Page 42 of When Kings Rise

Rian smiles. “Because it turns into cultured milk.”

As he drinks his yogurt, I try to get us back on track.

“You do realize that getting involved with this could be dangerous for you, right?” I warn him, hoping he understands the gravity of our situation. I’m saying it for me and Selene also.

“I don't care about the danger,” he says, his focus unwavering. It's clear that the pursuit of truth, the unraveling of this mystery, outweighs any personal risk in his mind.

“Okay, so you can go in then?” I ask.

“Oh no, they know who I am; I could never get in. You two will be going in by yourselves,” Rian states matter-of-factly.

His words settle over us. I want to protest that this is getting out of hand.

I look over at Selene, ready to protest, ready to turn and leave. We can forget we ever started down this path. We can remain ignorant.

We can remain safe.

But something gleams in Selene’s eyes. Determination. A grim kind of resolution. Her gaze flickers to mine, and when she speaks, I find myself nodding despite my fears.

“We’re in.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Diarmuid

AS I WALK through the hallowed halls of St. Gertrude's Church, the air vibrates with the harmonious singing of the choir. Their voices lift and soar, reverberating against the ancient stone walls. I tread lightly between the altars, my steps measured, my heart attuned to the sanctity of this place. Pausing at the transept, where the architecture of the church forms the solemn shape of the cross, I feel a moment of reverence, and my mind sings that we should all burst into flames for our sins. I turn away, hating how much control the church—or, more precisely, Victor—has over us all.

Beyond the reach of the choir's celestial sounds lie the hidden chancel, shrouded in thick, velvet curtains. Behind the far right curtain, shielded from view, I can hear whispers that get swallowed up amidst the choir's song. In this moment, I'm reminded of tales of secret societies, of hidden truths and ancient mysteries—a feeling akin to stepping into a scene from Angels & Demons or The Da Vinci Code. The intrigue that surrounds these hidden chapels stirs a sense of anticipation within me, hinting at the depths of the organization's reach, perhaps as far-reaching as the tunnels beneath Newgrange.

I'm not alone in the church; the choir members' voices are not the only presence here. Floor sweepers, altar polishers, and light duster all move through the space with a purpose. Their tasks are seemingly mundane yet vital to the preservation of this sacred environment. Victor, ever the strategist, leaves nothing to chance.

Slipping through the heavy velvet curtain, I enter the concealed chancel. The space closes behind me with a hush, the fabric falling into place. My eyes adjust to the dim light, and the figures before me come into sharp focus. Lorcan, Ronan, Wolf, Victor, and there, like a shadow from my past, Oisin Cormick. Oisin, the killer who guided my hands to become what they are today. The sight of him, especially next to Victor, sends a shiver through me, unearthing memories long buried.

A memory flashes before my eyes, unbidden yet vivid. I'm eleven, witnessing the execution of a woman for the first time. Until then, death had been a distant concept, one I executed without personal connection, and always men. But her scream—it pierced the air. She was a prisoner; her crimes justified her fate in the eyes of our laws, but the reality of her death shook me to my core. She had killed her husband and brother all in the name of money. As she screamed for death, I had turned away, unable to watch, a moment of weakness that didn't go unnoticed. Cormick had seen, and he had reported it.

The aftermath of that day is a blur of pain and reprimand. Two figures loomed large in my punishment: Victor, with his cold disappointment, and Uncle Andrew, a man whose anger was both swift and brutal: punches, kicks, the unforgiving hardness of walls against my back. The air was filled with shouts, the sound of objects breaking, thrown in a rage meant to discipline, to harden. Those moments shaped me, molded me into the weapon I am, yet left scars no one can see, scars that ache when the past surfaces.

As I stand among them now, the weight of those long-ago punishments heavy in the air around me, I remember the lessons disguised as torture. Victor's method was always precise and calculated to teach endurance and control. The memory of the candle's flame flickers in my mind, its heat a ghost on my skin. I was made to hold my hand just above it, the fire close enough to singe, to warn of the pain that comes with failure. Each instinctive recoil, each flinch away from the heat, was met with the sharp lash of Victor's whip across my back. The scars that web my skin are hidden relics of those lessons, marks of a past I carry with me. They are a part of me no one has seen, secrets kept even from my Brides.

Despite the turmoil within, I manage to compose myself, taking a seat calmly beside Lorcan. The contrast between the tranquility of my outward appearance and the storm of my memories is stark. Around us, the conversation shifts, a momentary distraction from the path of reflection.

“The choir sings ever so beautifully,” Oisin remarks.

Victor, however, is quick to critique, his ear finding fault where others find beauty. “They are flat,” he declares, his voice devoid of warmth.

Victor stands at the helm of our gathering, his authority unchallenged, his command absolute. Previous meetings with my brothers, filled with the casual back-and-forth of familial bonds and rivalry, now serve as stark contrasts to this moment. Here, in Victor's presence, no one dares interrupt. No one dares to contradict. The respect—or perhaps fear—he commands is palpable, suffocating. Despite the rage simmering within me, a desire to smash his head against the cold marble, I remain still.

Oisin's presence complicates matters further. The man molded me, but he’s retired, so I have no idea what he's doing here.

Victor's voice cuts through the silence, drawing my focus.

“The investigation into Andrew O’Sullivan’s murder has revealed no more leads. The Gardai have been ineffective in their search. Whether due to incompetence or corruption, they are no further on.” He glances at each of us.

“We need answers, actions. This can’t be ignored.”

Victor places his hands behind his back, tilting his head up and looking at the ceiling before giving each of us a sharp look. “That is why I’ve pulled Oisin out of retirement.”

Everything in me freezes. This is the last action I thought Victor would take, especially since he suspects me.

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