Chapter 33
Axl
Sorcha is terrified of the water, and I don’t blame her after what happened on that ledge earlier, which definitely dates back to some childhood-related trauma, but turning back now, after everything we’ve been through to get here, is not an option.
“Not happening, sunshine,” I say, catching her wrist before she can take another step. “We’re not leaving.”
She whirls on me, her eyes flashing with irritation. “Do you see that lake? We’d have to swim across it. In the dark. With no idea what’s in there or how deep it goes.”
“I see it,” I say evenly, keeping my grip gentle but firm on her wrist. “But I also see you. You can do this.”
“No.”
“Aren’t you curious? After all of this? You married me to find out what this was, so don’t lie to me, Sorcha. You want it. Don’t let a bit of water stand in your way.”
“A bit of water?” she croaks, glaring at it. “That is a lake.”
“Can you swim?” I ask carefully.
She clenches her jaw. “Not very well, okay? Happy?”
“But you can swim?” I ignore her tone. She is scared.
“I took lessons at school, but it was shit and after… something happened, I made every excuse not to go back in the pool.”
“What happened?” I ask gently, cupping her face and pulling her closer. Now isn’t really the time for this, but we need her in that lake and on the other side so we can end this shitshow.
She presses her lips together, and I watch the internal war play out across her face. Finally, she exhales shakily. “One of my mum’s boyfriends held me under the water in the bath when I was eight. To punish me for stealing his cigarettes. Which I didn’t fucking do!”
Rage floods through me, hot and vicious. I want to hunt down this bastard and make him suffer. But that’s not what she needs right now.
“That won’t happen here,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the violence churning in my gut. “We will do everything to keep you safe.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Yes, I can.” I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes. “I’m a strong swimmer and so are Ciar and Cillian.”
“What if there’s something in there?” she whispers.
“Then we deal with it,” I say simply. “Together.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the fear battling with her stubbornness. The stubbornness wins, like I knew it would.
“Fine,” she grits out. “But if I die down here, I’m haunting all three of you bastards.”
“Noted,” I say, releasing her face. I turn to Ciar and Cillian. “We’re doing this,” I say, my voice firm. “Ciar, you’re the strongest. You take Sorcha. Keep her above water no matter what.”
Ciar nods once, his expression grim but determined. “I’ve got her.”
I turn to Cillian. “You and I flank them. Anything that comes at us from the water, we handle it.”
“Understood,” Cillian says, already shrugging off his jacket.
I strip off my jacket and kick off my boots. Beside me, Ciar and Cillian do the same.
Sorcha watches us with wide eyes, her arms wrapped around herself. “This is insane,” she mutters, but she’s already pulling her hoodie over her head.
“Completely,” I agree, stepping to the edge of the black water. I shine my phone light across the surface, but it doesn’t penetrate far. The water looks thick, almost viscous, and I can’t see the bottom. “How far across do you think it is?”
“Maybe thirty metres,” Cillian estimates. “Not far if the water’s calm.”
“Big if,” Sorcha says, crouching to unlace her boots and pull them off.
I pocket my phone, hoping that it does what it promises and lasts at least half an hour submerged underwater, and I wade in first. My pants stick to my legs, but I don’t consider taking them off.
We don’t know what’s on the other side, and emerging into the middle of God only knows what, naked, isn’t on my list of things to do.
Maybe I should wear boxers from now on. I shake my head. Fuck that. The water is pleasantly warm, which makes me think of hot springs. “It’s not cold,” I call back and wade in further.
“Warm water underground,” Cillian mutters, wading in beside me. “That’s either a good sign or a very bad one.”
I choose to believe it’s good, because the alternative—that we’re about to swim through some kind of geothermal hell—isn’t something I want to contemplate right now.
The water rises to my waist, then my chest. It’s oddly buoyant, like swimming in the Dead Sea, and I make a mental note of that. It’ll help keep Sorcha afloat, at least.
“Come on,” I call back to where Ciar is helping Sorcha into the water.
She forces herself to keep moving forward. Ciar’s massive hand is splayed across her back, keeping her steady.
“You’re doing great,” Ciar tells her, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone who snaps necks with his bare hands.
Sorcha doesn’t respond, but she keeps moving. When the water reaches her chest, I see her breathing quicken, panic starting to take hold.
“Eyes on me, sunshine,” I say, swimming back towards them. “Focus on me. Nothing else. Just me.”
We start swimming, Ciar sticking to her as I swim backwards, my eyes never leaving hers. Cillian moves parallel to us, watching for threats.
