Thy Kingdom Come (Deliver Us From Evil Trilogy Book One) Read online

  When he asked if I thought Babydoll had anything to do with this, I answered honestly; I really don’t know.

  When he asked how I felt about not being Connor’s son, I replied with the same response.

  I don’t know anything anymore, but what I do know is that I’m going to kill every fucker who laid a finger on Cian. As for my grandparents…I really am walking into the unknown. The only advantage we have is that we’ve been here before.

  We park down the road, taking in our surroundings as it’s dusk. We don’t have the moonlight to hide behind. We decide to jump the fence on the side of the property as the thick shrubs and hedges lining it will provide the coverage we need.

  The absolute silence scares me. I don’t know what we’ll find inside this house of horrors.

  We quietly jump the fence, hiding behind the hedges. The curtains are drawn across the window, so we can’t see anything. I gesture with my head that we’re to move.

  “Ya need to be quiet. Quieter than a mouse.”

  All I can hear is my ma’s voice. The words she spoke to me before our lives changed forever.

  This house is riddled with nothing but bad memories, and the fact my “family” has no issues being here, shows they don’t care about what happened to my ma. Being here makes me want to vomit. But they stay here of their own accord. It’s beyond fucked up.

  I may not be a Kelly, but I’m not a Foster either. I don’t know who I am. And I’m okay with that.

  When Rory and I peek into the window at the back of the gaff, I hold my breath because this room is where my ma was slaughtered. And it’s the room where my best friend was beaten to a bloody mess.

  The curtains are parted a fraction, so we can see in, and what I see has me clenching my fist, promising to kill every last fucker who laid a hand on Cian.

  “He’s breathin’,” Rory whispers. “Only just.”

  “I need ya to stay out here,” I order, placing my bag onto the ground and quietly unzipping it. “Don’t let anyone in. Or out.”

  When I give him a gun and a knife, he understands what we need to do when the enemy approaches.

  “Y’ll be all right on yer own?”

  Nodding, I arm myself and slip on my hood. “Aye. It’s this gaff which taught me what bloodshed was.”

  “See ye soon.” He extends his hand, which I slap and shake.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen, but Cian won’t die in my place. I’ll do everything I can to save him.

  Without hesitation, I walk toward the back door and peer around the doorjamb. It’s unmanned, so I open it quietly. The moment I step foot inside, I’m hit with Ma’s perfume, her warming smile. This place is entrenched with her memories.

  My boots don’t make a sound as I tiptoe through the gaff, refusing to give way to the memories which plague me with each step I take. The fact there is no one in here troubles me as to what I’m about to find. As I peer around the corner, I see a man standing in front of the bedroom door.

  He’s holding a machine gun.

  There is no way I can sneak up on him, so I look for a distraction. I see one in the shape of a small rock near my foot. Picking it up, I throw it against the back window. It makes just enough of a sound to alert the arsehole.

  His slow footsteps echo in the silence. I hold my breath and arrange my hood low over my brow. The barrel of his machine gun is the first thing I see as he cautiously walks through the hallway. Focusing his attention on the window is his error because before he knows what’s happening, I strike out and elbow him in the face, blinding him.

  Before he can fire his weapon, I snatch the machine gun from his limp grip and knock him out cold. I catch him before he hits the floor and quietly rest his unconscious form against the wall. He stays upright for now.

  With machine gun in hand, I commence my walk down the hallway, the carpet muting my footsteps. With a deep breath, I prepare myself for anything as I kick open the bedroom door, gun raised, ready for battle. But I only see Cian and my grandparents.

  Where is everyone?

  I can ponder on that later.

  “Cian?” I whisper, gently slapping his bloody cheek.

  He moans in response as bloodied spittle dribbles from the corner of his mouth. They beat him good.

  “Punky?” Keegan wheezes as he shifts in the chair he’s tied to.

  “Shh.” I place my finger over my lips. “Where are they?”

  “Havin’ a feg,” he replies. “There’re two of them.”

  I quickly cut through the rope binding his feet and wrists. “Can ye walk?”

