Chapter 43
CHAPTER 43
CLOVER
I arrived in Wexford around three a.m. I’d gotten a few hours of sleep on the train, curled up inside Kellen’s jacket under a table where no one would see me. Without Damien around, I realized just how vulnerable I was. How defenseless. My only weapon was the backpack Kate had given me, refilled with some food and bottled water from Nora.
When the train had pulled into Wexford Station, I’d been too terrified to come out from my hiding spot. I knew the Navy crewmen docked in that harbor had drone footage of Damien and me. They knew we’d killed two of their men, and now, I was back with absolutely zero protection. But something Damien had said the last time we were there gave me courage. It was when the battleship in the harbor had started blasting bugle music …
“They play that before lights out. A few patrolmen will have the night shift, but the rest will be tucked away inside the ship until sunup.”
I was safe until sunup.
Avoiding all streetlights and keeping to the shadows, I crept along the roads Damien and I had taken together, retracing every step until I was standing at the bakery’s back door, which, thankfully, still had a broken lock. There was no way I would have been able to knock loud enough to wake them up without attracting the attention of a drone in the process.
When I tiptoed into the seating area, my throat tightened, and my eyes burned as I remembered Damien chasing me behind the counter where he’d kissed me and fed me pastries. It had felt like a glimpse into the real him—the boy I would have met if we’d been given normal lives. Playful. Sexy. Giving. But the sweetness of that memory faded when I got to the part where I’d freaked out and recoiled from his touch.
I didn’t know if Damien had ever seen a normal version of me. Everything I did or said was tainted by trauma. Maybe in our next lives, we could just be … us.
Whatever that was.
The second I placed my foot on the bottom stair, a creak echoed through the entire building. I’d forgotten about the squeaky floor, but maybe that would work in my favor. Give them some warning that I was here before I just appeared in their bedroom like a ghost.
“Kate? Jack?” I called out in my quietest voice. “It’s me … Clover.”
Even over the noises coming from the floorboards beneath me, I swore I heard additional creaking coming from somewhere else in the house.
“Jack?” I whisper-shouted. “Kate?”
Emerging into the sitting room, I glanced around the first floor, which was illuminated from the streetlamps lining the harbor. No sign of anyone, but I heard what sounded like footsteps coming from a room with a closed door on the opposite side of the room.
“It’s me, Clover,” I said again, a little louder this time, as I crept toward what I assumed was their bedroom door.
Every third or fourth step squeaked. As I reached out my hand to knock, the door flew open, and my startled yelp was silenced by a gun to my forehead.
“Clo?” Jack whisper-shouted, lowering her weapon and clutching her heart with her free hand. “Jesus Christ, woman. You ever heard of knockin’?”
“I was about to,” I gasped, my own hand over my own racing heart. “I’m sorry.”
“Clover?” Kate emerged from the darkness behind Jack and only made eye contact with me for a fleeting moment before glancing behind me into the sitting room and kitchen.
I knew exactly who she was looking for.
“Damien’s not here,” I admitted, feeling my chin buckle as I fought back tears. “He … he surrendered to the Russians, and I need your help to get him back.”
“He what?” Kate gasped.
“That’s a fuckin’ suicide mission,” Jack scoffed. “Why the hell would a coupla old ladies help you with that?”
I glanced from Jack to Kate and gently removed the photograph from Kellen’s jacket pocket.
Handing it to Kate, I watched her expression morph from concerned to completely gutted.
“Because,” I replied, “I think he’s your son.”
Sitting on Kate’s blue velvet couch in the dark, I explained everything as Jack made tea and baked muffins and paced the floor and asked skeptical questions … and Kate just stared at the coffee table with her fingertips pressed to her lips and silent tears streaming down her face.
“So, you’re tellin’ us that the man who was here two days ago is walkin’ around with her son’s reincarnated soul inside of him … and you expect us to believe that shite?”
