Then cursing. Creative, furious, extensive cursing in a voice that sounded familiar, but not enough to place right away. It was thick with rage, running through a catalog of profanity that was impressive in both its breadth and its anatomical specificity.
“Get your fucking hands off me, you bastards!”
More slamming. A fist hitting the wall—the wall Fergal was leaning against—hard enough to vibrate through the plaster and into his spine.
Then silence. Breathing, harsh and ragged, was audible through the thin partition between their rooms. Then the voice again, quieter now, wary, “Is someone there?”
“I’m here,” Fergal said. “Who are you?”
A pause. The breathing on the other side steadied. “King Fergal?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“It’s Duff. Duff Bás.”
Fergal closed his eyes. Of course. Of all the people to end up in the cell next to his, fate had chosen the man who’d been framed for killing his family. The universe had a sick sense of humor.
But then he frowned. Why in all that was holy would the Murphys kidnap Duff? “How did you end up here?”
He framed his question broadly, nowhere near convinced he could trust Duff.
“I followed you. Saw you leave the compound and head for the trees. Something felt wrong. I could feel it, like a pull, a buzzing under my skin. So I followed you.” He paused. “They teleported you out of there, and I figured that was it, I’d lost you. I was about to alert your commander that something was wrong when one of them returned and discovered me. He hit me with magic.” Another pause. “I didn’t think I had magic. But whatever they hit me with hurt like they were suppressing something that was already there.”
Gregor had told him about the protection prayers. About the Irish “prayers” Duff hadn’t known were spells. “Duff,” Fergal said carefully. “When we get out of here—and wewillget out of here—I think you and I have even more to talk about than you realize.”
“Cryptic. Love that. Very helpful when you’re locked in a room with no windows.”
“I have a window.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” The bitterness softened into something that was almost humor. “What can you see?”
“Flat terrain. Brown grass. Outbuildings. A fence. No mountains, no snow.”
“So we’re still in the same climate zone. South, from the vegetation.” He cursed. “Approximately two hundred miles from where we were taken.”
“How do you know the distance?”
“Because I know whose property this is. And when I tell you, you’re going to be very, very angry.”
“I’m already very, very angry.”
“Then you’re going to be angrier.”
Fergal steadied himself mentally. “Hit me with it.”
“This property belongs to Cladhaire Doyle, the man whose crimes started all of this. And the people holding us are the Murphy alphas, which means they’re now working together.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “You were right. I am even angrier than before.”
“Trust me, so am I. The Murphys have been pulling the strings behind every major attack, every assassination, and every false flag operation for decades.”
“Including framing you for my father’s murder.”
“Including that,” Duff confirmed.
The silence that followed was different from the ones before. Not shock. Not processing. Calculation.
“Well then, Fergal,” Duff said, and his voice had shifted into something harder, something with edges. “I suggest we start figuring out how to get out of here. Because I have some questions for these people, and I’d like to ask them in person.”
