Chapter 15 Toolie
Toolie
The first one in was Father Declan. He’d dropped the vestments, wore nothing but the muddy black of a grave digger, a thin rosary coiled around his fist like a whip.
Behind him, a shadow peeled off from the gloom and fanned along the wall—Scar, eyes empty as an open grave, blade reversed in his right hand.
Declan crossed himself once, fast. “May the saints forgive us,” he said.
Scar stepped toward me. “You look like shit.”
I laughed, though it hurt. “You want to swap places?”
He pressed a dagger into my right hand. “You’ll need this.”
My palm closed around it, muscle memory locking in before my brain could think to drop it. It felt heavier than it should. My body remembered the weight; it always did.
Declan looped my arm over his shoulder, his breath hot and ragged in my ear. “We have to move,” he said.
We shuffled to the door, Scar gliding ahead, silent on the stone. My boots skidded and caught in the blood, and I nearly took us both down, but Declan was stronger than he looked.
The corridor out was blacker than my cell. The air tasted of mold, and every footstep sent echoes running up the walls. Somewhere above, men screamed—English, then Irish, then just the animal noise of men getting killed in the dark.
We turned a corner and nearly collided with a guard coming up the stairs.
He had a pistol, half-cocked, but Scar was faster; the knife flashed, catching the guard under the jaw, blade punching through the roof of his mouth with a wet, popping sound.
The blood misted Scar’s hand, but he didn’t flinch.
He pulled the dead man down, set him easy, and took the pistol. Passed it to me.
We kept moving. Each step sent a new fire up my arm.
I could feel the blood trickling under my shirt, warm at first, then cold.
I tried to focus on my feet, but my mind kept slamming back to Catherine—her face when I first returned, how she’d looked at me with hope and terror.
I wanted that again, even if it meant limping home like a half-dead dog.
“Keep left,” I managed, breathless.
Declan pointed to an iron gate at the end of the hall. “The cells. Your people are in there.”
Scar fetched the keys from one of the corpses, flicked blood off his fingers.
We limped down the hall. My boots left a trail, red and wet. Scar unlocked the gate, and we slipped inside. The cell block was a cold, dripping tomb. Three heavy doors, all locked. Declan went to the nearest and called out, “Moab?”
“About fucking time,” Moab said.
Declan worked the lock, cursing the whole time. Scar kept watch at the end, sword ready.
The door swung open. Moab stood inside, shirtless, face bruised but grinning. “We were just about to have a picnic,” he said, then saw me, and the grin died.
I thought he’d run to me, pick me up, bear-hug style. Instead, he just stared, and the look in his eyes was like seeing a dog shot on the road.
“Who did this to you?” he asked.
I tried to laugh. “Long story.”
He stepped forward and caught me before I could fall. “You still with us, Toolie?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But it’s getting harder to fake.”
He gave me a look, old and full of history, then set me back on my feet.
Scar unlocked the next cell. Scarlette was in there, sitting with her back to the wall, one knee pulled up, hands laced behind her head. She blinked at the light, then smiled when she saw Scar, then me.
“You look like shit,” she said. It was starting to be a theme.
“Nice to see you too,” I said, but the words came out as a croak.
She ran to Moab and jumped into his arms.
The last cell held Mama Celeste. She was sitting on the floor, eyes closed, lips moving in a silent chant. Her hair was a wild streak of silver and black, the braid coiled like a snake across her lap. She looked up, saw me, and smiled.
“Thank you for not dying,” she said, and stood, dignity intact despite the blood at her temple.
Two guards barreled in from the far door, muskets up.
Moab charged before they could fire. He took the first one by the throat, lifted him, and smashed his head into the cell bars.
The skull split with a crack like a green branch, bone and blood spraying.
The other guard dropped the musket, drew a knife, and tried to stab Moab in the gut.
Moab barely noticed. He caught the man’s wrist, twisted, then bent the arm backward until it snapped. The guard screamed, then Moab punched him once in the face, and the scream ended.
He let the body drop, hands flexing.
“Shit,” Scarlette said, staring at the mess.
Moab looked at her, eyes dull. “Nobody touches my brother,” he said, voice flat.
I tried to say something, but my throat closed up.
Declan herded us to the back of the cell block. “There’s a hatch here. Leads to the drain tunnel.”
Mama Celeste walked up to me and pressed her fingers to the side of my neck. Her hands glowed faintly, a heat that burned and soothed at the same time. “You’re leaking,” she said, and her eyes went black as ink. “Give me a moment.”
