Freeholder Clan: Unknown
Freeholder Getter: Unknown
Freehold Domain: Significant swathes of Lambeth and Southwark, with significant support in Croydon and Bromley
Key Events: In 1945, born to middle-class family in Spanish Town, Jamaica. Good in school; involved in nationalist, Rastafarian, and ‘Negritude’ movements from young age. In 1960, first violent confrontation with police. In 1964, moves to England on scholarship at Victoria University of Manchester; in 1967, meets Stokely Carmichael (AKA Kwame Ture) and co-founds the British Black Panther Party. In 1970, splits with BBPP over ‘loose definitions of blackness' and the Party's inclusive policies towards South Asians; moves to U.S and joins Black Liberation Army. In 1972, splits with BLA to join People’s Liberation Movement of Angola (MPLA) then fighting Portuguese rule. Stays in ensuing civil war. In 1980 returns to London, now Nocturni, under ‘Ujamaa’ alias. Founds the New Afrika Movement (NAM), composed primarily of Caribbean- and West African-born Black immigrants. In 1981, seizes Brixton during riots against police brutality. In 1982, receives illicit arms from the al-Gaddafi and Mugabe governments. In 1983, closes all diplomatic ties to ‘Unbound’ movement. In 1984, starts gang war against Freeholder Zalman Rabinowitz (AKA Ratcatcher). In 1985, further riots against anti-Black violence spiral into a complete siege of the East End. Decisive NAM victory; Ratcatcher is killed, along with over 90% of Kingdom’s Nocturni.
Threat Assessment:
-
Though not part of the Unbound, NAM has largely respected the peace maintained by Aubrey Keaton and RoAS Wynter since 1985, and does not interfere in Court affairs.
-
Reid is primarily focused on maintaining his grip over Black-majority parts of South London, which brings him into conflict with renegade Freeholds more frequently than with the Court.
-
While the expansion of drug and human trafficking in Reid’s Freehold is concerning, this body believes that such matters can be handled by mortal law enforcement.
As such, this body feels confident in assigning the person and illegal domain of Glenmore Reid, also known as Glenmore Ujamaa, an overall threat assessment of LOW
Johnson MacAllister, Sovereign and sitting member of the Committee of External Threat Assessment (CETA). ‘On Glenmore Reid and the ‘New Afrikan Movement’. Presented to the Court at the 78.026th meeting of the Council of Magisters, August 21st, 2003.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
November 5th, 2004
He rings the doorbell a second time. Silence. It gives Andrzej Wo?niak, youngest of the Lost Boys, another moment to turn back, study the house’s increasingly unkempt yard. Weeds sprout. Shrubs stretch out. Nothing at all seems trimmed. Granted, none of her neighbours trim their grass here, either, nor did many families in Katowice, his old home. But Andrzej thought Britain would be a place where they trimmed the grass. A grass-trimming place. Like America.
Third ring. Still no reply. His heart palpitates as he debates whether to turn back or keep trying. The others whisper about some incident in the market, that the boss is on edge, but he knows no one else nearby. He barely knows anyone in London at all.
He breathes in. A fourth ring. The door’s immediately thrown open, and Andrzej springs back like a cat.
“FOOK!” Finnerty screams. “THE FOOK Y-... Andrzej?”
The seventeen-year-old leaves his defensive stance. His voice shakes. “Y-yeah?”
Behind him, the first of Bonfire Night’s fireworks brighten the sky.
Finnerty’s eye twitches, and she sighs. Loudly. She’s in her true form -- feathers, mottled skin, hair unwashed, food crusted across her chin, and so many bags under her eyes that they sink beneath the thick bandage over the left side of her face. “Fook you doin’ ‘ere?” She asks. “You’se s’posed to be wiff Ayan.”
“A-Ayan is in Southall. For Bonfire Night. Th-there is party. Said... I’d kill vibe.”
“Yeah. You fookin' would.” Andrzej wilts as his Freeholder shakes her head. “But it ain’t his call. Someone’s gotta-”
“He said you owed him after time you beat him with lead pipe.”
