Page 6 of When Kings Bend

Reluctantly, I step away from my research, ensuring that every piece of evidence is secured, every document hidden away from prying eyes. The apartment above the garage, a sanctum of secrets and revelations, is locked up tight.

Dinner with my grandparents is a balm to the frayed edges of my nerves, a reminder of the life I'm fighting to protect. We engage in light conversation.

“I am completing all the crossword puzzles,” Grandfather proclaims with joy.

My grandmother tuts. “That’s because you spend days pouring over the same one. No more twenty-four hours with Selene working so much.” She smiles at me.

Guilt churns again heavily in my stomach but I manage a smile. “Don’t hold your breath; I will be back in the mornings to get the paper for myself,” I joke.

My grandfather smiles as if the idea of me stealing the paper would bring him joy.

The meal ends, and it’s as if my grandmother senses my unrest to leave. “I’ve been working on a new stew recipe. The next time you come, I’ll have it ready.”

I get up, using it as my cue to leave. “I look forward to it.” I kiss them each on the forehead and head outside into the darkening evening. I don’t look back as I promise myself I’ll see them soon. Climbing into my car, I turn up the heat straightaway as I start to drive.

The city fades away in my rearview mirror as I navigate through the winding streets, the city's pulse giving way to the quiet of the outskirts where Diarmuid's new house stands like a fortress against the unknown. The rhythm of the music flowing through the car speakers is a temporary respite from the whirlwind of thoughts and theories about the symbols and their meanings. My fingers tap out an absentminded beat on the steering wheel as I try to mull over all the information I have gathered. It’s frustrating when I keep coming up against a brick wall.

As the familiar outline of the property looms into view, the sight of Diarmuid waiting at the gate slices through the evening's calm with the precision of a knife. He’s never waiting for me, and my first thought is to wonder if Niamh’s okay or if something has happened. I freeze as I notice the gun raised in Diarmuid's hands. The abrupt sound of his gun firing into the air pulls a scream from me. The squeal of tires from behind, urgent and unexpected, sends a jolt of adrenaline surging through me. In the mirror, the car that must have been tailing me fades from sight.

“Are you okay?” Diarmuid asks as he gets into the passenger seat, still clinging to his gun. His expression is grim and alert. “I saw them following you," he says, his voice cutting through the racing of my heart.

How long had they been following me? The question pounds in my head with the force of a drumbeat. Did they know about the apartment, the research, the secrets I've been piecing together piece by precarious piece? The thought that my actions might have exposed us to unknown threats sends a chill down my spine, the shadow of Rian's fate a constant specter at the edge of my consciousness.

Diarmuid's hand on mine brings me back to the moment; his touch a grounding force. "We need to be more careful," he says. The strain and worry for my safety are visible in his eyes.

“Drive,” Diarmuid commands as he turns and watches behind us like he’s expecting the car to return. My hands tremble as I pass the gates, and in the rearview mirror, I watch them close, sealing us into our safe haven.

But I wonder how long we will truly be safe.

Who was following me?

CHAPTER FOUR

Diarmuid

I PULL INTO the governor’s sweeping drive. Winter is fast approaching, and with it, the holiday season. The mansion’s windows are already adorned with red ribbons and electric candlesticks, casting a warm glow against the growing dusk.

I step out of the car, my breath visible in the cold air, and hand my keys to a valet. He nods, a silent promise to whisk my car away to the hidden groves that serve as a secluded parking area. The doorman greets me with a nod, offering to take my coat. But I refuse. I'm not here for pleasantries. I'm here for Victor.

"I need to speak to Victor," I announce, my voice firm.

"Victor isn’t here," comes a voice from the shadowed side of the entrance hall. Michael Reardon, Page to Victor, steps into the light, his presence commanding despite his lowly station within our ranks.

A Page is forever bound to serve, never to rise. Michael's lot in life is a cruel reminder of the rigid hierarchy that governs us. I stride past the doorman and the maid, who, rumor has it, knows more about poisons than most scholars.

Stopping before Michael, I size him up. The man's build is impressive, a solid frame that suggests both strength and endurance. In another life, he could have been a valuable asset to my family's more... physical enterprises. It's a shame, really, that his potential is wasted on being a glorified secretary.

The air in the mansion feels heavier as I recall the weight of the mistake Michael's father made—a blunder so colossal it threatened the very foundation of our order. A mistake that not only stains his family's name but chains three generations to a legacy of penance. Michael's children, innocent as they may be, are already marked by this shadow. The rules of our world are harsh, unforgiving. A reminder that failure carries a price far beyond personal downfall.

I notice the maid inching closer, her pretense of busyness fooling no one. I can't help but wonder what drives her—the loyalty to her poison master training or the simple human craving for gossip. Either way, she's too close for comfort.

"Let's walk, Michael," I suggest, my tone leaving no room for argument. My position within our ranks grants me certain privileges, one of them being the authority to command Michael, provided I don't overstep Victor's orders. Reluctantly, Michael falls into step beside me, his expression a mask of practiced neutrality.

We wander through the mansion, seeking a sliver of privacy. Yet, it seems as though every corner, every room, is staged with servants under the guise of their duties, ears pricked for any morsel of information they might overhear. It's like navigating a maze. A maze I know well.

By the time we've entered the fourth room, my patience frayed to its breaking point. Spotting a servant a little too conveniently positioned near the curtains, pretending to dust, I snap. With a swift motion fueled by frustration, I seize a chair and hurl it toward him. The chair sails through the air, crashing into the wall beside the startled man.

"Out! Now!" My voice booms through the mansion, echoing off the walls. The servants scatter. Finally, we're alone.

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