I stood there, letting her do whatever magic she could, while the others watched the door.
Scarlette sidled up, voice low. “You alright?”
I nodded. “No.”
She smiled. “Welcome to the club.”
When Celeste finished, I felt a little steadier. She handed me a strip of cloth, already spotted with my blood. “Tie it tight,” she said. “You have at most a few hours before you run out of will.”
I nodded, wrapped my arm, and took a deep breath.
“Ready?” Scar said, already at the hatch.
I didn’t answer. I just looked at my hands, still covered in blood, and thought of Catherine.
I’d get back to her. Or I’d die in the attempt.
I barely felt my boots hit the rungs. My mind floated a few feet above my head, watching as my body moved, limbs hollow and uncertain.
The drain tunnel was cold and narrow, black water slapping at our calves, the air thick with rot and iron.
Scar led the way, hunched like a predator, torch clamped between his teeth.
The others followed—Moab carrying most of me, Mama Celeste with her hand at my back, Scarlette and Declan behind, always checking the darkness for sounds of pursuit.
The first thing I noticed was the heat. Not from the torch, but from Celeste’s palm pressed to my spine. It burned through my shirt, and I felt her fingers work a slow, hypnotic rhythm along my ribs. Her voice was a thrum, soft and metallic, singing words I didn’t know.
“Is he dying?” Scarlette whispered, just behind us.
Celeste didn’t answer, but the pressure in my chest lifted, pain ebbing for a moment. I inhaled. It stank like shit, but I could breathe.
She leaned close. “I’m cauterizing the wound, but you’ll still be leaking. Can’t heal you, not here, not with this much hate in the walls. All I can do is keep you moving.”
“That’s enough,” I managed. The words cost me.
Moab grinned, the old bastard. “You always were too stubborn to bleed out, Toolie.”
Scarlette looked at him. “He’s gray,” she said, voice small. “Like he’s halfway gone.”
“I’m here,” I croaked. “Don’t start the eulogy yet.”
Scar let out a low snort, torchlight carving his features into something mythic. “Save the jokes. We got bigger problems.”
We rounded a bend, the tunnel narrowing until Moab had to duck his head. The sound of water got louder, then shifted, the slap of boots echoing up ahead. Scar motioned for silence. We froze, the world condensed to breathing and the drip-drip of water.
“Guard post,” Scar said. “Looks like six. Muskets. They’re awake, so this’ll be rough.”
“Let’s go around,” Moab said.
Scar shook his head. “No way. The only way is through, unless you want to drown in the river.”
Declan caught up, his limp worse now. “Let me talk,” he whispered. “If I can get close, maybe—”
“Not a chance,” Scar said. “They’re not the listening type.”
The pain returned, sharp and bright. I looked at my right hand; it still gripped the dagger, blood dried black on the handle. My wrist was a mass of crust and ruin. I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore.
Celeste leaned in. “You need to move, Sully. This is it.”
I nodded. “Do it.”
Scarlette stepped forward. She loved her magic. She touched my cheek. Her hand was cool, but the air around her buzzed. “I’ll make it quick.”
She walked to the bend, sucked a breath, and muttered a word.
The world shivered, like a guitar string pulled tight then plucked.
The air filled with a cold, blue shimmer.
For a second, I saw nothing—but the guards up ahead saw everything.
Their heads snapped up, eyes wide, muskets up and aiming at nothing.
Scarlette stepped into view, hands raised.
She chanted, voice rising, and the shimmer coalesced—shadows of men, dozens, all armed, all charging down the tunnel.
The guards panicked, fired their guns, and the roar was deafening.
The lead balls ripped through smoke and illusion, hit nothing. The blue ghosts kept coming.
The guards turned and ran, screaming for help, boots splashing and tripping over each other.
“Move,” Scar said, and we did.
We ran, me half-carried by Moab, Celeste with her hand pressed to my side, Scarlette stumbling but still moving. We reached the guard post; empty, save for the smell of powder and piss. Scar snatched up two muskets and handed one to Moab. “Take it,” he said. “You’ll need it.”
Moab grinned, checked the load, then pointed ahead. “Let’s get out.”
I tried to walk on my own, made it three steps, then nearly went down. Moab caught me, hoisted my arm over his shoulders.
“You don’t get to die, brother,” he said. “Not today.”
My vision blurred. “You sound like my mother.”
He laughed, but his eyes were wet. “Then listen for once.”
Celeste’s hand shook as she kept the pressure. “He needs a doctor,” she said to Declan.
Declan shrugged. “None worth a damn this side of the Shannon.”