  He’s beaten just as badly as Cian, but I need him to help me get Imogen out of here. She’s unconscious and doesn’t look to be in a good way.

  The stubborn aul’ lad nods and ignores his shaking legs as he stands. I reach out to help steady him. “They think he’s ye,” he whispers, gesturing to Cian. “They kept sayin’ she told them so.”

  She?

  Who the fuck is she?

  Quickly cutting the rope binding Imogen, Keegan lifts her limp body into his arms. “My friend is out back. He’ll help ye.”

  Keegan doesn’t need to be told twice. “For what it’s worth, thank ye, lad. I know we letcha down. But ye still came for us.”

  “I didn’t come for you,” I blankly reply, not interested in playing happy families. That time has come and gone.

  He nods, accepting this for what it is, and staggers out the door.

  Cian moans, and when he shifts, I see blood spurting from his side. He’s been stabbed.

  “Always gettin’ yerself in trouble, aren’t ya?” I say, attempting to deflect the severity of his injuries as I carefully cut him free.

  He coughs, a winded breath leaving him as he tries to speak. “She. Who’s she?”

  “Shh, mate. Save yer energy, all right?”

  He flops forward when I cut the rope at his wrists, unable to hold up his weight.

  Reaching out, I slip my arm around his waist and help him stand. He leans against me, panting. He’s hurt really bad. I doubt he’ll be able to walk down the hallway, so I look at the window. It’s not a great option, but it’s the only one I have.

  However, when I hear the front door open, followed by jovial voices, I realize there is another option; one which saved my life.

  “Cian,” I whisper, dragging him toward the wardrobe. “Y’ve got to hide.”

  “Naw, lemme fight,” he argues, attempting to dig in his heels.

  This conversation hits too close to home.

  Opening the wardrobe, I gently place him inside and give him the machine gun as he sags into a half-sitting position.

  “Ya can fight from in here.”

  He arms himself as best he can. “I’m sorry, Punky. I was careless.”

  “Don’t be worryin’ about that,” I cut him off, shaking my head. “Just stay quiet.”

  He nods, his face a brutal mess.

  Closing the wardrobe door, I press my back against the wall, preparing for battle. I only need one of them alive. Two of them come bursting through the door, looking at the empty chairs, confused, which is when I strike.

  I stab one in the thigh while I kick the other in the stomach, winding him. He staggers back, tumbling over one of the chairs. He doesn’t have a chance to get up because I drop to one knee and slam my fist into his face, once, twice, before he’s out cold.

  The man howling in pain as he tries to pull out the knife just feeds this guttural anger, and I slowly turn toward him and laugh. I know this arsehole.

  “Ya take that out, y’ll bleed to death in seconds,” I warn calmly as I’ve stabbed him in the femoral artery.

  His bloody hands pause from removing my blade.

  I come to stand, watching the way his face twists in recognition.

  “You,” he snarls, while I wave my fingers.

  “How’re ya doin’, Hugh?”

  Hugh Doyle and I meet again, but this time, he will not leave with his life intact.
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  He shuffles backward to lean against the wall. “Yer Puck Kelly then?”

  I shrug with a smirk. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? What the fuck d’ye mean maybe?”

  Grabbing a chair, I spin it around and straddle it as we have a lot to discuss. “Who told ye?”

  Hugh chuckles, clutching at his thigh. “That stupid aul’ fella,” he mutters under his breath. “He trusted her when I told him not to.”

  “Who?” I press, trying to piece this together.

  “He thinks he’s got it sorted, that he’s got the advantage, but none of them can be trusted. For fuck’s sake! When I saw yer friend, I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t want to believe ye t’ree could fool us.”

  “Listen to me. Yer goin’ to answer me, or I’ll make sure ya die awful slow.”

  Hugh spits in response. “Yer gonna kill me, anyway.”

  “Aye, that it is.”

  Realizing he won’t rat on his family, I get up and walk over to him. He looks up at me with nothing but hatred. Gripping the collar of his shirt, I drag him along the floor and toss his arse into the chair. When he tries to fight me, I punch him in the jaw.

