39. Ava
AVA
I climbed down the fence, my legs scraping against the cold metal as I landed with a heavy thud on the other side.
Just like I had all those years ago with Ciaran.
But this time there was no villainous prince in a black leather jacket waiting to speed me away on his mechanical chariot.
A dirt road stretched out before me, trailing off in either direction, east and west, both paths looking identical in their dusty desolation.
I didn’t have time to wait for a passing car—if any ever came this way. I had to move, now, before Ty found me.
But which direction?
I cast one last look at the looming shadows of Blackthorn Hall behind me, feeling a wave of dread press down on my shoulders.
Then I turned east, trusting the pull in my gut and praying it wouldn’t lead me back into some twisted circle, right back into the jaws of hell .
The dry earth kicked up clouds as I broke into a jog, every strained breath filling my lungs with the taste of dust.
The dirt road felt like sandpaper against my bare feet, every step sending fresh stabs of pain up my legs. The sharp rocks and grit embedded in the earth pressed into my soles, scraping raw patches that burned with each stride.
I bit my lip, refusing to slow down.
I had no choice—every step away from Blackthorn was a step closer to freedom, even if it tore my feet apart, a silent chant of “keep going” echoing in my head.
The irony of it wasn’t lost on me—Ty’s grueling fitness regime had strengthened my muscles, given me endurance. It was that same training that was allowing me to push forward now, miles passing beneath me.
Even at the end of summer, the night air in the west of Ireland was cool, prickling my skin as I moved along the desolate road. The chill bit through the thin fabric of my slip, seeping into my bones, a constant reminder of just how exposed I was.
At least the jogging kept me warm enough to ignore it, my pounding heartbeat pushing heat through me.
But I couldn’t keep running forever. When I finally had to stop, when exhaustion won, I’d have to lie down somewhere.
The thought sent a shiver through me; lying exposed on the hard ground, no walls or roof to shield me, didn’t promise a restful night.
It would be cold, miserable even, and if I didn’t find shelter, I’d be at the mercy of the elements as much as anything—or anyone else—lurking out here.
The road wound through the remote Irish countryside, bordered in sections by thick, scraggly hedges of gorse that bloomed with yellow flowers, their faint scent of coconut drifting in the air.
Here and there, low stone walls took the gorse’s place, the gray rocks stacked with ancient precision and overgrown with moss and lichen, marking the boundaries of quiet farmland.
The road ambled up and down gently rolling hills, each descent revealing a new stretch of quiet fields under the purple sky.
But no sign of other humans. Nowhere to settle for the night. Nowhere to hide.
In the middle of many fields stood solitary trees—fairy trees, left untouched for generations. Their twisted, haunting silhouettes rose defiantly against the night sky, sacred in their own right, protected by local superstition.
No matter how expansive the field or modern the farmer, these trees were left undisturbed, a mark of respect for the old ways, reminders of the land’s secrets and the quiet power it held over its people.
If I got desperate, I’d hike into one of those fields and sleep under the fairy tree. I would tie the ribbon in my hair onto a branch—an offering to the fairy that called the tree home—and make a wish.
Please, let me get back to Scáth. Let me see him again.
Every so often, the cool, damp air carried a distant rustle, the faint hum of something unseen moving in the hedgerows, and a shiver ran up my spine. I kept my eyes on the narrow, winding road ahead, feeling like I was traveling deeper into the endless maw of an unfriendly beast.
Just when I thought my legs couldn’t carry me any farther, a shape appeared on the horizon, cutting into the violent hues of the dusk sky.
It was a farmhouse, distant but unmistakable. The closest neighbor to Blackthorn Hall.
My pulse quickened with something I hadn’t felt in days: hope. I stumbled to a stop, staring at the silhouette, feeling a flicker of recognition pulse somewhere deep inside me.
Did I know this place?
I fixed my eyes on the farmhouse ahead, a dark shape on the horizon, and pushed forward.
Finally, I stumbled onto the wooden porch, each step bringing a dull, stinging pain up from my bare feet.
The single porch light flickered above, casting a harsh glow over me. Out here, surrounded by endless dark fields and the deep, inky sky, it felt like I was under a spotlight.
