Before there was a Ghost, there was a man hungry in body and soul, and willing to feed whatever impulses kept him alive. Before there was Liza, she was Elizabeth, daughter of a powerful Irish crime lord. Before there was Wolf, an apprentice and friend to these enigmatic criminals, there was a medic, scared and angry and confused.
Warning: This book contains fictional depictions of graphic violence and implied sexual assault. Read at your own risk.
Ghost Stories
He was alone.
And he was hungry.
The boy only had the clothes on his back - thick reindeer pelts, designed to keep him warm and dry. Not to stop bullets.
It was a minor wound, considering the carnage left behind in his family’s village. Tents set ablaze, deer and dogs gunned downed alongside the people. He shivered, the graze in his arm exposed to the icy winds as he clambered through the snow.
Áigin was old enough to understand that his family was likely among the dead, and that seeking shelter with their killers was worse than dying out here, in the land he loved and lived on for the entirety of his short life. The boy could survive long enough to find the neighboring village.
And maybe he could warn them about what was coming.
But the sky was darkening, the black smoke of the fires mixing with the shadows of night. He would need to stop, sleep, and pray he lived to see morning. Áigin found a safe hollow, far away from the gunshots and shielded from the wind. The small fire he managed to start smoldered low, embers kept dim to avoid alerting scouts.
(Not that those cowards who burned and killed children and fawns would dare venture into this wilderness at night.)
He shucked off his outer jacket, rolling back his undershirt sleeves to inspect the gory wound. It wasn’t too deep, but hours of exposure to the icy air had it crusted and bleeding anew as he tried to inspect the graze.
Grimacing, Áigin took inventory of what tools he had at his disposal. A small axe, a knife, and - by pure luck - a small sewing kit he had been tasked with returning to the neighbor on the opposite side of the village.
(It was this task that let him escape with his life, far from where the first shots were fired.)
The boy’s hands shook with cold as he threaded the needle, the thick thread not meant for delicate work. But it would have to do. He bit his lip until it bled, pushing the needle through his skin once, then twice - three times to roughly bridge the gash left by the bullet. Pulled taught and cut, the black thread was almost invisible thanks to the blood smeared on his arm.
But Áigin’s work wasn’t done.
After taking a few minutes to warm his hands, he took up the needle again, stitching his under shirt and fur coat as best he could. He would need every ounce of warmth he could muster to survive tonight.
Surviving was easy.
He knew how to survive on this land. But surviving alone was new, and seemed so impossible when he could still smell burning flesh, still hear the screams of dying deer and sobs of surrendering fathers.
Áigin barely slept, waking in fits when a nightmare seized him.
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Áigin was scared. He didn’t want to be - he wanted to be brave. To march to the next village with a face set like flint, unflinching as he described what the invading strangers did to his home, his family, his friends.
But he was just one boy.
And he was cold.
He knew the weather and himself well enough to know he was getting too cold too fast. Áigin’s shivers were intermittent, feet numb in his boot and hands clumsy in their mittens. The small fire he managed to stoke the previous night had died before he even fell asleep, and by then it was too dark to gather more kindling.
But he survived another night, and that was enough, so he trudged on, shivering and clumsy and scared.
Tears beaded in his eyes when he finally crested a ridge and saw the distant tents and deer herds of the next village. The invaders hadn’t reached them yet. He could still warn them.
Áigin stumbled down the slope, hot tears freezing on his waxy face as his breathing grew unsteady. He was so close, but still so far from the people in the village. His legs were like lead, steps shaky before his knees gave out.
He cried out, voice weak as he laid in the snow. Able to see help, unable to know if they saw him. He was too cold to think, attempts to drag himself out of the snow frozen in motion.
(Would he die here? So close to rescue, to safety?)
Something warm brushed his face, and he heard a voice calling out.
“What’d you find there boy?” It was his language - not the strangers.
Áigin weakly raised his head, snow stuck to his cheek and eyelashes as he glimpsed the dark nose of a dog, its owner’s silhouette blurry behind it. Curses sprang up, arms dragging him up out of the snow.