“-faaaaaaaahkkk.” Finnerty groans and leans her head against the doorframe. She’s taking deep breaths. Andrzej sniffs and quickly recoils. The stench emanating from the house is even more rank than usual.
“... fine!" She rubs a hand over her face. “‘Ere’s games on the shelf an’ corn in the fridge. ‘Elp yourself. I’ll be back at dawn.”
She’s already turned around when he asks. “Wh-where are you going?”
“Brixton. Red can’t stop kvetchin’ ‘bout some fookin’ letter, and I can’t fly wiff the fookin’...” She waves in the direction of the fireworks. “So I’s takin'-"
“Can I come?”
“-the- fook?” She turns agains, squinting at him. He notices her eyes are bloodshot. “Why the fook you wanna come?”
“Well, um… r-really, since I thought you’d be here, um… I-I’d... I...”
She watches him flail for a moment but is clearly too tired for it. “Spit it out!”
He slides around his backpack and withdraws a silver GameBoy Advance. There’s a deep blue cartridge wedged inside.
“W-would you, uh, like to trade the Pokémon?”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It’s a red sky. Bright and unreal. Sparks flash. Cheers surge. Even inside the bus, Aisling Finnerty can smell the gunpowder. The chirps of the Pokémon Center from Andrzej's game are drowned out by thousands of large, exploding lights.
With each eruption, another twitch. Another chance for her instincts to kick, her fangs to file out, her Wilds to twist her. Finnerty feels ill. Ill in her stomach. Whether that’s because of the crack or the coffee or the Ritalin or these stupid fucking fireworks … at this point, who knows? She slept today, she’s fairly certain. At some point her head was in a pile of drool on her desk.
It pissed her off. She needed to watch. Watch the monitors.
Red hair. Freckled face.
It never leaves her. It never GETS THE FUCK OUT.
Another slurry of fireworks. Once again, a twitch in her eyes.
“Aisling?” Andrzej looks up. He's holding two GameBoys now, united by a plastic, lime-green cable. “Is Nosepass the only evolution?”
Finnerty she looks up from the railing she's been using as a pillow. “What?”
“Nosepass,” he says again in that thick Polish accent. “Does it evolve by the trade?”
He turns the GameBoy around so she can look at it. “It’s a blue fookin’ rock. How the fook would I know?”
“You are one hundred and sixty years old." He looks back at the screen. "I thought you would know lots of things."
She sighs through her nose. They’re on a double-decker, top floor, the two seats right above the driver. Only seats worth fucking sitting on. So what if they had to wait three times for a chance to seize them? What is she, a fucking bitch? Now she has a clear view of the road, the parties, the pubs full to bursting, the smoke from fires illegally lit, more FUCKING LIGHTS from the MOTHERFUCKING-
“‘Ey should stop wiff the fookin’ fireworks,” she says, a little too loud. “Fookin’ bitch, I thought we was worried ‘bout rockets an’ al-fookin’-Qaeda!”
“Is the leg okay?”
She looks at him, exasperated. He points to the bandages wrapped around her ankle, the burned skin that just seeps through.
“It looks red," he says.
“Yeah, no shit, it’s a fookin’ burn.”
“Did you get it from incident at market?”
“‘Ere was no fookin’ incident.”
“But everyone says Aisha had to calm you down after-”
“Are you fookin’ stupid?” Her brows knit. “Were you dropped on your head as a kid? Kicked by some fookin’ Soviet donkey?! I just said it didn’t ‘appen. So why we's fookin’ talkin’!? It means I don't wanna fookin' talk about it!”
He blinks, clearly confused. “But there was incident?"
Her eyes grow wide. “Yeah.”
“So why lie?” Andrzej shifts, oblivious to the aether surging beneath her skin, and the thoughts of murder in her head. “I think it is good to talk. When I was in school, my counselor said talking about stressful things make us feel less-”
“Your school counselor's part of the fookin' system, Andrzej! She’s been bought! She’s a hack! She's probably tell you'se to pay your fookin' tax!"
“But you do sound stressed.”
