Saoirse
A Little While Later
I slip into Cillian’s room and shut the door behind me.
I don’t see him at first. He’s got the antique wardrobe door open and he’s almost completely hidden behind it.
Then he shuts the door, revealing the gun in his hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask. Stupid question, of course, but it’s the only way I can think of that gets anywhere close to the real question I want to ask.
A question like, Do you have to do this?
“Preparing,” he replies somberly. “How’s Kian?”
“He’s sleeping,” I tell him. “He was fighting it, but I managed to mix in a sleeping pill with his water.”
“Sneaky.”
“It’s a mild one,” I clarify. “But he’ll get in at least a few hours of sleep.”
“Good.” He sets down the gun in his hand and picks up another one. Hefts the weight. Nods, satisfied. It’s all so familiar to him, so routine, that he doesn’t even notice how I’m trembling, how my skin is crawling as I watch him prepare for war.
I circle around and peek into the wardrobe. And I realize with a jolt that “wardrobe” is a really loose term for what this is.
There are no clothes in there. What it does contain is enough weaponry to supply an entire army.
Knifes. Pistols. Rifles. Row after row of gleaming firearms nestled neatly inside this centuries-old armoire.
“Are those throwing stars?” I gape at him.
Cillian smiles. “I went through a phase when I was thirteen. Ma bought them for me for Christmas.”
I raise my eyebrows. “God help us all.”
“Is that not how Christmas gifts looked in your family?”
“No, not really. I usually got a pair of socks and a tenner, if I was lucky.”
Cillian sighs as he tucks another gun into his belt. “He’s a real Santa Claus, your pa.”
“I don’t think anyone is confusing the two of them.”
“No, I think not. And I suppose we’re not your typical family, either.”
“I gathered as much,” I say, looking around at the castle’s stone walls. “Not many typical families have a spare castle lying around.”
We both chuckle, but it fades away soon, lost amongst the stones. The quiet here feels deeper. Heavier. More dense than normal silence.
“Saoirse,” he says at the same time I say, “Cillian.”
He smiles. “You first.”
“How many people do you have on the property who can fight?” I ask.
“Fifteen.”
“And how many more are on the way?”