Maureen . . . She had no reason to trust him, wouldn't have a reason until it was too late. Just like the young man who marched proudly off to war in his brilliant scarlet uniform, the thousands of young men.
As he'd told her, the circle of killing lived on its own energy. He hunted Old Ones because he knew they hunted him. They hunted him because they knew he hunted them.
"Where are your eyes that looked so mild, hurroo, hurroo?
"Where are your eyes that looked so mild, hurroo, hurroo?
"Where are your eyes that looked so mild
"When my poor heart you first beguiled?
"Oh, why did you run from me and the child?
"Johnny I hardly knew ye."
Each side killed because they feared death. They feared death because they killed. For others, it was the Balkans or Kashmir. For Brian, it was the Old Ones.
One by one, over the years, the war had claimed his friends --Mulvaney had been the last. The enemy had bled just as much. The chess match was a draw. And he couldn't see any way to resign from his current war, any way to negotiate a truce. Nobody trusted enough.
"You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo,
"You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo,
"You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,
"You're an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg,
"You'll have to be put with a bowl to beg.
"Johnny I hardly knew ye!"
Brian stared down at his cup, finding nothing but coffee. He shook his head.
He was getting old. His thoughts didn't usually start turning this dark until he was at least halfway through a bottle of the Queen's best rum. He didn't start seeing the dead boys and the ones who wished they'd died until the landlord gave out his last call for the night. That was when he saw the blood soaking out between his fingers without the force of a heartbeat behind it, the death-blood of another child who'd trusted the old soldier to get him safely home again. That was when he sat in a tent at midnight writing letters to the next of kin.
The grizzled Sergeant-Major was back, whispering in his ear. You're getting old and your brain is turning soft. Why are you so interested in this barmy little bint? Don't give me that crap about her smell. That's animal-talk, dogs following after a bitch in heat. You're only half an animal. What does the rest of you have to say?
Brian shook his head, slowly, at his inner voice. He saw pain, and he knew considerable about that subject from the inside. When her face opened up with the music, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. And underneath the pain and anger, he could feel the strength of tempered steel. She didn't even know it was there, but she could be more deadly than Fiona. He didn't want her to ever have to be.
Speaking of Fiona . . .
He lifted his head and did his reflex scan of the crowd, of his surroundings, of possible ambushes. Two dark faces sprang out of the shadows, as if they took form before his eyes. Fiona. Sean. His sister winked at him.
"With their drums and guns and guns and drums
"The enemy nearly slew ye.
"Johnny me dear you look so queer,
"Johnny, I hardly knew ye."
The instruments dropped off, one by one, until the tin whistle piped a military retreat and the bodhrán finally drummed its funeral cadence into echoing silence.
Brian cursed himself for relaxing his guard. How long had Fiona been there? Had anybody followed Maureen out the door? A minute, two minutes to finish the song . . .
He was outside and fading into shadows before the echoes died.
Chapter Eight
There were five of them.
At least five of them, Brian reminded himself. He could get killed making assumptions. The darkness could be hiding twice that many. Those were just the ones he'd seen or heard.
He added a mental note to never, never, go out in jogging shoes in winter. No matter what he thought he was going to do. Now his damned Reeboks squished icy water between his toes with every step.
Brian slid along an alley wall, hugging shadows, feeling the grit and grab of brick against the back of his jacket and praying his feet wouldn't find any noisy junk or ankle-breaking potholes under the snow. This frozen maze of alleys could kill him as easily as the squad trying to pin him down.
There were at least five of them, and they were human. That cut back on his options. Times like this, he really questioned the nobility of unilateral disarmament. Things he could do, things he had done to Liam, just weren't options against humans. He was supposed to defend humans against Old Ones. That was his bloody job.
There were always rules of engagement.
It didn't matter if the damned jackals knew these alleys better than a Jesuit knows the Bible. Didn't matter if they'd sold their souls to Fiona or Dougal, bought and paid for. He couldn't kill them.
A shadow flickered across the end of the alley, short and skinny against the orange of the streetlights. Street kids, who lived in these alleys night and day. Gang kids, with knives and lengths of pipe and probably guns, being Yanks.
How had they found him? He wondered for an instant if the music had called Fiona and her lapdog. That one reel belonged to the Summer Country, that was certain. But this wasn't summer. Far from it.
Kids, he thought, and cursed under his breath.
He couldn't kill them, and he couldn't even use the powers of the Blood where there were witnesses. Back when he'd thought Maureen was human, she had been alone. If she'd talked about what she saw,