“I sound fookin’ fine, you po-” Finnerty stops herself. Right. Jayden told her about this. She can't make Polish jokes. The boy is fragile. “You know what your fookin’ problem is, Andrzej?” His lips open, and she lifts a hand. “No, stop, don’t fookin’ answer! You’re not funny. You don’t try to be funny. Go! Go on! Try! Hit me!”
A blink. “Hit you with what?”
“A joke! A quip, a barb! You know, put me in me place, like Jayden does! Take the fookin’ piss! Say somefin’ fookin’ clever!”
“Like, insult you?” Andrzej squints. “But then you will be angry."
“If it’s funny, I won’t.”
“How do I know if the joke will be funny?”
“You don’t!” She flares up. “‘At’s the game! You ‘ave to fookin’ guess!”
Andrzej blinks, realising that her continued staring was a prompt. He swallows. “You’re short. So short that my nana is taller than you!”
Her face doesn’t change. Andrzej wilts.
“... that was not a funny joke.” he says.
She shakes her head. “No.”
The bus continues its gentle roll. Another firework. Her brows knit. They only seem to be getting louder.
She looks back at the boy. “When you last feed?”
“Five days ago.”
“Hungry, innit?” She smiles. Sees his nod. “Good.”
She reaches out, tapping a yellow button on the railing. Lights around the bus begin to flash.
“We’re near enuff to Southwark. Can walk the fookin’ rest.”
“Wait, eat now?” Andrzej looks around. “But there are people doing a party!"
“‘Ey are 'doin' a party'. An’ for us, ‘at’s fookin' grand.” The bus stops as she smirks. “Huntin’ 101, Andrzej. You want an easy meal? Go wherever the people aren't."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“NO!” The man shouts, his headphones half-slid off his ears. “YOU CAN’T! SOMEBODY HEL-MMMPPPHHH!!!”
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“What part of ‘SHUT THE FOOK UP!’” She shoves the crusty sock back down his throat. “Did you’se not FOOKIN’ understand!?”
He strains against it, tears in his eyes. Another firework makes her look up. It’s a decent apartment - new fridge, IKEA furniture, windows that were painfully easy to bust open. She saw his video games from the outside, wagered that anyone playing Halo 2 by themselves on Bonfire Night probably wouldn’t have reinforcements. Voices are screeching in the man’s headphones while he slides out of his swivel chair. An announcer’s deep voice cutting through the chaos. ‘GAME OVER’
“Andrzej, c’mon!” She hisses. “He’s fookin’ heavy!”
“H-he is still awake.” The Polish boy wrings his hands together. “Nie dam rady tego zrobi?. I do not bite awake people!”
Hearing ‘bite’ makes the mortal's eyes brighten, and he restarts his screams. Finnerty tightens her grip, fending him off.
“How the fook you been livin’ then!?” she shouts
“M-My flatmates! Th-the people in my flat, I-I-I just wait until they sleep, and-”
“Andrzej.” Finnerty suddenly sounds serious. “... ‘Ow many fookin’ flatmates you got?”
The boy blinks. “F-Four. Why?”
Her eyes grow wide. “Bitch. You’se givin’ your friends fookin’ anemia!”
That makes him panic all over again.
“MMMPPPHHH-ELP!” The gamer shouts. “HELP ME! HEL-”
She forces him into a headlock. “Aren't nerds supposed to be QUIET!?”
“I-I cannot do this,” Andrzej’s trembling, shaking his head. “H-H-He is w-watching me, Aisling, he-”
A screech. Finnerty’s covered the mortal’s mouth and plugged his nose. For half a minute, he struggles wildly, flailing at her, bucking against her. But over time, the movements come slower. Weaker. Until eventually, nothing at all.
She drops him on the floor and slides into his chair.
“There.” She snaps up his controller, puts on his headset, and presses ‘Start Match.’ “You get one game. ‘Ave a fookin’ feast. ‘E’s sleepin’.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
‘Get the door.’ ‘Get the door.’ ‘Get the door.’
More explosions. More wincing.
‘Get the door.’ ‘Get the door.’
What she’d give to kill the Chinese fuck who invented them.
