Because I am not Jude.
There exists inside me a blackheartedness that wants only for siren song and danger and blood. In this moment it’s a very present part—an arrow that sights along the revolver to the space right between Thackery’s eyes.
I’ll kill him and take immense pleasure in doing so.
“Moira,” says Jude. It’s the first time he’s spoken since Thackery grabbed him. He has to lean back from the knife at his throat. “Moira, don’t.”
Don’t what? I want to ask. Don’t kill Thackery? Don’t save your life?
Before I have a chance, Thackery pushes the knife hard against Jude’s neck.
A thin trail of blood snakes down toward his collar, and on impulse I gasp, “Stop.”
“Your promise of police intervention appears null, Miss Alexander.”
Sweat slicks my palms. I want Thackery to drop his knife beside Jude’s on the sand. I want to grab Jude and run, to curse him for endangering his own life, for playing a hand I told him not to.
“Dylan won’t like you killing his nephew,” I say in a rush. “He’ll know it was you. You were working together.”
“We’re beyond that, I’m afraid.”
I grit my teeth, fury igniting in my rib cage like a flame. “Why?” I snarl. “Men will be out there hunting sirens tomorrow.”
“I did try to warn you off, Miss Alexander.” Thackery stares at me, his knife still pressed to Jude’s skin. “You should’ve never gotten involved. People on this island go around thinking the sirens are a gift, as if we should thank them for taking our children and bloodying our waters.” He shakes his head, eyes bright. “It’s madness. Your father ought to have known better. We never should’ve enacted a ban against hunting them.”
“You gave those cans to Russell—you let him poison those sirens.”
“And where’s your proof of that?”
My stomach churns. “Why do you truly want the sirens dead?”
It’s obvious now, the way he speaks, that Thackery has known grief.
“That’s none of your business.” His knuckles whiten around the knife’s hilt. “I’ve no need to justify myself to you.”
In front of him Jude stills, his eyes darting to something behind me. I don’t want to look over, don’t want to shift my attention from Thackery, but they come into my line of sight soon enough.
Half a dozen policemen—all with pistols aimed in our direction.
Relief sinks into me like a stone.
Among them is Inspector Dale, and he looks at Thackery like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “What is going on here?” he asks.
I turn back to where Thackery stands. There’s a flash of mercurial resolve in his eyes, and I notice the slight shift in his grip on the hilt. Jude holds my gaze, pale-faced, his eyes black as pitch.
No.
Thackery’s arm jerks, just as a sharp crack echoes through the air. I shut my eyes, thinking for one wild moment I’ve been shot, but a muffled stream of curses joins the ringing in my ears, and I look up.
I notice Inspector Dale first, walking to where Thackery is crouched, knife forgotten as his hand fists around his shoulder. Blood leaks out between his fingers, dark crimson, seeping through the fabric of his shirt. My eyes find Jude, bent over with his hands on his knees, shoulders shaking, and I let the revolver drop to the sand.
“Jude,” I say, throwing my arms around him. “Oh God, I thought… I thought…” I stop, holding myself in check, and tilt his chin up.
A thin red line marks the skin next to his jugular. I can’t stop looking at it.
He stares down at me. His pupils are blown wide, and I see my face reflected in their blackness. He lifts a trembling hand to my cheek.
“Moira.”
Around us, the Dunmore Police are a clatter of noise: Pistols are tucked back into holsters; their boots kick up sand; questions and orders are passed from man to man.
I bring my attention back to Jude as he says, “Moira, I think I…” He sways a little on his feet. I place both hands on his shoulders to steady him.
“You’ve had a shock, Jude. You need—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. Are you all right?”
I bury my face in the rough wool of his sweater, holding him close. “I’m sorry for earlier,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean…”
Jude laughs, a high-strung, broken sound. I pull away to see his expression.
“Thought I’d be the one apologizing,” he says.
I tighten my arms around him and shut my eyes. “Yes, you can apologize too,” I say. “Seeing as you did something so senseless.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
I grin up at him. “You’re ridiculous, Jude Osric.”
Grinning back, he slurs his words together. “Shouldn’t call me that.”
“What should I call you, then?”
“Brilliant,” says Jude, and he faints.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
INSPECTOR DALE TAKES A SEAT at our kitchen table. It’s late in the evening; past the lace curtains, the sky is already full dark. My mother fixes tea at the counter, her hands shaking slightly as she fills the kettle with water. I sit across from the inspector, lips pressed thin, my attention drawn to the notebook and fountain pen he sets out.
I tell him of Jude’s plan to meet Thackery, my going to the lighthouse and finding it empty, of seeing Jude and Thackery on the beach. I tell him about Dylan Osric and the tortured siren, how the lives of Connor Sheahan and Nell Bracken were stolen in the hopes of keeping that secret.
He writes down my statement in a diligent manner, though he seems quite shaky and pale himself.
I think about Inspector Dale and Detective Thackery. I think of how people never really get the chance to know the entire story of someone else. And I realize that to know someone—truly know them—is to know their secrets.
Perhaps it explains why the sea takes secrets for a wish. They are the truest part of us.
Dale is also the one to tell me of Thackery’s losses.
“His daughter,” he says, voice quiet. “Lost his daughter just after the ban was introduced. He tried petitioning the Council to drop it, blamed them for a long while.” He lowers his teacup, staring down at the tablecloth. “She was five years old.”
“What will happen now?” I ask. “To the sirens?”
“I’ll have a word with Mr. Earl first thing tomorrow,” he says. “I make no promises, but I’m sure the Council will see reason now you’ve disproven two attacks.”
My relief is near tangible, easing an invisible weight off my shoulders.
“Good,” I say.
Once Dale picks up and takes his leave, my mother comes to sit in his place. She wraps her hands around one of mine, and our conversation is a soft, hushed thing, like a secret in itself.
“Why didn’t you tell me what was happening, Moira?”
Shame heats my face, but I don’t look away. “I didn’t know how,” I whisper, though that’s only part of it. I didn’t want her to know simply because I didn’t care to share any of my goings-on with her.