  He’s still struggling as I use the discarded rope to tie his hands behind his back, but I eventually get him bound. The other guy who I don’t know is still out cold, so I pick him up and tie him to another chair.

  “Ye killed mi uncle?” Hugh asks, looking at my face paint.

  “Yes, I killed him, just how he killed my ma. In this house, actually.”

  Rolling back the sleeve of my hoodie, I reveal my own tattoo, the one I bit off Hugh’s wrist. His eyes widen. “I saw it. I saw what they did to her, and I promised myself that I would kill every last Doyle to avenge her death.”

  “Yer ma was stupid. That much is clear. She married a Kelly, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Aye, but she was fucking a Doyle,” I quickly counter. “Yer dad, to be clear.”

  “Yer nothin’ but a liar!” Hugh roars, cheeks blistering red.

  “Afraid not. We may be brothers. Imagine that,” I mock, laughing.

  “I don’t believe ya.”

  “I care not what ye believe. But maybe y’ll see the resemblance. Hang on.”

  Hunting through my bag, I retrieve my face paints, and before he can object, I slather his cheeks with white. He struggles frantically, but he’s not going anywhere. Once his face is painted a stark white, I dip my fingers into the black paint and roughly circle around his eyes.

  When I get to his mouth, I draw a messy line from cheek to cheek, but I’m not satisfied. Yanking the knife out of his leg, I press the bloody tip into the apple of his cheek. He doesn’t squirm. He doesn’t scream. He dares me to do it.

  And I do.

  My blade slices through his flesh with ease.

  “Aye, now I can see it,” I say with a smile, admiring my handiwork.

  His right cheek is sliced to the corner of his mouth, emphasizing his sinister grin as bloody spittle seeps from the wound. Digging into his pocket, I take his phone and snap a picture, so he can see the work of art his face now is.

  “Yer my double,” I sarcastically say, showing him the picture.

  His chin sags to his chest. It’s only minutes before he will bleed out.

  “Don’tcha worry, the rest of yer family will be joinin’ ya soon.”

  I search through his contacts and send the photo to Brody and Liam, and then to every other Doyle listed in Hugh’s phone.

  The man next to Hugh comes to with a groggy groan. When he opens his eyes and realizes he’s the one now tied to a chair, he shrieks, trying to break free.

  He sees me standing before him, a painted nightmare from hell.

  “Tell me who organized this, and I’ll let ye go,” I say to him.

  “Shut yer bake,” Hugh warns, his caution a whistle as he tries to speak with a hole hacked into his cheek.

  When the man sees his state, he shakes his head, not wishing to end up like his mucker. “Doyle’s dau—”

  “Shut the fuck up, will ya?” Hugh shouts, blood jetting from his wounds.

  “I’ll not end up like you,” the man says, scared. “Doyle’s daughter did.”

  “Erin?” I ask, confused. Why would she say Cian was me? She knows us as Mike and Kanga. I don’t understand any of this.

  “Y’ve no idea what’s comin’ for ye. None of ye Kellys do.” Hugh’s grin is menacing, and even though he’s moments away from dying, he has the upper hand because he’ll take his secret to the grave.

  Rory comes charging through the door, peering at the carnage before him. “We need to go. Now. There’s a van coming up the road. Where’s Cian?”

  “Fuck!” I curse. It’s not enough time, but if we don’t go now, all of this would have been for nothing. “He’s in the wardrobe.”

  Rory runs over to the door, yanking it open while I exit the room, fire burning through my veins, which gives me an idea.

  Fuck the Doyles.

  And fuck this house.

  Raiding the cupboards, I snare a bottle of scotch and a box of matches off the kitchen bench. I bump into Rory as he holds an unconscious Cian.

  “Way with ye. I won’t be far behind.”

  Rory doesn’t argue as he knows we’re running out of time and pushes past me.

  As I re-enter the bedroom, the man begs for mercy, but where was Cian’s mercy when he almost killed him? Dousing both him and Hugh with the scotch, I light a match and flick it without feeling. They instantly set alight, their screams doing nothing to appease the demons within.

