks again, recognition slams into me like a physical blow. Oisin Cormick. The hitman who trained me, the man whose name I've taken as my professional moniker. Him. A flood of memories washes over me, moments of brutal training and begrudging respect. Cormick had been a constant, a harsh mentor but one who had looked out for me in his own twisted way.

All of that feels like a lie now.

“Cormick,” I say, the name tasting like betrayal on my tongue. “What have you done with her?”

His laughter is cold, devoid of the warmth I once thought I knew. “Nothing. But I know where two of your Brides are, and it’s somewhere they shouldn’t be.”

I have so many questions, like why is he tracking my Brides? He calls out an address I’m not familiar with.

I type the address into my navigation app. “I am more than twenty minutes away,” I say and start up the engine.

“It's a good thing Victor gave you three.” The implication of his words sends a fresh wave of urgency coursing through me. The line goes dead, and I grip the steering wheel tighter as I drive toward the address.

The man who had shaped me into the weapon I am today, who had watched over me with a cold, detached kind of care, now plays the most dangerous game with the lives of those under my protection. I have no idea why he is following my Brides, but I need to get to them. I need to protect them from Cormick and from themselves.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Niamh

SOFIA HUGHES WAS more than a name in a file, more than a statistic in the dark underbelly of the city. She was a person, a sister, a part of a family torn asunder by her disappearance. As I flip through the documents Rian has painstakingly gathered, I can't help but admire his diligence. For someone who's not a professional, Rian's work is impressive. The array of Sofia's social media accounts sprawls across the table, a digital footprint frozen in time. The last post dates back two years, a smiling photo that betrays no hint of the darkness to come.

This timeline doesn't add up. Sofia's death was a recent affair, yet her digital life halted long before her last breath—the discrepancy nags at me, a puzzle piece that refuses to fit.

Rian's next revelation is a stack of articles, each penned with the kind of fervor that spoke of Sofia's passion for her work. She was a prolific writer. The majority of names of those she interviewed were politicians. Yet, there's a glaring gap in her professional output. No articles published in the last year of her life. What silenced Sofia Hughes?

In the kitchen, Selene and Rian share a quiet moment over cups of tea, the steam swirling between them. Rian had offered me a cup, but the chaos of his apartment made the very thought unappealing. It's not that Rian's living conditions reflect a lack of cleanliness; rather, it's organized chaos. Everything has its place, though that place makes sense only to him. Selene doesn’t seem to mind the mess around us as they speak with ease over their cup of tea.

I can't share their ease. The disorder clashes violently with the world I grew up in, a world of precision and predictability. My comfort zone is a rigid structure, a framework within which I know how to operate.

But it's not the time to dwell on personal discomforts. Sofia's life, her legacy, demands more than that. As I sift through the documents, a plan begins to crystallize. We need to follow the threads Sofia left behind, to trace her last days through the shadows she chased. Her sister deserves answers.

“Rian, how did you come across this?” I ask, motioning towards the stack of articles. My voice cuts through the comfortable silence, a reminder of the work yet undone.

Rian turns toward me. “It wasn't easy. Sofia was meticulous, maybe too much so for her own good. It's like she knew she was onto something big.”

Something big. The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Sofia Hughes didn't just vanish from the digital world without reason. She was silenced, but not before she uncovered a truth someone wanted buried.

Selene's question about our next move anchors us back to the task at hand, pulling my attention momentarily away from the chaotic spread of Rian's apartment. Rian's enthusiasm is palpable as he outlines a strategy that includes reaching out to Sofia's sister, contacting secretaries of politicians entangled in Sofia's articles, and possibly even approaching the publications that had purchased her work.

As Rian speaks, my gaze drifts, taking in the layers of his obsession that wallpaper the room. Amongst the clutter, a project centered on a 'Lizzie O’Neill' with a “1925” label catches my eye. It's a web of information, a historical puzzle he's piecing together with the patience of a saint. Close by, another collection focuses on Moll McCarthy, and I marvel at Rian's capacity to dive into the past, to resurrect stories long buried.

But it's a familiar symbol that snags my attention, halting the idle wandering of my eyes—a crown cradled in the palm of a hand. I rise, drawn to the wall, where this symbol acts as a nexus for an elaborate network of strings that branch out to maps, photographs, and timelines. It's a conspiracy theorist's dream, connecting dots between organized crime, law enforcement, and even religious figures. There, scrawled in Rian's hand, is the name “Hand of Kings.”

The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine. The Hand of Kings, a name whispered in shadows, a name that has brushed against my own life in ways I wish it hadn't. I can't resist the pull of curiosity. “Tell me about this,” I urge, my voice tinged with an intensity that mirrors the fixation displayed on the wall.

Rian's excitement is a tangible thing as he turns to the wall, his eyes lighting up with the fire of obsession; he leaves his tea on the counter as he approaches me and pushes his glasses up on his nose. “The Hand of Kings,” he begins, unaware that he speaks to someone far more entwined in that world than he could imagine. “I've been tracking this cult since I was a teenager. Most people laugh, call me crazy, but there are too many connections, too many coincidences. They're real, and they have their hands in everything—crime, the law, even the church.”

Listening to him, I can't help but feel a twinge of fear mixed with a profound sadness. Here is Rian, a man consumed by a truth too dangerous to pursue.

“I've seen this symbol before,” I confess, my voice low, laden with a weight of knowledge I wish I didn't carry. “Your work, your theories... they're not as farfetched as you might think.”

Rian's eyes meet mine, a flicker of realization, of validation, passing between us.

Rian's conviction seems to grow with every word, painting a world where hidden clues and shadowy councils pull the strings of global events from behind a veil of secrecy. His theory that there's a vault filled with the world's darkest secrets, with the entrance clue hidden on a grave in Glasnevin Cemetery, sounds like something out of an adventure novel.

“A council?” Selene interjects, skepticism threading through her voice. “There isn't one leader?”

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