Chapter 38
Callum
Philalethist (n) someone who seeks truth
We walk into the formal dining room, and I pull out the chair to my right, gesturing for Maeve to sit. Uncail sits at the head of the table, where a glass of whiskey is already waiting for him.
“Where has Orin run off to?” Uncail Declan asks.
“He went to put his things away, I believe,” I say, covering for him. Tardiness is not something Uncail appreciates. “I asked him to make the chef aware that Maeve doesn’t like mushrooms, as well.”
“Ah, well,” Uncail Declan says with a hint of disapproval, throwing up his hands. “So Maeve, how is Cormac doing these days?”
“He’s well. I don’t really see him all that much.”
I can hear the hint of hurt in her tone, and I place my hand on her thigh and squeeze lightly.
“Good, good. You know, you remind me a lot of Imogen,” Uncail says thoughtfully, and Maeve stiffens.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice tight.
Suddenly, a man in a neat suit walks into the dining room, bowing slightly. “Lord Declan,” he says in a thick Irish brogue, “dinner is ready as soon as you are.”
Uncail nods and waves a hand. “Of course. Thank you, Connor.”
Connor bows again and strides back toward the kitchen.
Almost immediately, three house staffers, wearing crisp uniforms and holding a plate in each hand, enter the dining room.
They place Uncail's food in front of him first before serving the rest of us. There are steaming bowls of lamb stew, heaping plates of colcannon, and loaves of soda bread. My mouth waters immediately. I’d worked up quite an appetite again, and I’d missed this traditional Irish fare.
Orin walks in just after the servers leave, apologizing to Uncle for his tardiness and taking his seat. He doesn’t make eye contact with any of us.
Shit.
He starts eating his food in silence, and the rest of the table is quiet for a few minutes as we all dig in.
“So, Maeve,” Uncail starts, pulling her attention to the head of the table. “Have you ever been to an opera before?”
She clears her throat. “No, sir. Well, not as an adult. I went to one once a long time ago with my parents, so I don’t remember much of it,” she tells him, moving food around on her plate listlessly.
I feel a pang of concern. It isn’t like her to be so disinterested in a meal, especially one like this.
“Well, we must go tomorrow night then. You will love it,” he suggests, but we all know attendance is required.
“Sounds wonderful,” she replies with a soft smile. She looks to where Orin is still sitting, his head down, staring at his plate.
The rest of the dinner proceeds without incident, and we all clear our plates hastily. Well, everyone except Maeve. The staff returns with dessert, taking away our dinner plates and replacing them before wandering back to the kitchen. Orin’s gaze keeps flitting to the kitchen door.
“I hope you like apple cake, Maeve,” Uncail says with a light tone. “The apples were grown here on the estate.”
“It smells wonderful,” she says sweetly, taking a bite. A satisfied moan escapes her. “And it tastes as good as it smells!”
I smile, feeling relieved. At least she’s eating dessert.
Uncail chuckles deeply before taking a bite of his own. Ronan and Saoirse are sitting across from each other, and Ronan keeps wiggling his eyebrows at her suggestively. She just stabs at her cake violently while staring him down.
We finish our dessert and pour one final drink to carry with us to the meeting house.
Maeve’s glass is a little fuller than expected, and I can’t help but feel responsible for it as I watch her take two large gulps from it, grimacing at the burn.
I kept something from her. Again. I should have listened to my mother and trusted Maeve to be able to handle the truth.
I just hope the damage isn’t too great. I’ve only had her back for a few days. I can’t lose her again.
“Let us go outside, aye?” Uncail says, standing from the table, and we all follow suit. I place a hand on the small of Maeve’s back. She seems nervous, holding her glass with two hands and glancing around the room cagily.
“You okay?” I whisper.
“I’m worried about Orin. I haven’t seen him like that in a long time,” she says, each word quieter than the last. I rub her back, hoping to soothe her nerves if only a little.
“We’ll talk to him tonight before bed, okay?”
