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“Shh,” I hush her. “Do you hear that?”
It’s silence I hear, like I expected.
Niamh’s confusion is almost palpable. “No…?”
“Me, either. It’s perfect.” My voice is steady, almost serene, but the look on Niamh’s face makes it clear I’m scaring her. Her brow creases with worry, her lips pressing into a thin line. She’s been so patient, keeping the tea and coffee flowing as I scroll through document after document. Her unspoken concern is obvious, but I remain glued to my laptop.
Ever since we returned from the museum earlier this morning, I’ve been trying to unravel why John Dee’s language—the supposed language of the angels—is inscribed on the medallion. Page upon page, my eyes burning, fingers aching, I’ve combed through everything I could find.
Dinner passed in a blur, with Niamh practically forcing a roast beef sandwich and celery into my hands. But I hardly noticed the food as I devoured the words on the screen instead.
Diarmuid hasn’t come home. Probably just as well, considering the wreckage of the clock still sprawled across the hallway.
Eventually, Niamh gives up on keeping me company and goes to bed, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the rustling of pages.
It’s an hour from dawn when the sound of footsteps reaches my ears. My eyes snap open, my senses immediately on edge.
“I said I didn’t need you!” I yell into the dark, spinning around to face the door. My pulse races, adrenaline surging through my veins. The clock is long gone, so what is causing that noise?
Without looking up from my laptop, I bark again, “I said I didn’t need you!” But when I don’t hear anyone retreating, I spring up from my desk, prepared to slam the door shut. I freeze, though, when I see Diarmuid’s dark eyes watching me intently from the doorway.
“Oh! It’s you!” I exclaim, excitement bursting in my chest as I practically bounce in place. “Okay, so I’ve translated the text. It says, ‘Luíonn an dorn ag Sí an Bhrú.’ I think. Enochian doesn’t have any accents or diacritics, so it took a while to piece together. But I did figure out that it’s supposed to be Irish.”
His gaze shifts to the broken clock in the hallway, and he frowns. “Why is this door open?”
Ignoring his question, I plow on, unable to contain my enthusiasm. “I don’t speak Irish, though my grandfather would be thrilled if I did. But I recognize it, so that helped. The phrase means, ‘The fist rests at Sí an Bhrú.’”
Diarmuid’s brow furrows as he steps forward. “There’s a lock on this door for a reason, Selene.”
But I’m too excited to notice his tone. I reach for a stack of papers beside the printer and shove them into his hands. “Now, Sí an Bhrú is the old Irish name for Newgrange, which is incredibly convenient because it’s just a quick zip up the M2 from here. Less than an hour, I think!”
He skims the pages quickly, his brow creasing even deeper. “You’re not listening.”
“I am. I am. Just let me finish telling you this.” My words tumble out in a rush as I push back my exhaustion, the thrill of discovery filling me with a manic energy. “Newgrange’s old name, Sí an Bhrú, means ‘Womb of the Boyne,’ after the river near the site. This is where I’m struggling—how far do I translate? Do I stop at Newgrange or should I investigate what happened along the river?”
I pace in front of Diarmuid, my excitement bubbling over as my mind races through the possibilities. “And then it hit me.”
His brow lifts, but I don’t give him time to interject. I’m practically bouncing on my toes, my voice breathless and hurried. “Newgrange is said to be the burial mound for Dagda Mór of the Tuatha Dé Danann and his three sons. The Tuatha Dé Danann, Diarmuid! The ancient rulers of Ireland! They were powerful, magical. If the Hands of Kings has existed since the dawn of human history, then maybe there’s something at Newgrange!”
Diarmuid opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off with a hasty, “Shh!” I can’t afford to lose momentum now. He needs to understand.
“I know you’re probably going to reprimand me for something or other,” I continue, my eyes fixed on his, “but just listen. The Tuatha Dé Danann could be the key. If the Hands of Kings truly has roots stretching back to their time, Newgrange might hold more than just ancient tombs. There could be answers, Diarmuid!”
“This theory seemed absolutely crazy until I found copies of Dr. Michael O’Kelley’s original notes,” I say, pulling a page from my pile and handing it to Diarmuid.
He takes the page and scans it silently, his brows knitting together as he reads.
“Dr. O’Kelley notes here and here,” I point out, jabbing my finger at the faded handwriting, “that he suspected a tunnel to an even older structure than Newgrange. Newgrange was built around 3200 BC, Diarmuid. There might be a tunnel near the entrance that leads to something older.”
I pause to gauge his reaction, but he’s still focused on the document.
“But what does that have to do with today? With now?” I press, pulling out another page and offering it to him.
Diarmuid looks at me questioningly before taking the second document. His eyes quickly scan the page, and I can see the tension rising in his posture.
“Edict VI of the Hands of Kings states,” I continue, “‘Kings are made to lead our world, but they must be guided. One Hand shall place the Kings in their places. One Hand shall make Kings. One Hand shall destroy Kings.’ One Hand should make. One Hand should destroy. The medallion mentions the Fist.”
I can hardly contain my excitement as I explain. “I think Rian was right; there’s a council above Victor. ‘The Fist rests at Sí an Bhrú.’ Victor is the Hand, and this council is the Fist.”