  They need more.

  Looking around the bedroom, I realize this house is where it all started. I fixate on the carpet, the spot which was once stained with my ma’s blood, where I laid beside her stiff corpse. The carpet may be new, but the memories associated with this house are not. They deserve to be burned along with these two fuckers.

  “Goodbye, Ma,” I say, using the rest of the scotch to douse the carpet, the curtains, and lastly, the wardrobe.

  Taking one last look at the place which has been my prison for years, I smile as I light a match and toss it onto the alcohol. It ignites instantly. The room cackles a red hue, complementing the screams of the two men who are burning to death.

  I wish I could watch them take their last breath, stand around the human boney, but this will have to do.

  As I’m running down the hallway, a picture on the wall catches my eye. I missed it before. It’s of my ma. This is the only thing worth saving.

  Yanking it off the hook, I stuff it into my backpack and gather all the bottles of liquor I can find. Tossing them down the corridor, I light the box of matches and throw it onto the trail of alcohol. It instantly goes up in a fireball, engulfing the gaff.

  Running out the back door, I jump the fence and sprint to where Rory has parked the car. When he sees me, he speeds down the road and opens the passenger door. I dive in, and he rakes away from the mess I’ve made.

  Keegan looks over his shoulder at the gaff going up in flames. He doesn’t say anything however as he knew it would always end this way.

  It’s after two a.m. when I get home.

  Cian insisted he was fine and didn’t need to go to the hospital. I sent Amber a text, asking if she could check on him however. She’s got her first-aid credentials and is pretty good with this stuff as the twins are always getting into trouble.

  Rory is staying over to watch him, so I think he’ll be fine. But what he said in the car, I don’t know what to think. Aye, he’s delirious after taking a beating, but he seemed quare lucid when he said that someone had told the Doyles about me.

  They knew I had a nose ring—as does Cian—which is why they mistook him for me. He also said they knew a lot about me. But they never told him how they knew. The man I burned alive had said it was Erin, but how would she know this?

  Someone must be relaying information back to her. But who?

  The moment I unlock my door, I know someone is
inside. Flicking on the light, I see Babydoll curled up on the couch, asleep. I don’t know why she’s here, especially since she’s been ignoring me for days.

  I’m about to shower and wash the paint from my face, but she stirs. “Punky?”

  “Aye.”

  She sits up and rubs the sleep from her eyes. “Your face.”

  I’m still coming to terms with her American accent. Not because I don’t like it, but rather, that I still don’t know who she is.

  She jumps up and makes her way over to me. I stand tall, allowing her to gently turn my cheeks so she can take a closer look at my face.

  “What happened?”

  “What happened was my best friend was beaten within an inch of his life. If he hadn’t called me, I don’t know what would have happened.”

  I don’t know why I’m telling her this. But she has this effect on me. I just can’t say no to her.

  “Why is your face painted like this?”

  She understands the significance of it. She knows something serious went down.

  “Because someone thought he was me.”

  She casts her eyes downward, obviously disgusted with what that means.

  “These hands,” I say, turning them over. “They’ve killed, and they won’t stop killin’. Y’ve got to leave me be, Babydoll. I can offer ye nothin’.”

  Her silence is deafening.

  I don’t know where she’s been, but honestly, I don’t care because I’m so happy she’s here now.

  “I know what I’m getting myself into,” she finally speaks, caressing my cheek. “And besides, it’s not like I don’t have baggage of my own.”

  “Who are ye?” I ask again, hoping this time she’ll finally tell me the truth.

  She bites her bottom lip. “I can’t tell you.”

  Frustrated, I remove her hand and take a step away from her. “Ye need to leave. I don’t trust ya.”

  Tears swell in her green eyes. “I understand that. I haven’t given you reason to. But have I ever hurt you? Haven’t I always had your back? Can’t you just trust me?”

  She’s right, although she’s lied to me, she’s always had my back. But I don’t trust her. “I can’t trust ya,” I confess. “I don’t know who y’are.”