“Hey, hey - you’re going to be alright.” The woman smiled at him, brow tight and eyes worried. Áigin could only blink at her helplessly as she bundled him to her chest, wrapping her cloak around the both of them. The warm hurt, but he knew it was better than dying. She called for a sled, shouting for the village doctor to prepare his tent for a guest.
He needed to tell them. Warn them. But not now - they were too loud to hear his wheezing words, too worried with getting him somewhere warm.
(And he wanted warmth more than he wanted to warn them. Selfish, but true.)
The tent they hurried him into was cozy. Too warm. Áigin felt a sweat break across his forehead as soon as they dragged him past the tent flaps. He was still shivering, body confused by the icy blood in its veins and the warm air in its lungs.
Áigin managed a pained whimper as the man he presumed to be the doctor stripped away his snow covered coat and sweat soaked undershirt, quickly replaced with warm and dry garments.
“I know it hurts, boy, I know. But we gotta warm you up carefully.” The man’s voice was soft, soothing to listen to as he carefully peeled away Áigin’s hastily applied field bandage. “…did you stitch this yourself?”
“Mhm.” Áigin managed, teeth chattering. He needed to tell them -
“You did a good job, kid. I’ll need to clean and restitch it to make sure it doesn’t get infected, but you did good with what you had.” The doctor’s eyes shifted to Áigin’s own. “What happened?”
“Sh - shot…” Áigin whimpered, his feet feeling as though he were standing on knives. “Strangers - my village, in - in the - the east - they killed them. They - they burned and, and shot - the deer - all of the deer and then - then us…"
“Oh, kid…” The doctor’s eyes were so soft, smothering fear with piteous sympathy. Áigin was scared, and every heartbeat hurt. But he was finally safe enough to cry, wailing sobs ripping from his chest as he let this stranger hold him.
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The Life and Loves of Liza O'Hare
“Are…are you sure about this, Liza?” Ollie tightened the zip ties around her wrists, upon her request.
“Yes. You need to make it look convincing or he won’t buy it.” She winced as the plastic cinched tighter. “You need to hit me.”
“I - we can use make up - ”
“He needs to see blood. He needs to be afraid for me, Ollie.” Liza held her chin up, a smirk twitching at her lips. “Or are you not man enough to do what needs to be done?”
Ollie’s eyes darkened, a scowl painting his face. He grabbed the top of her blouse, yanking until the topmost buttons popped.
“There we go, that’s it tiger.” She purred, giggling a bit as he pushed her back on the bed. “Now, make it - ”
Liza yelped as the first slap connected, a sharp backhand to her cheek. She looked up at Ollie’s anxious face skeptically.
“Was that too hard? I’m sorry - ”
“Oliver.” Even bound, he flinched back from the growl in her voice. “Hit. Me.”
Ollie’s next hit was solid, a right hook that caught her chin. Liza couldn’t help the pained sound that rattled in her chest. That was definitely going to bruise. Good.
“I - Liza, love, I don’t like this - he hates me enough as it is; I don’t want - ”
“My father is never giving you his blessing. Never.” Liza’s voice was venomous with hatred, but it softened, slightly desperate. “This is the only way we can stay together, mo chroí. The amount you’ll ask for ransom will be - it will be enough for us to run away. To be whoever we want to be. Together.”
She leaned forward, kissing her partner sweetly. There was a bit of blood in her mouth from biting her cheek when he hit her.
“But he won’t pay if he thinks this is my idea. We need this to look real. We need this to be real for him. You understand?”
“Yes, love.” Ollie stood, eyes still damp with guilt as he pulled back his fist. Liza set her jaw and nodded. She could take a few hits, if it meant striking a blow to her father’s selfish pride.
—
“Enough! Enough…I think…that’s enough, mo chroí.” Liza gasped between tears. She had told Ollie to keep going after she started crying; it helped sell the pitch if her makeup and mascara was a wreck. But she was starting to lose focus, the pain so consuming she nearly forgot to tell him to stop.
“Are you sure it’s enough?” Ollie crouched next to her, his knuckles and boots stained with her blood. Liza was a wreck; dark purple bruises began to peak between her distressed clothes, blouse and skirt and stockings torn by the brute force of Ollie’s assault. A black eye was swelling closed, blood trickling from her split lip.
