"You think this will last?"
I shrug.
"It will if we make it."
She smiles, a flash of teeth, then leans her head against my shoulder.
Her arms go around my waist, her fingers lacing behind my back.
I hold her, feeling the heat of her skin, the beat of her heart against my ribs.
We stand like that, listening to the night, the silence outside so deep it is almost a sound.
After a while, she says, "What about Padraig?"
I kiss the top of her head.
"Padraig is a memory. If he comes for us again, he'll die like one."
She snorts, then laughs.
"You're such an optimist."
I finish my drink, set the glass down, and pull her tighter.
The world outside is still, the city lights flickering in the haze.
Somewhere, a fox screams, the sound carrying for miles.
I think of the men who will wake up tomorrow and realize the world has changed and the ones who will never wake up at all.
"We'll make it," I say.
She nods, her chin digging into my chest.
"I know."
We stand at the window, side by side, watching the city burn itself out, then ignite again, over and over, every hour a new war, a new peace, a new reason to survive.
She lets go, but only just, and I feel the future settle around us, heavy and real and unbreakable.
This is what we fought for.
This is what we get to keep.
28
EPILOGUE
KEIRA
AFew Months Later
The desk is a slab of old mahogany, rescued from some Georgian relic and refinished so aggressively it shines like a crime scene under the LEDs.
The top is broad enough to stage a hostage negotiation, which is exactly what it has been used for at least twice in the past month, though never with actual hostages.
Just bankers, lawyers, a parade of men who think "negotiation" means slow, mutual strangulation.