Finnerty’s sitting by a radiator in the hall. Knees in her chest. Staring at the door labeled ‘115.’ Wondering how many texts she needs to send before Red takes the fucking hint. Four minutes, she’s been here. Four minutes of waiting. Four minutes of WASTING HER FUCKING TIME and listening to these FUCKING-
Another goes off. Her face sours.
‘Get the door.’ ‘Get the door.’ ‘Get the bloody godamm door.’
The sounds of a Pokémon menu emanate from Andrzej’s GameBoy. Battle music. “Can Clefairy learn Focus Punch?” He asks.
‘Get the door.’ ‘Get the door.’ “Ain’t no fookin’ Clefairy’s in Sapphire, cunt," she calls out.
“I know. But I got bored. I am playing the LeafGreen.”
“LeafGreen?” She stops, lifts her brow. “Wazzat, some fookin’ Indonesian ROM where you’se can play as fookin’ Goku? Ain’t no fookin’ LeafGreen!”
“It is remake of Gen One. Came out last month. I thought you knew.” He tilts the screen so she can see. “Should I give the Jigglypuff a nickname?”
She looks at it for about five seconds. This little pink shit. Then returns to her Nokia. ‘Get the door.’ ‘Get the door.’ ‘Get the door.’
She tries to find something good about these godawful fireworks. She supposes her eyelids feel less heavy.
As she types, Andrzej watches her. Eyes big and wide. “When was last time you played a game?”
“You just watched me play one, dumbarse.”
“But before then. In your house.” He shuffles a little closer. “We used to play the Star Wars Battlefront, remember? But you have not joined in weeks."
She sighs. Fires five more texts. “I’ve been busy.”
Andrzej sits on his hands. “Aisling. I know you do not want me here, but… but I really think it would help if you talked about-”
“NO! No! Will you quit bein’ a fookin’ idiot?! I don’t wanna FOOKIN’ TALK ABOUT IT!”
Another firework goes off. A twitch in her eye.
Andrzej seems unfazed. "You killed people. And you did not want to. That is hard. I know that it is hard, so I-"
“The fook you fookin’ want, Andrzej?” She growls. “You want me to fookin’ cry? You want me to say I’m fookin’ sorry?”
“I do not want any-"
“Well I’m not!” She stands, her eyes glowing. Her disguise breaks, cracks appearing on her ankles, feathers springing from her sleeves. “I’m fookin’ not! 'Ey're mortals! 'Ey're worfless! Do you'se get sad when you’se swat a fly!? Step on a fookin’ worm!?”
“Of course I-”
“FOOK YOU!” She points. “Fook you! Fook you an’ Aisha an’ Red! ‘Let’s be kind to the fookin’ neighbours!’ ‘Let’s stop swearin' at the fookin’ guests!’ I can’t take it! I can’t-”
Another firework goes off. She runs to the hall’s window, thrusts open the blinds, and screams.
“Shut up!”
She starts walking in little circles, her face buried in her hands.
“Doesn’t work never fookin’ works fookin’ weak fookin’ bitch fookin’ fook fook- you fookers fink I don’t know!?” She suddenly looks up, glaring Andrzej. “Dat I need to be told 'at it's bad!? YES! I killed people! It's bad! I know! But WHAT DO I FOOKIN’ DO!? Sit around an’ feel like shit!? Guess what, fookheads!? I already am! I can’t feel fookin’ worse! But I still ‘ave to breathe! I still ‘ave to live! So maybe I don’t want to be the shitstain today! Okay!? 'At's all I fookin' want! That it be someone else’s fookin’ turn!”
Another firework. Her mind grows tight.
“An’ for the movver of FOOKIN’ GOD! Can we stop wiff the FOOKIN’-”
Suddenly, her words are cut off. Crazy Frog’s Axel F covers the room like poison gas. Ba bum ba-badum-bum-bum. Ba bum ba-badum-bum-bum. Bum-bum-bum badum-ba-dum bum-bum. “DING DING-”
“Yo. Wagwon?” Finnerty brushes her face. Calms her voice. Her mind rapidly fogs up as she tries to play the adult again.
“Aislin’, why are ya screamin’ so loud that the neighbours can hear?” Red’s voice cuts through the static. “An’ why do I have a hundred-an’-forty-five texts?’
