Page 88 of Iron Blade

“It’s alright, love,” he promised. “It’ll all be alright.”

That sounded like something you’d tell a person right before things became unimaginably not alright.

Dairo parked the car in the driveway, where another armed, black-clad, uniformed man stood at the porch, with white balustrades.

Eoghan let me go, and got out. The moment his touch was gone, I missed it, wishing I could stay close to him. He held the door open and extended a hand to me, his eyes blank as he stared at the front door, waiting for me to make a move.

I swallowed, taking his hand.

Blink would have loved this - being in the den, and doing what spies do. But I wasn’t one of them. I was never meant to be. I was supposed to launder money and that was it. But now, I was deep in a world I didn’t understand, scared out of my mind that my training might not be enough.

I took Eoghan’s hand, letting him pull me from the car. He closed the door, wrapping an arm around my waist as he walked me up the steps.

“Mr. Green,” a man said, snapping his heels together and rendering another salute.

Eoghan waved a hand, allowing him to go about his business.

This was far more military than I thought they would be; it showed more discipline than just a gangster. Certainly more discipline than the Italians, by far.

“It’s like you have a whole army,” I said, trying to sound breathy and surprised. Like I hadn't expected it.

“We’re just safe,” Eoghan said, letting my waist go and taking my hand as we climbed the steps to the white porch, then to the stained-glass double doors of the enormous mansion. “Pay them no mind.”

Dairo gave a snort as he pushed open the front doors, entering without a word.

The great foyer was intense. It was large, with a vaulted ceiling, and a grand, wooden staircase that led to an exposed landing of a second floor that led into darkened hallways on either side. To my left was some kind of formal living room, with a grand piano beneath large paintings of green hills and stormy seas. To my right were doors that looked like they opened to a library or office. There was a great wall with a dark stained board and batten on the bottom, and a deep green wall above. There was a strange, large rectangle on the wall, as if there had been a framed painting there once, that had been removed, leaving a permanent change in color where the sun hadn’t faded the green paint.

What image had been there, before they removed it? I wasn’t sure. Whatever it was hadn’t been replaced or covered up.

A man appeared like an apparition on the top of the staircase, and the two men, Dairo and Eoghan, stepped in front of me, as if to protect me from him.

“Eoghan,” he said with a deep, ragged voice. “And who is this?”

The man was white-haired, his skin wrinkled with age. He wore a formal suit that looked like it was made from the richest wool. A pocket watch dangled from his vest, a gold chain swinging into his pocket.

“Father,” Eoghan said, his arm out to his side, as if keeping the man from reaching me. “This is Kira. I told you about her the last time I was here.”

“Keira,” the man said my name slowly, as if it tasted sour in his mouth. “She doesn’t look like a Keira.”

Was it strange that I could hear the extra letters he placed in my name? No, he wasn't saying Kira, but the much more anglicized, Irish Keira.

“Well, it is,” Eoghan said, reaching back to take my hand. He looked at me apologetically, mouthing an “I’m sorry” before he turned back to his father, our hands united. “Kira Green.”

The old man glowered, his nostrils flared, and his anger palpable in the static between us.

“Green, is it?” he snarled. “What is the meaning of this, boyo?”

His eyes were as black as Eoghan’s, but with a hint of menace that I didn’t understand. His eyes flicked down to the ring on my hand, and he growled.

“Is that my wife’s ring?”

A timid, red-haired thing came out from the shadows. She was pale, covered from the neck down in a black dress, like she was going to a funeral. A fancy funeral. On her fingers were a myriad of rings, with stones of every color, and her wild, curling hair of red made her look like she was on fire. It was… haunting.

“It is her ring,” the woman said in a lilting, sweet, Irish accent. She looked down at me with sympathy - or was it just pity? - in her green eyes. “It belongs on her hand. That is what the spirits say…”

Her words were cut off, when the man I knew to be Alastair Green struck her with the back of his hand. She was so small and waifish that she flew with the strike, hitting a nearby wall, a small landscape painting coming off its hook, and smashing into the ground.

“Shut your mouth, witch!” he bellowed, his finger wagging at her, before his terrifying expression turned back Eoghan.

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