She nodded her head, trying to tamp down the spark of fear in her chest. (This was Ollie - her chroí, her love - and she asked him to do this. For both their sakes. She didn’t fear him; it wasn’t like he was enjoying this.)
“This - this will be enough.” Liza gasped, inching to sit up against the bed. She really hoped the creaking in her chest wasn’t a broken rib. “It - it has to be enough. I can’t - I can’t take this anymore.”
Ollie frowned, brow furrowed.
“You said it needed to look real.” There was something in his tone that made Liza flinch. And maybe something in her eyes told Ollie, because his expression cracked open with fear and concern. “I’m sorry - did I take it too far? I - my mate’s training to be a nurse I can call him - ”
“It’s fine, mo chroí.” She swallowed a mouthful of blood tinged spit, trying to banish that sinking feeling in her gut. “Get the camera - the sooner we send the ransom, the sooner you can get me an ice pack and some acetaminophen.”
Liza cracked an uneasy smile, but Ollie nodded quietly, expression still drawn. He turned, leaving the room to get the camera, and Liza let her expression fall, head lolling limply as she sniffled through the pain.
Her father would pay, and they could run away together. She wouldn’t be tied down to her family name, and Oliver wouldn’t have to live up to it. They could be happy. Free.
It was worth a little pain.
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“Ollie?” The pain was heavy, like lead wrapped around her bones. Liza’s eyes blinked open, her mouth tasting like iron and her ears ringing. She wasn’t in the flat anymore. Her voice grew sharp with panic as she called out again. “Ollie?”
“Pipe down, sunshine.”
Liza flinched at the unfamiliar voice, head whipping around wildly. She was too dizzy to make out her exact surroundings, but she was fairly sure she was tied down to a chair. Again.
“Where - where the fuck is Oliver? Who are you - ?” She whimpered as a calloused hand grabbed her jaw, tilting her face up to look at the stranger. He was older - closer to her father’s age - with greasy salt and pepper hair slicked back. His face was weathered from time, bright blue eyes cold and hungry where they were perched above a gnarled smile that stank of rot.
“I’m your new keeper, sunshine.” Tears sprang to her eyes as he squeezed, her face still bruised and swollen. Liza tore away from his grasp with a snarl, swallowing her pain.
“Where the fuck is Oliver? Why am I here? Where - where am I?” Her teeth were bared in defiance, but her anger was quickly diluting to fear. She was hungry, hurt, tired - what even happened last night?
“Your boyfriend? He’s gone.” The stranger hummed with a shrug. “He might not even come back. He’s still got quite a bit of debt to pay off - you hardly cover the first payment.”
“What?” Liza weakly tested the zip ties keeping her in the chair, trying to keep her voice sharp. But the way the stranger smiled down at her made her skin crawl as she processed what he had said.
“Daddy wouldn’t buy you back, so he had to find another party. And, oh, sunshine, you wouldn’t believe how much folk are willing to pay for a bit of revenge on an O’Hare.” He clamped a hand on her shoulder, squeezing a little too tight. “Don’t worry; I know you’re worth more alive than dead.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Get that wanker Oliver in here - I’m done, we’re not - ” Liza’s blood ran cold as the stranger’s hand dropped lower, fondling her breast. “Get your fucking hands off me you - ”
She was cut off with a whine of pain, the man’s backhanded slap harsh.
“Sunshine, you need to learn your place if you’re gonna be worth more to me alive than dead.” He tangled his fingers in her hair, yanking her head back. Liza sobbed, trying to turn away as he leaned in close. “You’re mine. Some people are paying a lot of money to have some fun with you. So, you better let them have their fun, or I’m going to keep sending your daddy pieces of you until there’s nothing left. Understand?”
Liza nodded, still confused but too scared to do more than shake and cry.
“Good girl.” He released her hair, letting her head fall forward. “Now, I’m gonna have to break you in, alright? Can’t have you hurting the customers - we don’t want to piss them off with the price they’re paying.”