“‘Cause we’s been waitin’! Open the fookin’ door!”
“I did. It’s been unlocked for an hour. Like I told ya when I-” Red pauses. Probably because he can hear her finger taps. “Yer not actually scrollin' through all those goddamn texts to check, right?”
She’s on page ‘41-60.’ “No.”
“Jes’ get inside.”
The call disconnects, and she sighs. Hears Andrzej standing up behind her. “You are not shitstain, Aisling."
She spins. “Wuzzat?"
“You are not bad.” He stares at her with cold eyes. “I do not think you are bad. I wish you would feel same."
Finnerty's face is blank for a few moments before she laughs. "Can I be real wiff you, Andrzej?"
"Tak."
“I get ‘at we’re rudeboys," she nods. "I get ‘at you’re strugglin’. An’ I’m guessin’ ‘at ‘cause I’m a girl, you fink I'm'a be a bit less scary. But... I'm not. I’m not your friend. I'm up to my eyeballs wiff the biggest fook sandwich I’ve ever had, an’..." She purses her lips. "You wouldn't be spoutin' half the shit you spout if you'se knew what I’ve done.”
Andrzej looks at her for a few seconds. "I know you want to save Fireside. I know you saved me. Those I have seen, and those make you good."
She chuckles again. "Not how fings work, boy."
"Maybe. But they count." He smiles. "Look."
He holds the GameBoy up. Finnerty can see that same spherical pink Jigglypuff, along with the text: ‘AISLING has been moved to BOX 1.’
She gives him a look. “You fink I’m a fookin’ Jigglypuff?”
“No. I am trying to do what you say.” He gives an awkward wink before shuffling to the door. “‘Taking piss.’”
He opens it. Leaving her to gape, gobsmacked, behind him. Slowly, it curls into a hand on her hip, and a small, satisfied smile.
“Fook you, Andrzej.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Fireworks keep going off. Showering the apartment in bright, fluorescent reds.
There are lights across the hall, but Finnerty takes one slow steps towards them, studying all that she sees. She knew Red Eddard’s flat would be clean - the way he eyes her nest, it had to be - though she assumed that also meant it'd be lived in. Not covered in tarps and plastic wrap, dust on the lamps, no signs of books or discs or CDs.
Andrzej flips a switch, then blinks when the lights don’t come on. “Uhh…” He keeps flicking them, to no avail, and only stops when Finnerty raises her hand.
"Nah." She points at the windows. “Dark’s better.”
The boy nods. “R-Right.”
The kitchen feels the same. The floor is spotless, the cabinets clean, yet Finnerty suspects that most are empty. The table is littered with mail, and the fridge neither hums nor stirs. She quickly gathers why - the only power in the apartment comes from a generator set on a kitchen chair. It’s linked to the lantern she saw in the foyer. Through an open window, the sky still alights with explosions, blurred by the smoke from Red Eddard’s cigar. He’s already watching them when they arrive.
He pulls the cigar out when he speaks. “Aislin’.”
She points a thumb at the generator. “Fook’s this? Forgot to pay the gasman?”
“Didn’t forget shit,” he chuckles. There’s an edge to his voice. He holds the cigar out, right above the kitchen table. Smoke wafting up to the ceiling. “No alarms.”
Finnerty squints. There are easier ways to knock out a detector. Cost less, too. But she plucks the offer from his hands either way. Thankful for the chance to relieve some of the tension the fireworks have forced onto her.
It tastes like black pepper. Hint of cinnamon.
Red leans back on the wall, glaring at Andrzej. It's strange to see his mullet without a straw hat to hide it. “Yer that Polish boy, right?” Red waits for the nod. “A pleasure, truly, but I told Ms. Finnerty ta come alone.”
“Andrzej can barely speak, much less spill secrets.” Finnerty takes a drag. Red doesn’t say anything, but gives her a tired, a desperate look. A look she’s gotten all too used to.
She huffs. Waves Andrzej off. “Sod off. Fight Team Rocket in the hallway or somefin’. Scream if you see somefin’ bad.”
