Chapter 7 Toolie #2
He pointed. “These marks. Explain.”
I shrugged, tried to look dumb. “They’re just ink. Decoration.”
His lip curled, contempt and curiosity wrestling for space.
“Never seen such in all my years. The savages north of here use blue pigment to mark themselves for war. But you—” He stepped closer, close enough I could see the tiny pocks in his skin, the old scar on his jaw.
“You’re not from the north. You’re not from anywhere I know. ”
He studied my face so long I could almost feel his eyes digging for secrets. I stared back, gave him nothing.
He finally addressed all of us. “You are not English. Not by accent or attitude. Irish, then. Spies. Or perhaps…” He smirked, then flicked his gaze at Celeste. “Witchcraft.”
Scarlette shot up off the ground, hands braced on the floor. “We’re not spies. We’re lost. That’s all.”
He didn’t even dignify it with a reply. “Her Majesty’s orders are clear. Rebels are to be hanged. Witches burned or drowned. Spies tortured until names are given up.” He paused for effect. “But, if you are honest and confess, you may be shown mercy.”
He looked at me. “Confess, and you die clean.”
I shook my head. “Nothing to confess. Just wrong place, wrong time.”
Moab laughed. “Story of our lives.”
Hale signaled the guards. They reached for keys.
Scarlette tensed, then hissed, “He’s going to take you first, Toolie. He thinks you’re the ringleader.”
I shrugged. “Let him.”
Celeste caught my arm as the guards unlocked the cell. Her hand was cold, but her grip was iron. “Hold fast,” she said. “Don’t let them cut your soul out.”
I nodded, pretending I understood.
The door screeched open. The guards aimed their muskets at me. “Come.”
I stepped forward, keeping my eyes on Hale. He looked down his nose, lips pursed in disgust.
“Strip him,” he ordered. “Let’s see what else he’s hiding.”
The guards patted me down, quick and rough, but their technique was all wrong. I could have killed one, maybe both, but not with Moab and Scarlette at my back. They found my lighter—silver, engraved, totally anachronistic. One held it up.
Hale took it, turned it over in his hand. “A trinket,” he mused, flicking the lid open and shut. He handed it to a guard. “Keep it. As evidence.”
He jerked his chin. “Get him to the pit.”
The guards marched me out.
I caught Moab’s eyes—he nodded, just once, slow and sure. Scarlette bared her teeth. Celeste’s voice floated out after me, soft as prayer.
“Hold on, Toolie. Don’t give in.”
The corridor was worse than the cell, every step packed with dread. The other prisoners shrank from me as we passed, eyes wide and white in the torchlight. I tried to walk slow, to buy time, but the guards prodded me on. For the first time, I considered that maybe I’d made a mistake.
Down the hall, into a stone room reeking of burned fat and lye. Chains bolted to the walls, a single chair in the center, stained black with old blood.
They shoved me into the chair and lashed my wrists and ankles. One guard held my head still; the other brought out a knife.
Hale walked in, slow and measured, hands behind his back. He stood in front of me. “Last chance. Confess.”
I stared at the knife, then at him. “Go fuck yourself.”
He smiled, small and cold. “Very well.” He nodded to the guard. The knife flashed. I braced for pain, but all I felt was the blade, cold against my skin as it sliced through my left shirt sleeve. He peeled it back, exposing the tattoo. Then the rest of my forearm, the old scars, the club patches.
He leaned in. “What are you?”
I met his eyes. “More than you can kill.”
“You seem familiar to me,” he said.
His smile didn’t waver, but the hands at my shoulders tightened.
“We will see what it takes to make you die.” He nodded to the guards. “Start with the fingers. Take only one to begin.”
The guard drew the knife to my hand, lined up a finger, and—
Hale stopped him. “Wait.” He crouched and looked at me with renewed curiosity. “You are not like the others. I have seen rebels broken in hours. You? You look at me as if you have already seen how I die.”
I smiled. “Maybe I have.”
He stood, disgusted. “Back to the cell. For now.”
The guards yanked me up, fastened my arms behind my back, and marched me out.
The whole time, I fought to keep my face flat. In my head, I calculated: how many guards, how many doors, where the torches hung, and whether the keys were close.
Back in the cell, Moab caught me by the arm and steadied me.
Hale glared in at us, then locked the door.
“You will die at dawn,” he said, almost bored. “Unless you wish to be more... helpful.” He left, the guards falling in behind.
As the echo of his boots faded, I let the shakes happen. Scarlette grabbed my hand and pressed it to her chest. “You okay?” she whispered.
I shrugged. “Still have all my fingers.”
Moab exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease from his shoulders. “He’ll come back with more. Next time, we’re ready.”
Celeste didn’t say a word, just stared at me, her eyes shining.
I slumped against the wall, heart hammering so hard I thought it might break through.
The fear was back. But beneath it, something else: a pulse, ancient and loud, telling me that no matter what, I had to get out.
Not for me. For Catherine. For all the ghosts left behind.
Dawn was hours off. I made a promise to myself not to die before then.
Scarlette broke the silence. “We’re fucked, you know.”