Liza frantically fought against the restraints, breathing panicked as the man brought a pair of scissors to her thin night shirt. She didn’t understand she didn’t want this she just wanted to scare her father not this not this not this -
“Keep crying, sunshine. You’ve got such a pretty little face when you cry. Maybe I’ll go easy on you.”
Liza sobbed again as her bruised and bloodied skin was bared. But she kept crying; anything to make the nightmare easier to bare. And the stranger kept his word - at least, Liza convinced herself he did.
“See? This is better than getting the hell beat out of you in some shitty flat, ain’t it, love?”
Liza smiled uneasily, nodding at Clay.
(Mr. Clay as he insisted she refer to him. What a fucking pretentious, insufferable bastard.)
The low cut dress with its high slit up her leg bared her skin, healing bruises painted over with makeup. The girl who helped Liza prepare for the night had a steady hand and didn’t make eye contact. She had been working for Clay much longer than Liza had.
“Any particular requests for tonight, Mr. Clay?” Liza forced her voice soft and light, the pearls around her throat heavy as she sipped a champagne flute. Clay’s hand clamped over her bare shoulder, squeezing where he knew there were bruises under the high quality concealer.
“You talk to no one; just smile and nod and look at me if someone asks you something. I’ll take care of the talking, sunshine.”
He kissed her cheek, breath already reeking of wine. She leaned away from his calloused touch out of instinct, shying away from the hands she knew were capable of such violence. Clay response by gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him.
“Relax, sunshine. Tonight’s all about appearances. And you,” he kissed her roughly, teeth bared in a hungry smile as he pulled away, “you look ravishing.”
Liza swallowed and nodded, glancing at the other girl. She looked on unflinching, bored if anything. And she apparently had the permission to speak to their keeper unprompted.
“Mr. Clay, the car is ready downstairs. We should go soon, to keep up appearances.”
“Of course, of course - my sweet.” Clay spared her a chaste peck on the cheek, guiding Liza to the door by her arm. His voice dropped low, but she could still understand him this close.
“Are the boys ready?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Don’t fuck this up.”
—
“Relax or I’ll make you relax, sunshine. There’s really nothing for you to worry about tonight. Just have fun and keep your mouth shut, nice and easy, right?” Clay sat opposite of Liza in the limo, eyes still hungry in spite of his words.
“I’m sorry, sir. Just - just nervous to be out.” How long had he had her in that miserable hotel room? How many nights had she spent drugged or beaten or bloodied with him and others she could only half remember?
The way Clay smiled at her and sighed longingly did nothing to soothe her anxiety.
“You’re so much prettier this way, sunshine.” His eyes roamed up and down her body, satisfaction warm in his expression. “You’re afraid of me. It’s a good look.”
He laughed harshly, slapping his knee and grabbing liquor from the limo fridge. Liza smiled sheepishly, pale face warmed pink. But it wasn’t embarrassment that colored her cheeks; it was rage.
Liza didn’t fear Clay, a lecherous, controlling, slobbering pimp. She hated him. And she was just waiting for a chance to see fear in those bloodshot eyes.
Liza lay listless in the bed, silk sheets too soft under her skin. Clay had drugged her. Again. But this was a devil she knew - shrooms were a familiar relief after weeks of roofies and other miserable intoxicants.
She shivered, the lacy lingerie not covering nearly enough of her sweat shined skin. It was a good thing she was already laying down; the walls were spinning and the thrum of the music from the party downstairs was bleeding into her bones.
She didn’t know where Clay was. Or why he left her alone. Liza pushed herself up to her elbows, the lights of the room streaming like physical rivers through the air. Where was he? Was she alone?
(Even drugged and confused the instinct to escape begged her to do something stupid.)
Liza slipped out of bed, legs folding under her. She couldn’t stand up, but that was fine - the carpet was soft. So soft. She could almost just lie here and fall asleep…
(She needed to get out out out - )
Liza blinked up at the ceiling - when had she laid down? Stars danced at the edges of her vision, swirling to nothing when she tried to track them. She could hear water running - was Clay back? Was he showering?
