47. Liath
LIATH
Idropped through the half-open carriage house window and landed in a crouch on the floorboards, the dusk behind me going purple at the edges.
I shouldn’t be here.
But after what Deargán had proposed we do to Lorcan, I had to know what kind of man he really was. I needed proof. Of his truth. Or his lies. To find out what he hadn’t told me. Now. Before I made one more decision.
I had to hurry. I had no idea when he’d be back.
The house was dim as I moved through the living room first, then his bedroom, rummaging through drawers and cupboards.
But these were rooms I’d already been in. And there was nothing new to find.
I stood in the living room for a moment, staring at the rickety stairs up to the second floor. The wind whistled from a hole up there and I shivered at the cold rush of air.
Before I could step toward it, my gaze caught on a thin strip of light under a door at the back of the living area, drawing me to it.
I crossed the living room, keeping my steps light. The trapdoor to the tunnels creaked too loud when I stepped on it and I winced, freezing for half a beat before I made myself keep moving.
The dread sat at the back of my throat as I stopped at the door and listened. I didn’t hear any movement inside.
I tried the handle. The door opened, revealing a set of stairs descending into a basement, the light coming up from below, dim and amber.
I listened for another moment, then slowly walked down.
In the basement, shaded floor lamps cast amber pools across a long wooden table covered in glass beakers and Bunsen burners. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the far wall, interrupted only by an electrical cupboard, dusty spines and specimen jars cluttering the shelves.
Faint singing rose up in my head, the same lullaby I kept hearing every time I got near this place, my synesthesia reacting to some unknown smell. It made for an eerie backdrop as I neared the desk along the right-hand wall, materials pinned in clusters above it.
They were surveillance photographs.
Of Powell.
Him at Ravenwood, briefcase under his arm. Getting out of his car. Coming out of a house I didn’t recognize, his hand still half-raised in goodbye.
There was a photocopy of his teaching schedule. Times highlighted in two colors. Hand-drawn schematics of Powell’s office at Ravenwood, doors and windows mapped, entry points circled.
A prickle of unease skittered across my skin, lifting my hair up in goosebumps.
This couldn’t be a coincidence that Deargán had been watching Powell right before he had a breakdown and was removed from this position.
A position that Deargán now held.
My eyes caught on another cluster of photos, centered around a pinned index card. It was Powell, dressed in workout gear, at the counter of a smoothie bar. Another shot caught him taking the cup. Another zoomed tight on the cup itself sitting on the counter.
On the index card was Deargán’s lowercase scrawl.
deliver mis?
The words wouldn’t sit. An abbreviation? Initials? A name? It niggled at me.
On the desk below, among browning papers curled at the edges, a single glass vial lay on its side.
That was mine. I’d stolen that from Alistair’s secret study. I’d given it to Deargán.
I picked it up. It was empty, only a single drop of liquid drying at the bottom.
I turned it over in my fingers to reveal the label.
M15.
I glanced up at the index card. deliver mis?
I glanced back at the vial.
Not M15.
MIS.
I invoke the Mis Protocol. This was what Bewley was talking about in his letter. This drug.
Oh God. My throat closed up as the pieces fell into place.
There was a tragic Irish myth about a beautiful princess called Mis who went mad.
This drug drove people mad.
Powell had been Deargán’s target. He’d used the vial I’d given him. The vial I’d stolen from Alistair. He had used it to clear Powell out of his way and take the Ravenwood post.
To get to me.
And I’d given him the weapon.
The ground tilted and the lullaby in my head grew muffled. I grabbed at the edge of the desk to keep myself from collapsing.
Freak out later. Cry later. Hate yourself later.
Right now, get the fuck out of here before he comes back and catches you.
My hand shook as I set the vial back down.
This was how Alistair was doing it. He was paid by people to get rid of troublesome girls. Alistair used this Mis drug to drive girls insane.
Then they’d be committed to Magdalene. Under his control.
Like Dervla’s uncle did to Dervla.
Like Bewley had done to Maeve.
And he had done to Bridgit. Bridgit had known too much. The Sons will silence the daughters.
A shiver moved up my spine and out the top of my head.
If Alistair ever caught me, if Alistair ever realized what I knew, I’d be next.
I stumbled back from the desk. I had to get out of here. I spun, ready to sprint for the door.
The singing was broken by a small cough.
I froze.
Synesthesia did not cough.
The soft singing started again.
Not synesthesia.
Human singing.
There was someone down here.
Deargán, the bastard, had gaslit me about the lullaby in the tunnels.
I turned, listening hard, following the sound, my heart rate climbing.
It was coming from the back of the room. From the electrical cupboard, from behind the heavy metal door. Only when I neared it did I see the sliding hatch at eye level.
An observation window.
Oh God. That wasn’t a cupboard.
That was a cell.
Of course. The female doctor who’d vanished just before Deargán arrived at Magdalene. Nobody had ever found her. Nobody had even looked very hard.
“I have places to hide him away.”
He’d kept her.
He’d been keeping her down here all this time.
A sick horror rolled through me so hard my stomach lurched. Deargán wasn’t some tragic man clawing for justice.
He was a monster.
As I neared, the singing became clearer, a ripple of goosebumps sprinting across my skin as I realized where I’d heard this song before.
Lena’s music box. It was the same lullaby that came from her music box.
Why would the Magdelene doctor be singing a dead woman’s lullaby?
“Hello?” I called out, my voice low.
The singing cut and a heavy silence descended over me, broken only by the thundering of my heart against my ribs.
Behind the door came the soft shifting of material.
I reached up with a trembling hand and slid the hatch open.
Framed in the hatch, staring right back at me, was my face.
It was Rua.
Rua was alive.