Chapter 15 Toolie #2
I staggered on, every step white-hot agony. The world narrowed to the tunnel, the boots, the thump of my heart in my ears.
I thought of Catherine. The way she smiled when I tried to flirt.
The way her hands always smelled of soap and yeast, the little scar near her wrist where she cut herself on a bread knife.
I thought of the first time she kissed me—no warning, no permission, just lips and heat and the smell of summer.
She was the only real thing I’d ever known.
Moab whispered, “Don’t think about the pain. Think about her.”
I did. Every step, I pictured Catherine—her face when she saw me come back from the dead, the tilt of her head when she laughed, the way she made every room warmer by walking into it. I let it burn in me, gave the pain a name and a reason.
Scarlette’s illusion faded, the blue ghosts gone. “That’s all I’ve got,” she gasped.
“We’re close,” Scar said. “One more bend, and we’re in the open.”
The tunnel widened, the ceiling arched, and I saw moonlight—real, not torch-flame, but silver and clean, spilling down through an old storm grate.
I limped toward it, the others close behind. My legs shook, every muscle ready to quit.
But I thought of Catherine.
If I died here, I’d die moving toward her.
Moab boosted me up to the grate. Scar climbed after, then Celeste, Declan, and Scarlette last. We emerged into the castle’s rear yard—open, wild, chaos everywhere. Muskets fired, cannons boomed, the sky alive with sparks.
The air tasted free. I grinned, bloody and ruined. “Told you,” I whispered. “No grave for me.”
Then, everything was fire, movement, screams. The sky glowed orange over the castle yard, and the air was thick with gunpowder and iron and the stink of burning hair. For a second, I thought I’d died and gone to hell. Then Moab slapped my face and bellowed, “Get up, brother!”
I staggered to my feet. The pain had gone from sharp to dull, a rotten ache in my bones.
The others were already running—Moab, Declan, Scarlette, and Mama Celeste.
Scar was lagging, a few paces behind, face pale but set.
I saw then what he saw. Captain Hale, standing in the center of the yard with a ring of his own guards, barking orders, eyes scanning the chaos for threats.
Scar went still. He stared at Hale like a starving man at a feast.
“That’s him,” Scar whispered, voice flat as a razor. “The butcher from Drogheda. He killed them all.”
Moab heard it and looked at me. “We need to move, Toolie. Now.”
But Scar was gone, mind and soul. He stepped away from us, blade up, every muscle singing for violence.
I knew what I had to do, but my feet wouldn’t move. The memory of Catherine was gone for a moment, replaced by the look on Scar’s face—the look of a man who’d waited years for this one thing.
Scar charged.
The first two guards saw him coming, but it didn’t matter. He ducked under a musket swing, gutted the man with one stroke, then spun and kicked the second in the knee, breaking it sideways. The guard screamed, went down, and Scar finished him with a thrust to the throat.
Hale turned. His eyes locked on Scar, and I saw the moment of recognition. His lips twisted in something like respect.
“The ghost of Drogheda,” Hale said, voice cold as the grave. “I thought I’d killed you.”
“You did,” Scar said. “But I came back for you.”
Hale drew his sword, a long, thin blade. “Let’s see if you’re worth the trouble.”
They circled. The world seemed to slow. Men fought and died all around, but nothing mattered but the two of them. Scar moved like an animal, low and quick. Hale was taller, rangier, fought with the boredom of a man who’d killed too often to enjoy it anymore.
Scar attacked first, a flurry of stabs and slashes. Hale blocked with the flat of his sword, then riposted, cutting a line across Scar’s forearm. Blood welled, but Scar didn’t notice. He pressed the attack, got inside Hale’s reach, and stabbed for the gut.
Hale twisted away, but the blade caught his side. He hissed, then drove an elbow into Scar’s face, breaking his nose with a wet crunch.
Scar reeled, but didn’t retreat. He wiped the blood from his lips and grinned, teeth red.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he spat.
Hale came at him then, hard. The sword flashed, and Scar’s jacket opened from collar to belly.
He stumbled, but as he fell, he grabbed Hale’s wrist and pulled him down, knife going for the throat.
Hale jerked back, the blade missing by a hair.
He kicked Scar in the ribs, sent him sliding across the mud.
Scar got up, slow. He looked at me, at Moab, at the world, and then back at Hale. He smiled. “I’ve waited years for this moment,” he said. “Go! Get out! This is what I’m for.”
The words hit me harder than the pain ever could. Moab grabbed my arm, pulled me away. I didn’t want to leave, but Scar’s eyes begged me—just this once, let him have his death.
Declan herded us toward the gate, Scarlette and Celeste close. Muskets cracked over our heads. I caught a glimpse of Scar and Hale, locked together, blood flying with every blow. It was beautiful, in a way.
We reached the gate. Declan kicked it open. Moab half-carried me through. I looked back, just once, saw Scar on his knees, knife buried in Hale’s thigh, Hale’s sword pressed to Scar’s throat.
They held like that, two statues, each refusing to fall first.
Then the world went white as a shell burst near the yard. When the smoke cleared, I couldn’t see either of them.
We ran. Out into the night, into the wreckage and the wild, the only sound my own heartbeat and the name I’d carried through all of this.
Catherine.
I staggered, nearly fell, but Moab’s hand kept me up.
“You did well, brother,” he said. “He wanted to go that way.”
I nodded, but it felt like losing a limb.
The first mile was all running, nothing but breath and mud and the slap of boots.
My body worked on muscle memory alone. I saw nothing but darkness and the orange flicker of the castle fire behind us.
The pain was a rumor now, distant, drowned by the pounding in my chest and the name I kept whispering: Catherine, Catherine, Catherine.
After the first mile, we slowed. The world grew quiet. Far behind, gunshots echoed, then died. The only sound left was our feet and my breath, ragged as old cloth.
We cut across fields, then through a gorse break, then down into a gully where the fog pooled thick as soup. I nearly tripped, but Moab caught me. He never said a word about it.
Scarlette drifted back, walking beside me. Her face was a mess of dried blood and tears, and she kept rubbing her arm where Hale’s men had marked her. “Do you think he made it?” she asked.
I knew who she meant. Scar.
I wanted to tell her yes, but I’d seen the look in Hale’s eyes. If there was a hell, Scar would be waiting for us at the gate.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “He did what he wanted.”
She nodded, wiped her face, and said nothing else.
The last stretch was uphill, through black mud that sucked at my boots. The church was nothing, just three walls and a half-roof. But there was a candle flickering inside, and I heard the low murmur of a voice.
Catherine was there, backlit by the flame. Her hair was wild, eyes wide, skin pale as milk. She saw me and ran, stumbling, arms out.
She caught me as I collapsed and held me to her chest. She smelled like smoke and rain, like home.
“I said you’d come back,” she whispered.
I tried to laugh, but the only sound was a broken sob.
“I always do,” I said, though my tongue was thick and stupid.
She pressed her hand to my face, and the world steadied.
Moab, Declan, Celeste, Scarlette—they fanned out, set watch, started tending wounds. I didn’t care about any of it. All I saw was Catherine, the way her tears caught the candlelight, the way her hands trembled, but never let go.
“I thought I lost you,” she said.
“Never,” I said. “Not ever.”
I held her, and she held me, and for one perfect second, the pain vanished. I was nothing but her, her voice, her heart beating fast under my ear.
The candle guttered, and the world went dark. But I dreamed of her, and even in the dark, I knew how to find my way back. Always.