She could hear his voice, but his words weren’t right, babbling incoherently. Like a tape recorder wound backwards, she could hear his tone, but without understanding.
“Having a good trip?” Some of his voice finally filtered through the haze of meaningless sound. Liza blinked up from her spot on the floor, Clay standing over her. (She was impossibly small, an insect he could easily crush under his posh suede shoes.)
“Sir?” She slurred, skin prickling at his touch. He was being gentle, lifting her off the floor and sitting her back on the bed. But it felt like a thousand ants under her skin where he touched, writhing to be free.
“Shush, just relax sunshine. I’ll be with you soon, hm?” He actually smiled at her. She knew it was just the drugs making those too-blue eyes sparkle like the sea on a sunny day. She knew there was no soft affection in that smile, hungry teeth hidden and waiting for tender flesh.
Clay was gone. Again.
(She needed to get out out out - )
But she was on her back again, silk sheets sublime under her bruised skin. And the light - the light of the chandelier above was stripped golden ribbons, glittering around the room. Liza couldn’t look away, a moth drawn to the flame.
Clay climbed on top of her, warm and soft and everything he wasn’t when the drugs wore off. Liza didn’t look away from the rivers of light swirling in the air above the bed.
It was so beautiful, it almost made her forget the pain, the fear, and the shame.
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Lone Wolf
Wolf’s body moved before he processed what had happened. The explosion, it’s source - none of that mattered right now, not with his hands clamped around the stub of an arm while he tried to drag a man away from the debris.
“What are you doing?” His CO’s voice was something between amused confusion and frustrated annoyance. “Any left probably escaped out the back, go with Vern and…”
Wolf was tuning out his superior’s voice, consumed by the struggling gasps of the man below him. He couldn’t have been much older than Wolf - if anything, he was younger, soft face stained with soot and blood and tears. His eyes were screwed shut in pain, sobs wracking his body while Wolf secured a tourniquet just above his elbow.
“You hear me soldier? We - ”
There was a scream, somewhere in the rubble, young and feminine. She was begging - from somewhere half crushed under cement and support beams - asking for her daughter. Wolf couldn’t hear any reply to her agonized cries over the roar of blood in his ears and the crackle of fire. He looked to his CO, abject desperation clearly written on his face.
“What are you doing? Help them.” He nodded to the rubble, frustration and denial creeping into his expression. The young man under his hands had fallen unconscious, still bleeding profusely from his severed arm. Wolf flinched as a hand yanked at the collar of his vest, dragging him up and away from the injured man. “What - sir, they need medical attention - ”
His CO unceremoniously shot the young man in the head, blood spatter and brain matter leaking pink and red across the dusty concrete. Wolf froze, shocked to stillness. And still the woman’s cries persisted, begging for help, for her daughter to reply.
“I gave you an order, soldier.” The soldier’s voice was even, cold and quiet as he turned to Wolf. “Go to Vern and sweep the back of the building.”
“He could have survived - ”
“He could have pulled the pin on this grenade and killed both of you.” His CO snarled as he kicked the dead man’s chest, the grenade rattling from where it hung. “I don’t give orders for my health, boy, I give them for yours. Now go - ”
“They will die if we don’t help them!” Wolf gestured to the still smoldering rubble, the woman’s screams having dissolved into wailing sobs.
“They should have thought of that before shacking up with a suicide bomber. Now do as you are told.”
“They’re people, sir. I can’t just - ”
“They’re animals, Haas. The only help we can give them is to put them out of their misery.”
Wolf stared at him a few breaths before realizing his CO truly believed that. His voice came thin and hoarse, shaky with anger and disgust.
“I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Oh, you did. Give it a few months, you’ll understand.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re not the first bleeding heart medic I’ve had.” His CO’s eyes were harsh, appraising. “When we get back to base camp you’ll be properly disciplined. We have work to do. Now let’s go.”
The woman’s cries had silenced, only the sound of fires smoldering low and the shifting rubble under their feet. Wolf walked forward, nausea curdling in his gut as he listened to his CO light a cigarette behind him. The stench of tobacco couldn’t hide the smell of burning flesh.
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