The boy’s eyes dart between the two of them, before he hesitantly leaves the room. Finnerty keeps up a smile until the door closes, and he’s gone. “... You know ‘e can’t even eat mortals ‘less ‘eir asleep? Gets all fookin’ trussed. An' no powers eivver! Moon-Clanner musta Lit him, I dunno what value ‘e’d serve beyond bein' a bad fookin' prank."
“Mmmm.”
She squints. Red’s clearly not listening, too busy sorting through the mail on the table. She puts the cigar back in her mouth.
“Sho what’sh ‘ish ‘bout? Trip to Texash? Blackbird?”
He freezes, eyes on the mail, then moves away. “Yeah, we do need ta talk ‘bout that.” He stands up, his belly hanging over the table while his hands slide into his jean pockets. “Ya invited her?”
“Loose way of putting it. She really just showed up."
“Do ya trust her?”
“Naw. She’s Court.”
“I’m not concerned ‘cause she was Court. I’m concerned because Uday fuckin’ Hussein might be stabler. I was a fool ta work with her. An’ an even bigger fool fer lettin’ her get her claws in my girl-”
“Harriet was always gonna pick crazy.” Finnerty sets the cigar in an ashtray. “Your one gyp made sure a’ that.”
“... Yeah.”
Finnerty can’t help but spy on the mail. Lots of words like ‘Notice’ and ‘90 Day’.
“But actually,” Red clears his throat. “I was more talkin’ ‘bout Spitalfields.”
“Handled,” she hisses. “Man I bit got thirty-kay an’ ‘is kid in a private school. Prolly finks it was the best fing to ever ‘appen in his life."
“An’ the people ya killed?”
“Two Turkish migrants wiff expired docs. ‘Ey don’t…” She pauses. No. Wrong thing to say. “... to the fed, ‘ey don’t matter. An’ if ‘ey did catch a whiff, the Reeves will stop it. Only problem issat Aisha used some flamin’ whips to-”
“Nah.” Red shakes his head. “That one’s fine. They’ll say it’s yard tools.”
She squints at him. “Didn’t look like a fookin’ yard tool.”
“Was there ever a time in yer life that ya didn’t know vampires were real?” Red asks. After a few seconds without reply, he goes on. “Yeah. That’s not most people. They’ve spent their whole damn lives thinkin’ magic ain’t real, an’ jes’ ‘cause they see it right in front of their faces don’t mean they’re gonna start. Trust me, lotsa things can turn inta yard tools.”
“Cool.” Finnerty shrugs. “‘En we ain’t gotta problem.”
A few seconds pass. He’s still staring down at her. Slowly, her face bends into a frown.
“If you say it’s the dru-”
“It’s the goddamn drugs.”
“-fook you.” She hisses. “I take drugs just fine.”
“Not the stims,” Red lifts a brow. “How many ya on at this point? Yer tweakin’ half the time I see ya."
“Aisha put you up to this, didn’t she?”
“Naw,” Red shakes his head. “Aisha, yer Boys, they all see ya losin’ yer grip, but don’t wanna be called Reaganites, right? Guess what? I don’t mind. I can be the bad guy. I can tell ya it needs ta stop.”
“I didn’t kill ‘ose people ‘cause I spazzed out. I saw your daughter gettin’ beat! What would you fookin’ do!?”
“What I have been doin’. Keepin’ my goddamn temper." He huffs. "So here’s the deal: ya don’t get shit from Texas ‘til I hear ya promise ya’ll get off that stuff-”
“Fookin’ bitch! You fink you’re my dad?”
“No. Jes’ standin’ in. Now, I’m guessin’ yer addicted at this point, an’ cold turkey right now ain’t exactly safe…”
Fuck him. She’s not addicted. Her mind’s already splitting, and she’s already thinking of all the ways she can weasel out of this, but she’s not addicted. She’s fine.
“... so ya can keep tweakin’, but only enough ta hold back withdrawals.” He points to the door. “That Polock can keep tabs on ya fer me. Think he’ll tell a lie?
“You’re a right prick," she growls.
“Yeah. I am. We square?”
She bites her lip. “As a fookin’ circle.”
“Good.” He holds up an envelope and throws it to her side of the table. “We got bigger fish ta fry.”