She nods, not looking me in the eye. We exit the house and walk to the building about a hundred yards out, passing at least three armed men on the way.
Approaching the stone building, I take in the vines growing along the side.
The stones are old and dark, worn. I notice Maeve taking in the garden we walk through, even if it is poorly lit.
The men standing at the entrance open the door for Uncail, and we file in behind him. There is a large round table in the middle of the room and maps of various locations tacked to the walls.
“Please, sit,” Uncail motions for us to join him at the table. Maeve takes a deep breath as she sits in the chair I have pulled out for her. I sit beside her, leaning back in my seat, interlacing my fingers, and propping my elbows on the dark wooden arms of the chair.
“So, tell me why the buffoon is here with you all,” Uncail asks, and I start to speak, but he holds up a hand, stopping me. “I want to hear it from her,” he says, gesturing toward Maeve, who sits up straighter.
“How far back do you want me to go?” Her voice is steady, sure. The nerves aren’t present anymore, like she has slipped into a different, professional persona.
“I’d like to know all of the things this man has done to any of you,” Uncail says, rubbing his chin. “I need to know, so I can make sure he pays properly for each one.”
Maeve clears her throat and sits back in her seat, relaxing slightly. She takes a large sip from her glass, draining it, then sets it down in front of her.
“Well,” she pauses briefly, looking at everyone sitting at the table. “Let’s start with the fact that he tried to rape me when I was hardly thirteen.”
I look toward Uncail, whose face twists with outrage. Orin and Ronan lurch forward, no doubt shocked. They look at me, and I toss back the remainder of my whisky. I fucking hate that I only found this out recently.
“Gobshite,” Uncail grits out, fists clenched, jaw tightly set.
“He attempted to get me alone after that many times, but I was always able to get out of it one way or another…” she trails off for a moment. “Then there’s the time he tried blackmailing me with pictures he took of me while I was sleeping. I don’t know how he got them.”
A cold rush of rage creeps up my spine. I turn to look at Maeve, who is gazing resolutely at Uncail.
“He threatened to show them to the men that worked for our family, and I said that he would make sure they would visit my room nightly.”
The tension around the table hangs heavier than a body with concrete shoes. Even Saoirse’s knuckles were white, a muscle in her jaw feathering.
“I was able to break into his office and retrieve the flash drive, though I never found out who took the photos. I know it was the only copy because the next time I saw him, he was fuming and tried to threaten me further. The stupid arse left the drive on his desk,” she finishes, her tone flippant.
“That isn’t the reason he is here, though, is it?” Uncail asks, his eyes narrowed.
“No. No, he is here because he aided Nessa in her escape, and we need answers regarding his involvement. We believe he is involved with the Costas,” Maeve answers.
“I see. Well, I hope you aren’t squeamish, because this will be a bloody night, to be sure.”
“I think I'll be just fine. I’d like to make the final blow. I don’t know how I want to do it, but I’d like to be the one to do it.”
Maeve gazes steadily at Uncail, letting her request hang in the air between them. He looks back at her, appraising, and finally, he nods.
“No time like the present,” he states matter-of-factly as he stands and rolls up his sleeves. He walks to the door in the back of the room. We all rise and follow behind him, the energy amongst us tense, expectant, violent.
Once we’re through the back door, we head down two flights of stairs and stop before a pair of steel doors. Men are standing in front of each one, stony and silent. I nod at them as we pass through.
In the middle of the room is Liam, wearing only his underwear and hanging from the ceiling by chains.
His eyes grow wide when we enter the room, and he jerks against the chains wildly, as though they might give and allow some miraculous escape.
It’s always the same with rodents like him.
I’ve seen it hundreds of times, but as I glance up at the solid iron hooks in the stone ceiling, I savor the savage pleasure I feel that this piece of shit is trapped, that he’ll soon pay. And he’ll pay dearly.
“I hear you’ve been a gobshite, Liam,” Uncail says in a sharp, steely tone. Liam only thrashes more. He knows Uncail is ruthless. “You’re a despicable piece of shit, to be sure,” he says, spitting at Liam's feet.