The farmhouse itself, with the wide wraparound porch and peeling blue door, seemed almost spectral in its familiarity, like a hazy memory brushing against the edge of my mind.
I knew this place, or something about it, but the details were blurred, slipping away every time I tried to grasp them. I couldn’t be sure if the people who lived here were friend or foe.
But the night had fully settled in, the air growing colder with each passing second. My throat ached with thirst, and I could barely feel my feet anymore.
It was too late, too cold, and I was too desperate to hesitate any longer. I knocked, the sound almost hollow in the night.
A shuffle of movement sounded from inside, and then the door creaked open to reveal a figure—a man, older now than the memory I’d held of him.
My voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this—”
“I know you…”
The door creaked open a bit wider, and he stepped forward, into the faint light spilling in from the hallway. He wore a thick sweater layered over his shirt, and in his hands, he held a hunting rifle. His face, rugged and lined with age, softened as he took me in, recognition dawning.
“Ava?” His voice was low, laced with both surprise and concern. “Is that you, girl?”
The memory clicked, sharp and clear—Mr. Buckley, the Blackthorns’ neighbor.
Memories of him surfaced. He’d patiently fixed my flat bike tire when I’d popped it in front of his house. He’d given me sweet tea to drink and invited me to pick blackberries from the patch behind his farmhouse.
“Yes.” It came out in a rush.
He held me in his gaze, a stunned awe settling over him. “Jesus… it’s been, what? Five years? I thought they sent you away after…”
After Ty killed his father.
But there was no time for a long-winded explanation, not here, not now.
“Please, Mr. Buckley… I need help,” I managed.
Without another word, he stepped aside and gestured me in.
Inside, the warmth hit me first, cozy and faintly scented with peat smoke. The living room was lit by a single lamp, casting a warm glow over the worn, homely furniture .
Mr. Buckley poured me a glass of water and returned, handing it to me, his watchful eyes never leaving me as I gulped it down.
“Lord save us—what’s put ya in this state, girl?” he asked, his brow furrowing with concern as he scanned my disheveled state.
I could see him piecing together the gaps as he took in my bare bleeding feet, the scratches on my arms, the exhaustion in my face.
When I didn’t respond, his eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a murmur. “Did you… come from Blackthorn?”
I couldn’t bring myself to confirm it. Something inside me flinched, still too tangled up with conflicting emotions to speak Ty’s name, even after everything.
But I didn’t have to answer.
Mr. Buckley shook his head, a dark look settling in his eyes. “That place has been cursed with death for as long as I can remember. Even before that boy murdered your foster father,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.
A weight seemed to settle over his words, like he knew more about Blackthorn Hall than he was saying.
For a moment, I felt like pressing him—asking about the shadowed history of that place and the tragedies lurking within its walls, perhaps something about Ty and Ciaran’s mother, too.
But not now. Not yet. Right now, I needed to get as far from Blackthorn as I could, even if every step away tore something inside of me.
“I can’t go back there,” I choked out, my voice trembling as panic crept into every word. “You can’t let him take me.”
Mr. Buckley’s gaze hardened, his weathered hands tightening around the rifle, pulling it close as if to reassure both of us. “I promise ye, girl. No one’s takin’ ya. Over my dead body.”
He moved purposefully toward the side table, reaching for the old rotary phone. My stomach dropped.
“Please,” I blurted out, placing my hand over his. “No police.”
He paused, eyes searching mine for a reason. I could see his frown deepening, but he hesitated. “Girl, you’re shakin’ like a leaf and look like the devil himself chased ya here. The garda could put an end to this.”
My mind raced, scrambling for an explanation. I couldn’t just blurt out the truth—it sounded insane, like something out of a nightmare.
As much as I resented Ty, as much as I wanted to hate him, I didn’t want him to get in trouble. Locked up again, trapped behind bars… I couldn’t do that to him.
The thought of it twisted inside me, leaving me caught between fear and a loyalty I could barely admit to myself.
I took a deep, steadying breath, my heart pounding in my chest. “Mr. Buckley, I can’t… I can’t explain everything, not now. But please—just believe me when I say that the police can’t help.”
He studied me for a long, silent moment, his jaw clenched. Then he gave a sharp nod. “That place has had evil in it since long before yer time. But alright, girl, no police. We’ll keep this quiet as the grave if that’s what ya need.”