“I believe it,” Kate answered, her blank stare still firmly in place. “I saw it in his eyes, the way he carried himself”—she turned her head toward me—“the way he looked at you …”
The smile she gave me was heartbreaking.
“I would know that look anywhere.” She sniffled, studying my face in the early morning light. “It’s you, isn’t it? It’s really you.”
I nodded with a lump in my throat as she pressed a wrinkled hand to my cheek.
“Oh, my sweet girl. Come here to me.” Her voice broke as she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “I missed ya so damn much,” she cried. “Thank you. Thank you for giving me my boy back … twice.”
I didn’t know if it was the validation of having someone finally believe me after a lifetime of being called crazy or if it was the years I’d spent craving the comfort of a mother’s touch, but Kate’s love broke me wide open.
I wept on her shoulder as all the fear and anxiety and gut-wrenching loss that had been leaking out of me since Damien’s disappearance finally came rushing to the surface.
Jack sat on the couch next to her wife, stiff-backed and uncomfortable with our outpouring of emotion. “You actually believe this load of bollocks?” Her words were harsh, but the smirk on her face and the tender hand she placed on Kate’s thigh betrayed her arsehole exterior.
Releasing me with one hand, Kate reached out and swatted her partner with a laugh and a sniffle. “Oh, shut up, ya old geezer.”
Jack smiled for the first time since I’d arrived before glancing over at me. “Real nice mother-in-law ya got there,” she scoffed. Then, giving my knee a firm squeeze, she added, “Come on. Let’s get ya some food. Ya can’t rescue yer reincarnated husband on an empty stomach.”
I hadn’t truly allowed myself to feel Damien’s absence until I found myself back at their kitchen table. Just forty-eight hours ago, Damien had been right there beside me, comforting me, reassuring me, then risking his life for me—for all of us—when we’d needed him. Now, his chair sat empty.
Now, he was the one who needed us.
And we didn’t have the first bleeding clue what to do.
Jack was streaming the news on her tablet again. That seemed to be their morning routine—tea and muffins and the news. I didn’t have an appetite, but I needed all the caffeine I could get. And the distraction of a glowing screen was welcome too. At least until I figured out how to find and rescue a man who was probably already being tortured in a secret prison cell in Siberia by then.
My hands began to shake so hard that I had to set down my mug.
“While the Irish military has not yet officially surrendered,” a female newscaster for the BBC announced as footage of the hell I’d seen the day before scrolled behind her on a green screen, “our sources report that as much as seventy-five percent of Dublin has been destroyed, and Taoiseach Séamus Rooney was seen boarding a private plane bound for Venezuela late last night.”
“Of course he was, the fuckin’ cunt,” Jack sneered.
“Because Irish President Sean MacSharry, a close UIB ally of Rooney, will neither confirm nor deny that the taoiseach has deserted his position, Russian President Alexi Abramov is declaring a preliminary victory in the war with Ireland. Let’s go live to Moscow where—”
“Turn that shite off,” Jack barked from the kitchen. She was gripping the edge of the counter with her head between her shoulders. “I can’t fuckin’ listen to this—”
“Wait. This just in.” The female newscaster pressed a finger to her ear and listened. “The press conference is not with President Abramov, but his newly appointed vice president—a position never before seen in the history of the Russian Federation—who I’m being told is President Abramov’s son, Lenin Abramov.”
If there had been tea in my mouth, I would have spit it out.
The man they cut to—standing behind a podium in a sunlit garden, freshly shaved and wearing a crisp black suit—was the same one I’d seen on his knees, surrounded by six Russian soldiers, just twelve hours before. They’d tried to clean him up, hide the beating I knew they’d given him, but his well-manicured surroundings and appearance did nothing to mask the muscle flexing in his clenched jaw or the deep V between his puffy eyes. Damien was in agony.
“Mother of fucking God,” Jack spat, marching over from the sink to get a better look. “That’s yer boy. That’s fuckin’ him!”