It’s different than the other letters. Handwritten. Sealed. “What’s ‘is?”
“Read it.” He leans over and plucks the cigar from the ashtray. “Don’t know when it was written.”
She tries for about half a second. “You know I don’t fook wiff cursive, right? Be a lot easier if you-”
“Jes’...” The harshness in Red’s voice cuts her off. “... fuckin’ read.”
She scours at the words and sounds out the letters. Struggling to put everything together until she utters the name. “‘Captain-’” Her tongue freezes. Her skin pales. She reads it again. A third time. Looks at Red in disbelief. “No.”
“It’s his hand," Red says. "I recognise it.”
“You don’t fink it’s about-”
“What else would it be about?”
It shakes a little in her hand. “So why didn’t you-”
“Because if I have ta hold that thing fer five more seconds I will tear it ta fuckin' shreds. Ya know why, Aislin’! But I’m tryin’ ta not lose it! I’m tryna keep my fuckin’ temper.” Red’s face grows taut. She can see his throat move when he swallows. “So ya need ta tell me what’s inside, Aislin’. Because I can’t. I can’t... deal with that man."
More fireworks explode, and the sky turns orange behind him.
“He didn’t take her,” Finnerty says. “Blackbird says it was Caedmon’s gig, ‘at him an’ the boy had a fallin’ out, so if he knows, an’ ‘at Stirlin’ bitch knows, ‘en the whole bloody Council-”
“Aislin’...” His breath shakes. His eyes glow.
Finnerty exhales, then opens her mouth, filing out her fangs. With a flick, one cuts through the envelope, and she withdraws the letter carefully. Feels the texture. “Parchment? Fook me. Course Edward fookin' Morris writes on fookin’-”
She loses her train of thought, slowly deciphering the words as the fireworks display crescendos outside. Her body seizes with each new light. “... farshltin."
“What?” Red asks as she sets it down. “What was it? Gloatin’? A fuckin’ ransom?”
Her breath shakes. She looks down at her joggers, lifts up one of the legs. She can read half of her marks. ‘Aisling, Kept of-'.
Morris saw her text. That writhing ink on Harriet's neck.
‘Aisling, Kept’
‘Aisling, Kept'
She shakes her head, snaps out of it. All too aware that Red impatiently watches her from the side. “No. No, nuffin’ like... fook. Fook! Red, okay. You need to listen to me."
"What was in that letter?" He doesn't sound amused.
"I will tell you what's in 'at letter, but first I need to listen. Listen. 'Cause you're not gonna like what it says, but we need to be smart. We can't-"
“What did he do ta her?” Red’s voice rises. “That fuckin’ shit! WHAT DID HE-"
“He wants to help!”
The words steal Red’s rage. Finnerty holds the letter out for him, let’s him see the text.
“He wants us to go back to Ombras,” she says. Plans already flooding her mind. “Says we can pool our resources, work togevver. If we can get muscle, he can get us into Polyphron in a month-”
“No.” Red’s breathing is heavy. “Aislin’, it’s a lie. It’s a trap. He’s a fuckin’ goddamn Magister! He-”
“READ IT, RED!” She slams the letter down. “Fookin’ read! It’s there! It’s right fookin’ there! An’ we-”
She sees his face and immediately swipes the letter back. Steam is rising from his nose.
She takes two steps back. Her voice low. "Red... you need to trust me."
Red doesn't move. Fireworks explodes.
She puts the letter between her and the cowboy. "Josiah, I did not want this," she reads. "I did not ask for this. An’ God willing, I will not allow this.’”
It's not anger on Red's face. Not quite. It's something else. Something hollow and choking and pale.
“‘You might fink ‘at I’ve betrayed my oath, but in my heart, I never have. I still fight for freedom. I still fight for your family. And I swear, on all the honour I 'ave left, 'at I’d sooner fall on my sword then let this evil claim your daughter.’”
Could it be legit? Is this a deal they should consider, or a deal they can't afford not to? Red and Finnerty will debate this in Part II, along with a brief look at an antagonist we've barely seen so far... the 'New Afrikan' Glenmore Ujamaa.