He gave my hand a gentle pat, then took a step back, watching me for a moment as if ensuring I was real, alive, and not a phantom from the haunted halls of Blackthorn.
There was something dark and knowing in his eyes, something that made my skin prickle with curiosity and dread.
I swallowed, my heart pounding painfully against my ribs. “Please, Mr. Buckley… could I use your phone?”
He nodded, gesturing toward the rotary phone on the side table. “Course ya can, lass. I’ll make sure every door and window’s bolted proper. We’ll have none sneakin’ up on us tonight.”
As he moved to the door, rifle tucked against his side, I reached for the phone, the cool metal of the receiver grounding me.
If I knew Scáth’s number by heart, I’d call him. But I didn’t.
There was only one number I knew—she made me memorize it years ago just in case I ever found myself stranded and in need of help.
Back then, I’d rolled my eyes, brushing off her worries as overbearing. But now, with desperation tightening my chest, I silently thanked her.
I took a shaky breath and dialed, each turn of the rotary feeling like an eternity.
Behind me, Mr. Buckley’s voice echoed softly through the hall as he muttered to himself, his footsteps creaking through the old farmhouse while he checked the locks.
When the line finally connected, I steadied myself, forcing calm into my voice. “Ebony? It’s me. Ava.”
“Ava?” Her familiar voice was warm but laced with surprise. It sank into my bones and I almost started crying right there. “Is that really you?”
I forced a small laugh, hoping it sounded natural, as I brushed aside a tear that threatened to spill over. “Hey! Yeah, it’s me.”
“Oh, my darling girl. It’s been so long. I thought you were in Croatia for the rest of the holidays?”
For a moment my brain short-circuited on Croatia, before I remembered that Ty had been updating everyone on my socials about my “Mediterranean summer.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. I thought I’d surprise everyone, caught an early flight home. Only, uh, my flight to Dublin got redirected… I’m stuck near Shannon Airport.”
I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if Mr. Buckley was nearby and if he could hear me. I didn’t want to have to explain why I was lying to my own mother.
Lowering my voice, I added, “I’m staying at the Sheraton hotel by the airport for the night. Could you send someone to pick me up tomorrow morning? Around ten?”
“Of course, Ava,” she replied, her tone softening. There was a pause, and in that silence, I felt her worry, her relief. “I’ve… I’ve missed you.”
I closed my eyes as a wave of emotion washed over me, tightening my throat. “I’ve missed you too, Ebony.”
For the first time in weeks, I felt like I was close to home, close to the life that had seemed so distant, almost unreachable. So close to Ciaran.
Just one more night, Scáth. I’m coming home.
I hung up and turned around, nearly stumbling as I realized Mr. Buckley was standing right behind me, his gaze steady and far too knowing.
My mouth went dry, and I scrambled for words to explain the lie I’d just spun on the phone. “I, uh—”
He silenced me with a small, understanding smile and placed a gentle hand over mine, calloused and warm, grounding me in a way that nearly unraveled everything I’d been trying to hold together.
“You look tired, lass,” he murmured, his voice soft. “Let’s get you to bed. I’ll fix up a proper breakfast before I drive you to the Sheraton tomorrow morning. Do you like pancakes?”
For a moment, the simple kindness hit me like a tidal wave, overwhelming the fear and tension that had knotted in my chest.
I nodded, words escaping me, a swell of gratitude filling the emptiness.
He pointed to the nearest door. “That’s me, just in case you need anything during the night.”
Then he led me down the narrow hall, showing me a bathroom where I could wash up, and then to a cozy guest room, its low, beamed ceiling adding to the sense of warmth.
The double bed was already made up with soft, clean sheets, and on the edge of the bed lay a clean towel and small stack of folded clothes. At the base of the bed were worn but clean ladies’ work boots.
“My late wife’s,” he said, his voice dropping to a reverent hush. “She… she was about your size before she passed. Figured they’d fit you. The shoes might be a touch big, though.”
A flicker of sadness traced his features, and I sensed an unspoken story in his words, something he wasn’t ready to share.
I realized that Mrs. Buckley—his wife—had been the one to help Mona try and escape with her boys all those years ago. Had… had the professor done something to her to punish her for helping Mona?