Moab didn’t disagree. He just stood, pressed both palms to the cold stones, and grunted. “We get one shot, and it’s when they come for us. Otherwise…” He let the words drift, unfinished.
I found my voice. “They want me first. Maybe we use that.”
Scarlette sneered. “And do what? Break your way through two guards and an iron door?”
Moab’s jaw set. “We’ve done more with less.” He jerked his chin at me. “If you can take one, I can take the other.”
Celeste’s eyes slid open, black and wet in the firelight. She beckoned me closer with two fingers. I crawled over, knelt so we were eye-to-eye.
She whispered, “It’s worse than you think.
We’re in the bowels of Dublin Castle. Her Majesty’s executioner runs the show upstairs, but Hale…
” She licked her lips, voice going ragged.
“He’s not scheduled to be here for another week, Toolie.
We landed days after your death, not before.
You are already supposed to be a corpse. ”
The words nailed me to the floor. My chest went hollow. “Catherine?” I croaked, before I could stop myself.
Celeste nodded. “She’s here. Or close. And so is your end, if you don’t work fast.”
For a second, I couldn’t think. The pain in my hand, the pressure in my head—none of it compared to the hope. If Catherine was alive, if she hadn’t already buried me—
I fought the tremor in my voice. “I have to see her.”
Celeste pressed a palm to my cheek. “Don’t die in this room, Toolie. Promise me.” She whispered, “There’s always a hole somewhere. Find it.”
Moab caught our eyes, then scanned the corners of the cell. “What’s she saying?”
I shook my head, lips clamped tight. “Just thinking out loud.”
Scarlette snorted. “Well, think louder, or we’re all dead by morning.”
I stood and walked the perimeter of the cell. Each wall was slicked with centuries of snot and piss. I tapped the bars, tested the corners, and ran my nails down the mortar. Nothing gave.
There was a dark patch in the floor, near where Celeste sat. A channel, maybe a drain, clogged with so much black slime I couldn’t see the bottom.
I knelt by it, dug my fingers in, and fished out a tangle of rags and straw and rat bones. It stank worse than anything I’d ever smelled, and I’d grown up cleaning cow stalls. Under the crap, I felt a cold current of air.
“Here,” I said, yanking out another clot of gunk.
Moab stomped over, peered down. “Drain. Leads somewhere.”
Scarlette’s mood flipped in a second—she was at my side, nails scraping at the edge. “If it leads out, it’s our shot.”
Moab glared. “You’d never fit.”
Scarlette kicked his ankle. “Neither would you, lummox.”
I worked faster, prying out more slime, stones, and what might have been a rat skeleton the size of my fist. Inch by inch, I made a hole big enough to wedge my arm in up to the elbow. Beyond, I felt nothing but foul wind and the tickle of moving water.
I looked back at Celeste, who nodded. “Always a hole.”
I stripped off my shirt, wrapped it around my hand, and reached deeper. The drain was lined with broken stone and glass, every surface eager to rip skin. I pushed, teeth gritted, feeling the squeeze get tighter.
“Moab,” I said, “grab my feet.”
He did, with zero hesitation.
I slid further, past the shoulder, into a darkness that felt alive.
For a second, I panicked—the weight of stone, the wet, the cold, all of it pressing down.
But I saw her, even with my eyes wide open and seeing nothing.
Catherine. Her laugh, her hair, the way she used to call me “fool” and kiss me after.
That memory anchored me, kept me from screaming.
I pushed, wiggled, and felt the drain open wider past the initial choke point. There was room to move. Just barely.
I reversed, dragged myself back up, and sucked in air like I’d been underwater.
“It goes somewhere,” I wheezed. “Big enough.”
“Let’s go,” Scarlette said.
Moab grunted. “No. Just him.” He looked at me. “You’re ass better be back by dawn.”
“I got this,” I said.
Scarlette jabbed him in the ribs. “Lucky for us, you’re a human battering ram, Toolie.”
Celeste’s voice was soft, but urgent. “They’ll check on us soon. If you go, you go now.”
I lay flat, jammed both arms down the hole, and let Moab lower me in. The squeeze nearly dislocated my shoulders, but I exhaled slow and went limp. My legs slid in last, and for a second, all I could hear was the trickle of water and my own heartbeat.
I turned, using my elbows and knees to crabwalk forward. The drain stank of death, but there was air, and it flowed somewhere. My chest scraped stone every time I inhaled. I crawled until my eyes went useless, then crawled further, letting my hands feel the way.
Behind me, I heard a distant thump—the cell door, maybe a shout. Then nothing but wet and dark.
After an eternity, the tunnel widened, and I dropped a foot into black water. I landed hard, but kept my mouth shut to avoid swallowing any. My feet found purchase, just barely.
I stood, hunched, knees deep in sewage. The tunnel led away, a faint blue glow marking the exit. I slogged toward it, every step a fight.
At the end, a grate. Old, rusted, covered in moss.
I braced my back against the stone, kicked as hard as I could.
The metal groaned. On the third try, it broke.
Light poured in, not torch but the pale blue of morning.
I crawled out, gasping, and found myself in a ditch behind the castle. Empty, quiet, but alive.
I shook with relief. “Now I find you, Catherine. I know you’re close.”