Chapter 3
Three
Cadden
The Past
Through the eyes of a damaged soul,
hollow hearts can’t beat whole;
But there’s hope in a raging storm,
a lighthouse guiding lost boys home.
—Cadden James Connelly
Growing up, I always knew my place, or more importantly, my role as the only son of Finn Connelly: one day I will take over for my father and eventually become the king of Munster.
As I stand here staring down at a table filled with homemade tilt fuses and circuit boards, a soldering iron in my hand, the reality of what I’m being forced to become hits me hard. I hate this version of myself, the one who knowingly puts people in danger. I may not be the one who detonates the bombs, but I’m still a killer, responsible for the lives stolen by the devices I make.
Accept it, my father said. This is your kingdom, and you do what you can to protect it. You have a gift, son. Don’t waste your potential by losing your head in a fantasy tale. One day a war will rage, and you, my boy, will be ready for the fight.
Being the only heir to my father’s throne comes with pressures, so when most of my classmates are either filling their days playing Gaelic football and hurling or holed up in their rooms spending hours on mindless video games, my reality couldn’t be further from the average sixteen-year-old’s.
Every second I’m not hiding out in my library with my nose buried in a classic, I’m shadowing my father, learning everything there is to know about the family business. Each sector of the syndicate has their speciality, and Munster is no different.
For generations, my hometown, Dingle, has been the hub for weapons and explosives. With our proximity to the Atlantic, we are in the perfect location for importing and exporting to and from the United States, where most of our revenue is made.
Today, much like any other Saturday, I’m at my father’s warehouse paying my dues. The large armoury is full of enough weapons and military-grade equipment needed to create explosives to take out a small country. This place is my father’s pride and joy. Although, if you ask him, that title belongs to me. Thankfully, I know better than to be blinded by his delusions.
“My boy’s exceptional,” my father brags to his syndicate acquaintance, Oliver Devereux. “Sixteen, and his IQ is a staggering 187.”
As my father continues to boast about my achievements, my eyes roll to heaven. It’s always the same. Love and affection do not have a place, but as long as I continue to please my father by doing his dirty bidding, he will shower me with praise.
Ignoring the two men, I count down the mere minutes it takes me to rig up a timing device, a task I could do with my eyes closed. Reciting the seconds usually calms me, but today, it doesn’t do anything to ease my racing mind. I’m more than a little distracted because all I can think about is the real reason behind Mr Devereux’s visit to Dingle. There is only one explanation as to why my father would involve me in this little show-and-tell, and I’m guessing it has something to do with the pretty blonde girl with the bad attitude that we conveniently left back at the house with my mother.
If I had to wager a guess, I’m sure Oliver wanted to suss me out before he made any formal introductions to his precious princess. As it stands, I only caught a glimpse of Pretty Poison before my mother whisked her off to do whatever it is sixteen-year-old girls do.
For centuries, the Emerald Isle Syndicate has been built on arrangements between powerful families, but considering I am still a couple of years off eighteen, I thought I had more time before my father tried to pair me up with a bride, especially one from a different sector.
I should have known better, Finn Connelly is always two steps ahead, prepared for every situation. By outsourcing my future wife from another quarter, he’s ensuring he has alliances within the syndicate as a whole. As far as I am aware, Oliver Devereux is gunning for his eldest son to take over as the future king of Leinster, but rumour has it that there’s a hidden Ryan heir somewhere, so it would be wise of him to make arrangements for his eldest daughter in the event his plan goes sideways.
I presume that’s where I come in.
A mutually beneficial agreement amongst men. Who gives a crap whether or not this Beibhinn chick and I like one another? We’re nothing more than pawns in our fathers’ games.
Still ignoring the constant play-by-play of my every move, I focus on the switch in my hand and place the perfect amount of mercury at the bottom end of the tube. Once I’m finished, I narrow in on the cap end, wiring up two live electrical contacts before linking them to the final product.
“And time,” my father calls out, stopping the timer on his watch. “Just under five minutes. Well done, Cadden.”
His compliment does nothing for me, not when I know the deadly device in my grasp will one day take a life. A familiar coil knots my stomach, threatening to expel the breakfast I ate this morning, but I keep it down, knowing that no matter how many fucking bombs I’m forced to make, each one will take another piece of my soul with it, until one day, I won’t feel anything at all.
After all, who needs emotions when you have power? Or at least, that’s the picture my father paints.
Searching for a girl I’ve not formally met is not how I want to spend the remainder of my afternoon, yet here I am traipsing towards the coastline calling her name like a fucking idiot. What the hell was my mother thinking allowing Beibhinn Devereux to roam around by herself? She’s not in Killybegs anymore. There is not much to fucking see around here, nothing but wide open spaces, a three-hundred-meter drop into the fucking ocean, and my… “FUCK!”