I didn’t press him, but the weight of his loss brushed against me, resonating with my own hollow spaces. I touched the soft fabric of the clothes, my fingers trembling.
“Thank you,” I whispered, the words feeling woefully inadequate.
He offered a nod, his hand lingering on the doorknob as if making sure I’d be safe here.
I made a mental note to send something to him once I was back in Dublin. Maybe I’d buy him a large expensive armchair or… I chuckled to myself, a new phone, like something from this decade .
With the warmth of the room wrapping around me, the clean clothes waiting, and a bed that looked softer than any I’d seen in what felt like years, I felt something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in so long—hope.
After a hot shower, I slipped into Mrs. Buckley’s old nightgown, soft and worn. I crawled into the bed, sinking into layers that felt like clouds around me.
The farmhouse was quiet, each creak and distant murmur of wind outside somehow comforting in its simplicity, and for the first time in months, I felt something close to peace.
I closed my eyes, and Ciaran’s face filled the dark—his familiar intensity, the way his eyes softened when he looked at me, his touch that I longed to feel again.
My heart sped up, love and anxious hope filling every beat. I couldn’t wait to see him. I needed to see him. But… what would he think? How would he look at me when he learned the truth ?
Fear chilled the warmth from my skin. His brother. His own brother lied to him, made him believe he was dead. Would he even believe me?
And how could I tell him about Ty… about the way he’d kept me, made me relive my past under the guise of therapy? How could I explain the things that happened? Could things between us ever be the same?
I squeezed my eyes tighter, the worry churning in my stomach. I wanted nothing more than for Ciaran to take me in his arms, to tell me we’d leave this place together like we always planned.
But… could he even forgive me? Would he still want me if he knew that I couldn’t walk away?
The Society was there, woven into everything I’d been through, everything that had twisted my life and the lives of so many others. I had to stay, to dismantle them piece by piece.
And I needed Ciaran’s help. Even if he hated me a little for choosing to stay, for dragging him deeper into this fight.
And then Ty drifted into my mind, unbidden.
My stomach twisted, and I pushed the thought away, but it crept back, trailing guilt and confusion. I’d drugged him, betrayed him, left him behind.
But he’d forced my hand; he’d given me no choice.
Still, I couldn’t shake the fear of what he’d do when he found out I’d returned to Ciaran. The two of them—their rivalry, their dark history—I could feel the collision building like a storm on the horizon, inevitable and unstoppable.
They were brothers, yes, but could they really let it go, even for each other ?
I swallowed hard, telling myself that they loved each other. Deep down, somewhere. No matter how much they fought or how much pain lay between them, they wouldn’t hurt each other. Right?
And yet a strange ache pricked at me, unwanted, almost shameful.
I missed Ty. Missed his warmth, the steady way he wrapped himself around my back every night. I’d grown used to it, to him, and the hollow space left behind felt like a betrayal.
I closed my eyes, skimming my hands under my clothes, trying to picture Ciaran, trying to focus on the way his arms would feel around me, his breath against my skin, his hands on my body, his mouth and tongue on my breasts, his cock inside me.
But Ty’s face, Ty’s touch haunted me, mingling with Ciaran’s until I couldn’t tell them apart.
In my mind, Ciaran’s clean, classic tattoos—simple lines and beautiful symbols—morphed into the haunting ink scrawled across Ty’s skin, twisted designs that spoke of pain, anguish, endurance, of ravens with broken wings and dark broken dolls.
I could see Ty’s scars, puckered and raw, slipping into the places where Ciaran’s skin was smooth, each mark a painful story etched into his body.
And the memory of Ciaran’s scent in my nose, his leather and spice, blended with Ty’s, heavier, darker—sandalwood laced with something primal, something that filled the air between us with an unspoken intensity.
The lines blurred, and for a single, frightening moment, I didn’t know who I longed for more—whose touch I missed, whose presence I wanted to feel beside me in this dark, quiet room.
With a frustrated sigh, I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow and letting exhaustion carry me into sleep.
But it wasn’t long until a noise woke me up. I lay there in bed, gasping, mind whirling, momentarily disoriented from the unfamiliar bedroom.
There it was again, the sound of metal scraping on metal.
Someone was breaking into the farmhouse.
Oh God. Ty had found me.