“Fuck you, old man,” Liam seethes. Uncail chuckles, deep and menacing. He places his hands behind his back, holding one in the other, and walks casually toward a metal table just outside of the room’s single light.
“You are a poor excuse of a man, Liam,” Uncail starts.
“I know of your transgressions. Don’t think you won’t pay for every single one.
Now, we need some information from you. How quickly you choose to cooperate will determine how long we drag this out.
” Uncail picks up a scalpel and examines it before placing it down.
The metallic clink causes Liam to jerk his head in Uncail's direction, and he squints, panicked, unable to see into the shadows.
“Ah, perfect,” Uncail says, turning with a pair of pliers in his hand. He strolls toward Liam, cane in one hand, pliers in the other, and Liam begins thrashing so violently that blood drips from the metal cuffs on his wrists.
“Maeve, would you like to do the honors?” Uncail asks, still staring at Liam.
She stiffens briefly. This is a test. He wants to see if she is truly capable of handling this level of brutality. She takes a deep breath before stepping into the ring of light, showing herself fully to Liam. And the mother fucker laughs. Laughs.
“Ha! Her? You're joking, right? She’s nothing but a weak bitch,” Liam yells wildly, but he’s the only one in on the joke. We all take a step toward her, but she holds up her hand without a word, halting us.
“This weak bitch will have you praying for death before I even break a sweat,” she says lowly, venom lacing every word. His eyes turn to slits, and he spits into her face.
I freeze, not quite believing what I had seen.
I move to step around her, but Orin puts a hand on my chest, shaking his head.
Maeve is standing very still. Uncail hands her his handkerchief, and she cleans her face, maintaining eye contact with Liam.
He bares his teeth and mutters “Bitch” under his breath.
I shift my position so that I can see her face, and she’s… smiling. Wicked and cruel. Without warning, she swings, landing a brutal punch to his stomach. His breath escapes in a whoosh as saliva arcs through the air, and he coughs violently, his body jerking against the chains.
“That’s for calling me a bitch. And this,” she swings again, “is for the spit.” She lands another punch, and Liam gasps, doubling over. Maeve stares at him calmly. “I need him in a chair or on a table. I can’t reach him the way I want to.”
As if they’d been waiting on her command, three men appear in front of Liam in an instant, and a fourth man wheels in a metal table, similar to the kind used in morgues. While the men work on getting a thrashing, Liam strapped down, Maeve walks over to the table covered in various tools.
I approach her warily. “Hey,” I whisper, and she tenses for a heartbeat, only slightly turning her head. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says, her tone sharp and cold.
“I just want to make sure. I know this is a lot—”
“I said I’m fine,” she says, cutting me off. She snatches a knife, drill, cigar cutter, and a vial of some cloudy liquid from the table and strides past me toward Liam.
“Now, Liam,” she says calmly, gazing down at the straps holding him in place, “here’s how this is going to work, and listen closely, because I will not repeat myself.
” She squeezes the drill trigger lightly a couple of times, and its mechanical whirring reverberates from the stone walls.
“It’s simple, so your pea-sized brain should be able to handle it.
” She examines the drill again, then forces it against Liam’s forearm and presses the trigger again.
A spurt of blood erupts, and Liam screams desperately.
She smiles, then sets the vial of liquid next to his face.
He glances at it, then up at her face in confusion.
“Oh, this?” Maeve taps the vial with a fingernail. “This is lemon juice. Now, who has Nessa?”
“Fuck you, bitch,” Liam seethes.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she coos, holding the cigar cutter up to the light and squeezing the clasp a few times, and setting it aside. Then, in a swift, fluid motion, she flattens Liam’s hand to the table and clamps the pliers down on his nail. She pulls, slowly. Liam’s cry is wild, guttural.
“I’ve got lots more toys to play with. So, let’s try that again, shall we?” She smiles down at him, savoring his pain. “Where. Is. Nessa?”