Turning on my heel, I take off in the opposite direction and ignore the sharpness clawing at my lungs as I bolt along the peninsula towards my lighthouse.
I don’t care how pretty the poisonous princess is, she better not have ventured into my haven. Every breath cuts my lungs as I pick up pace, closing the distance between land and sea.
Before long, I spy my lighthouse standing alone at the edge of the water, disturbing the view of the horizon. It’s the only place I can truly be myself. Without hesitation, I reach for the chain around my neck, feeling for the key I keep tucked safely beneath my shirt at all times. Relief washes through me when I find it exactly where it’s supposed to be. If Beibhinn did make it this far, at least there is no way she passed through the door.
I’m borderline obsessive about allowing people to see the sacred space I spent the last three years creating. My soul resides in the stone walls of this place. It’s etched in every nook and cranny. It’s gathered between the pages of every book I keep there. It lingers in the darkness that surrounds the spiral staircase, until finally, it bleeds from the light that reflects beyond the shore. My very own kingdom by the sea.
If my earlier assessment is true, one day the Devereux princess will become my wife, but even then, she will have no business stepping foot inside my sanctuary. Ever. It’s mine, and mine alone. The one place on the godforsaken Connelly estate I will guard with my life.
Every day, I take great care in locking the lighthouse up as if it’s Fort Knox because it’s the only property around here untouched by the life my father’s paving for me. It’s free of the darkness that gnaws at me, threatening to drag me under. It’s a reflection of who I am. I don’t want her near it. Not now. Not ever.
After wiping away the glaze of sweat that has formed along my brow, I follow the cobbled pathway lined with ancient stone walls until I meet the pedestrian wrought iron gateway. My eyes fall to the padlock keeping the gate secure, and I exhale.
“She’s not here.” My whisper gets lost in a gust of wind, but as I twist on my heel to leave something floats through the air before eventually landing a few feet away from me. “What the fuck?”
Closing the space between myself and what looks like a charred piece of paper, I hunker down and reach for it. It only takes me a second to register what it is—a page from one of my favourite poetry books, The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe.
I left this book on the bedside locker in the room above my library. What the fuck?
My eyes scan the remaining print, at least what is left of it, and a chill runs down my spine as I read through some of my favourite verses of all time.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love?—
I and my Annabel Lee?—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me?—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we?—
Of many far wiser than we?—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
My gaze snaps back towards the lighthouse, or more importantly, the gallery balcony. It’s hard to see anything from my vantage point, but then another whip of wind billows east, carrying more fragments of tarnished paper through the sky. Red-hot fury laces my veins. I bite down, clamping my teeth together with the force. I’ll fucking kill her.
Within seconds, I catapult myself over the wall and barrel towards the entrance door like a pack of hounds are biting at my heels. I take the stairs two at a time, giving each floor a quick sweep of my gaze before continuing my pursuit. Finally, I reach the living quarters, but there’s still no sign of Princess Devereux. Needing a second to catch my breath, I survey the room, making sure she didn’t damage anything else. Several books that I had stacked beside my bed are now missing, and the anger building inside me threatens to burst out at the seams.
“BEIBHINN!” Her name rips from my lips on a roar. After no reply, my attention snaps towards the glass ceiling separating my bedroom from the galley. From the corner of my eye, I spy a flash of white-blonde hair through the wall of windows. I don’t hesitate. I head for the ladder on the far side of the circular room with one thing on my mind—murdering my future wife for touching my books.
Once I reach the deck, I round the balcony like a bat flying straight from the gates of hell. The distinct smell of burning paper hits my nose, making my blood boil. Next, the culprit comes into view, elbows leaning on the guard-rail as she tears yet another page from my leather-bound first edition. I watch in horror as she lifts a silver Zippo. She flicks the flint, and the flame catches the edge of the page; blue and orange waves turn the words to ash. My body reacts sooner than I can calm myself, then before I know it, I tug at her shoulder and spin her in place.
“Oh, hey …”
My free hand darts out, and my fingers wrap around her throat, cutting off whatever she was about to say. My pressure increases, “What the fuck are you doing? Have you any idea how much that book is worth, you fucking pyromaniac?”
Her fingers claw at my wrist as she tries to free herself from my hold, spluttering for breath. When that doesn’t work, she lifts her knee, doing the last thing I’d expect her to do—the bitch clocks me straight in the bollocks, knocking the air from my lungs.
The move has me bending forward. I cup the crown jewels with my free hand, trying to ease the incessant throbbing. Unfortunately, my reaction forces me to loosen my grasp enough for her to slip free. And then, within a few milliseconds, she draws a gun from the waistband of her distressed jeans and presses the barrel to the side of my head.
How did my dad ever think I’d marry this chick? She is certifiably insane.
“Listen here, you pompous prince… next time you put your hands on me without my permission, I will blow your brains out through your ears, understood?”