“Oh my God.” Kate pressed her fingertips to her gaping mouth. “Clover … is this true?”
All I could do was nod as I stared into the same steely eyes that had turned away from me the day before. They didn’t turn away now. They bored into my soul, as if his stare was meant for me and me alone.
“Ya didn’t fuckin’ mention that he’s the son of the goddamn enemy!”
“Jack …” Kate warned.
“He is the goddamn enemy! Look at ’im! Fuckin’ VP of Russia!”
“Jack, stop!”
“He has a black eye,” I muttered, my fingers hovering over the screen just above his beautiful face. “Under that makeup. Ya see it?”
“The next time I see him, I’ll give him a lot more than that,” Jack quipped before clamping her mouth shut and shooting Kate an apologetic look.
Bitterness and rage emanated from Damien’s entire being as he stared, unblinking, into the camera.
“Citizens of the world,” he began in Russian-accented English, his jaw unclenching just enough for him to play the part, “I stand before you today as the newly appointed vice president of the Russian Federation. I, along with my father, am pleased to report that Russia has emerged victorious in our conflict with Ireland, and the evacuation phase of this war is now over.”
“Fuck me.” Jack finally sat, taking the chair next to her wife.
“From this moment on, anyone remaining on the island formerly known as Ireland must pledge allegiance to President Abramov and the Russian Federation. Failure to do so will be considered an act of treason. Wearing or displaying Irish iconography of any kind, including flags, emblems, or symbols, will be considered an act of treason. And the use of the Irish language, spoken or written, will also be considered an act of treason.”
“What about wipin’ me arse with the Russian flag? How’s yer da feel about that?” Jack spat.
“To help expedite the transition of power, bonfires will be held in every occupied city on the island tonight. Attendance is mandatory. If you do not live in an occupied city, you must travel to one. All Irish regalia must be burned at this time, and all citizens will be required to surrender their passports and driver’s licenses to the authorities on-site.”
“Oh God,” Kate whispered through her fingertips. “Is this really happening?”
“In the coming weeks, new passports and identification cards will be issued to reflect your new Russian citizenship and Russian surname.”
“New names! Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Jack shoved the table with both hands, causing the tablet to fall flat on its back.
“Failure to attend a burning event or submit your identification will also be considered an act of treason, resulting in immediate detainment and sentencing.
“While this transition might be difficult for some to accept, President Abramov would like to remind you all that it was Ireland’s taoiseach, Séamus Rooney, who depleted your miliary in his ill-advised war with Britain, alienated you from your allies, and left the door open for this invasion to occur. Now that it’s over, my father would like for all of you to take pride in your new Russian citizenship … or suffer the consequences.”
Jack tapped the screen, pausing the broadcast.
“He’s a fuckin’ traitor!” she cried, thrusting her hand in the direction of Damien’s frozen, vengeful glare.
“He is no such thing!” Kate snapped back in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “Ya heard what Clover said … he surrendered to try to get close to Alexi. He’s doin’ this for us. Including you, ya stubborn cunt!”
“For us ? Your boy crawled back to dear old da and got a big fat fuckin’ promotion— that’s what he did. Look at him!” She gestured toward the screen again. “That suit costs more than our mortgage!”
Kate didn’t look at him. She was too focused on the words spewing out of Jack’s fear-mongering mouth, but I looked. And what I saw had me snatching the tablet off the table.
“Damien saved yer life, right here in this bleedin’ room,” Kate shouted. “He saved all our lives. We have to help him.”
Zooming in with two fingers, I studied the garden wall behind Damien.
“What are we s’posed to do, love?” Jack’s tone softened. “Book a flight to Moscow and abduct the VP of Russia? We don’t even know where they keep the VP. Nobody does. They’ve never fuckin’ had one before!”
Setting the tablet down with shaking hands, I glanced up at Jack and Kate and said the two sweetest words in the English language.
“I do.”