The water is eerily silent. No ripples except the ones we make. No sounds except our breathing and the gentle splash of movement. It’s unnatural, and it sets my nerves on edge.
“Halfway there,” I tell Sorcha, though I’m not entirely sure that’s true. The darkness makes it impossible to judge distance accurately.
She nods, her jaw clenched so tight I’m worried she’ll crack a tooth. But she’s doing it. She’s not freezing up or panicking. She’s pushing through it like the stubborn, fierce woman I knew she was from the moment I met her.
Something brushes against my leg.
I freeze for half a second, my mind immediately conjuring every possible horror that could be lurking beneath us. But nothing follows. Just a fleeting touch that could’ve been anything from a current, to debris, to my imagination running wild.
“Keep going,” Cillian says, and I realise I’ve slowed.
I push harder, hoping this ends soon.
“Almost there,” I tell Sorcha, forcing confidence into my voice. “You’re doing amazing.”
“Liar,” she gasps out, but there’s a hint of humour beneath the fear.
My feet suddenly touch the bottom, and relief floods through me. I stand, water streaming off me, and reach for Sorcha. Ciar guides her towards me, and I catch her under the arms, hauling her up onto the rocky shore.
She collapses onto her hands and knees, shivering.
I kneel beside her, my hand on her back. “You did it. You’re safe.”
She lifts her head, water dripping from her hair, and the look she gives me is equal parts relief and fury. “If you ever make me do that again—”
“You’ll haunt me. I remember.” I help her to her feet, steadying her when she sways. I don’t have the heart to tell her, we are probably going to have to do this journey in reverse to get the hell out of here.
Ciar and Cillian haul themselves onto the shore. We stand there for a moment, dripping and shivering, catching our breath.
My phone is, as promised, still working, as I pull it from my pocket, shaking off the excess water. The light cuts through the darkness ahead, revealing a door.
It’s carved into the rock face, massive and imposing, with those same interlocking circles covering every inch of it. But unlike the other passages, this one has something different—a name carved above the arch in old Irish script.
“Ardal Gannon,” I read aloud.
My chest tightens. We’ve found it. After all the running, the hiding, the near-death experiences—we’ve actually found her ancestor’s legacy.
“Well,” I say, trying to inject some levity into the moment. “At least we know we’re in the right place.”
Sorcha doesn’t respond. She’s staring at the door like it might disappear if she blinks. Water drips from her hair, creating small puddles at her feet, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her entire focus is on that carved name.
I move closer to her, my hand finding hers. She grips my fingers so tight it almost hurts, but I don’t pull away. This is it. This is what she married me for.
“Ready?” I ask quietly.
She tears her gaze from the doorway to look at me. “No. But let’s do it anyway.”
That’s my wife.
I lead the way, Sorcha’s hand still locked in mine.
Ciar and Cillian follow, their presence solid and reassuring despite the fact that we’re all soaked and shivering.
The door looms larger as we approach. Up close, it feels like it’s staring back at me, those carved circles twisting in patterns that make my eyes ache if I focus too long.
I reach out, my fingers brushing the cold stone, half expecting it to zap me or crumble under the touch.
Nothing happens. No traps spring, no alarms blare. Just silence, thick and waiting.
I glance at Sorcha, her face pale in the dim glow of my phone, water still dripping from her red hair like she’s some drowned siren pulled from the deep.
Her grip on my hand tightens, and I can feel the tremor running through her of fear, excitement, maybe both mixed into something fierce.
She’s come this far, married me for this exact moment, and now doubt flickers in her eyes.
I give her fingers a squeeze, not saying a word, because what the hell do you say when you’re about to crack open a centuries-old secret?
Ciar moves up beside us, his massive shoulders brushing mine as he eyes the door like it’s an enemy he can punch through. “No handle. No keyhole. How the fuck do we open it?”
“Push?” Cillian suggests from behind, his voice low and edged with that aggressive bite he gets when things get too quiet. He’s scanning the edges, always the enforcer, ready for shit to hit.
I nod, pressing my free palm flat against the stone.
It’s smooth, almost warm, like it’s been waiting for us.
Sorcha mirrors me, her hand next to mine, and together we lean in.
The door doesn’t budge at first, stubborn as hell, but then there’s a groan, deep and ancient, vibrating up through my boots.
Stone grinds against stone, and slowly, inch by inch, it swings inward on hinges I can’t even see.
A rush of stale air hits us. I step through first, pulling Sorcha with me, my phone light sweeping the space beyond. It’s a smaller chamber than I expected, circular, with walls etched in more of those damn symbols.