Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Chapter Twenty-Two
Caitlin
I go with the men Seamus hands me to.
“Do exactly what they say, lass. Your safety is of the utmost importance. Do you understand?” It surprises me this is the man from day one, the vicious man who tried to slap my face. He’s concerned about me, concerned for my safety.
I’m one of them now.
I sit in the back of the car, but when I do, I see something up ahead on the cliff.
“Stop the car!” I shout. The men look at each other, but I pound on the seats. “Stop the car!”
They do, and I reach for the door handle. I need to tell Seamus and Maeve.
“Bloody hell!” one of the men shouts when I tumble out of the car, waving my hands at the car behind us.
But it isn’t Maeve. It isn’t Seamus. They’re… men I don’t recognize. Tires squeal as they come to a stop, and an older man, younger than Seamus but older than Keenan, rolls his window down. He stares at me as if he’s seen a ghost.
No.
He recognizes me. I scream when strong arms come around me, dragging me back to the car.
“Don’t fight me, lass. Get into the car or yer man’ll beat the shite outta me.”
He lifts me in his arms and carries me back to the car. I’m out of my mind, I’m fighting against him. Keenan’s in danger. The other man saw me. We’re all in danger.
I hear deafening gun shots but can’t see what’s happening, as he climbs into the back of the car with me and manhandles me inside. I haven’t seen this man before. He’s thinner than the rest, wears wire-rimmed glasses, but he’s got the same ink and sternness about him as the others. “You don’t fucking pull that shite again,” he says. “Seamus ordered you taken to the bunker, and we’re fucking doing what he tells us.”
“The lighthouse,” I tell him, trying to keep my nerves in check while the men in the front shoot their guns at our assailants. “They’ve got him at the lighthouse!”
He nods. “What’d you see, lass?”
“Flames,” I say, my voice choked, when the realization hits me. The lighthouse is on fire. My home. My childhood home is on fire.
He pulls out his phone and makes a few calls. I hear the blast of a gunshot and squeal of tires.
“Lost them,” a voice in the front says.
“The lass saw flames at the lighthouse. Thinks Keenan’s there.”
“Taking her in now.”
It’s a jumble of confusion as we race faster than I knew cars could even go, and we’re driving down, away from the lighthouse, away from the shore, deep into the heart of the city. We pass the church and the graveyard, the armory and the castle, as we drive further and further away. I swallow hard, kneading my hands.
They have to find Keenan. They have to save him. They have to save the lighthouse.
Why do I care?
God, what I’ve gone through since they took me… I don’t even know when it was. It feels like it was yesterday, and it feels like it’s been forever. I can’t imagine myself not surrounded by this family, by these men, by Keenan.
The thought of him being hurt, or worse, killed, makes me want to scream. He can’t die. He can’t.
We’re going downhill now, and my stomach swoops as they drive into what looks like a cave. What on earth? We’re surrounded by darkness when the car screeches to a halt.
“Nothing foolish, lass,” the man beside me says. “You’re under our protection, and it’s crucial you do as we say. It’s what Keenan would’ve wanted. Aye?”
Would’ve wanted? Why is he talking about him in the past tense? What? I nod dumbly, not sure what else I can do.
He holds my gaze as if gauging my reaction, when he finally opens the door. “Alright, then. Out you go.” He gets out first and takes me out, then holds my elbow as if I’m a child who might run.
“I’m not going to run away.”
He doesn’t respond, his jaw tight and his grip on my arm even tighter. There’s a door in front of us, barely visible, but another one of the men opens it. I step inside, the air instantly cooler. It isn’t used very much, that I can tell, by the musty, damp smell that clings to the air.
When all of us have entered the small room, I hear the heavy clanging of a door being shut, and someone flicks the light switch. I shade my eyes, not used to the light, and look around us. It’s a tiny apartment, windowless, with a door so thick and heavy, it looks as if it’s made of solid iron. There’s a refrigerator, a small, utilitarian toilet and sink, a sofa, and a cot.
“Sit, lass,” one of the men says, pointing to an ancient-looking loveseat in the corner of the room.