AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Only fear by the time I’m done with them.
CHAPTER THREE
Selene
THE AIR IS alive with a gentle murmur as I approach my grandparents' house, a soft breeze weaving through the few leaves that cling to the branches of aging oaks. It's a familiar path, one I've walked countless times in my youth, but today, it feels different—like I'm crossing a threshold into a past I've long since left behind. The quaint, cobblestone path under my feet leads me to the porch.
I pause for a moment, letting the soothing symphony of the butterfly wind chime wash over me. It's a delicate sound, one that brings forth a surge of memories so intense it almost overwhelms me. My grandmother's wind chimes used to dance in the breeze by the dozens, creating melodies that filled the air with their vibrant, life-affirming songs. But that was before my grandfather declared he was one gust away from madness, leading to a household debate that ended with a compromise: one wind chime would remain. It had to be the butterfly one, the very chime I had chosen for my grandmother's birthday all those years ago, its significance now greater than ever.
Taking a deep breath, I lift my hand and knock on the door. The wait is brief. The door swings open, and there she is—my grandmother, her face lighting up with a joy that radiates warmth even before her arms are around me.
"Selene, my dear," she exclaims, her hands gently cupping my face as if to reassure herself that I am truly there. Her touch is tender, a balm to the soul, and when she kisses me on both cheeks, I'm enveloped in a sense of belonging that I've sorely missed.
Before I can fully embrace the comfort of her presence, another figure makes his way into the hallway. My grandfather, with his familiar shuffle and a smile that speaks volumes of the love he holds for his family, expresses his joy at seeing me in his own, understated way.
"Look at you, all grown up and traveling the world," he says, his voice carrying the weight of missed moments and pride in equal measure.
As we settle into the living room, the conversation naturally drifts to my travels. They're eager to hear about my adventures, the sights I've seen, and the people I've met along the way.
I find myself wrestling with a familiar, gnawing guilt that has become a constant companion on my journey. The stories I share with my grandparents, though true in essence, are draped in omission and half-truths. The world I paint for them, one of steady work and constant travel, is a facade that veils the reality of my freelance writing endeavors and the precarious life I've chosen since leaving my parents' house.
The warmth of their love and their genuine interest in my well-being make the deceit weigh even heavier on my heart. I've spun a tale of security and purpose, all the while knowing the danger that lurks just beneath the surface of my real life. After what happened to Rian, the risks of being anchored to one place became all too clear. Diarmuid invested in a new house for Niamh and me—a fortress veiled as a home, equipped with safeguards our old lives could never afford.
Sitting here, amidst the gentle clinking of the wind chime and the soft glow of the living room lamp, the reality of my choices hits me anew. These are my grandparents, who have given me nothing but love and support, and I’ve kept them in the dark. The thought of bringing any hint of danger to their doorstep is unbearable. I've convinced myself that this lie, this facade, is for the best.
"I've got a bit of work to catch up on before dinner," I announce, reluctantly pulling myself away from the comfort of the dining room chair. Their understanding nods do little to ease the tightness in my chest.
“We will let you get on with your work.” My grandmother speaks first and plants a kiss on my forehead. My grandfather is more reserved at the thought of me leaving already. But I know lingering won’t help, so I kiss him on the cheek and make my way to the apartment above the garage.
The garage, with its familiar scent of sawdust and motor oil, tightens my core. The door creaks open to reveal a darkness that feels almost suffocating, a stark contrast to the warmth of the house I've just left behind. With a flick of the switch, light floods the room, and the stark reality of my existence is laid bare before me.
The apartment looks like the physical manifestation of a deranged mind. Papers are strewn across every surface, and notes and photos are pinned haphazardly to the walls.
The room spins momentarily, a dizzying reminder of the double life I've been living. My fingers grip the edge of a table cluttered with papers and photographs as I steady myself against the sudden vertigo. This apartment, once a simple living space, has transformed into the command center of my obsession—an obsession born from the ashes of Rian's unfinished work. The evidence of my relentless pursuit is everywhere, in the photos and letters plastered across the walls, in the printouts and piles of material that claim every inch of space. Red string weaves a complex web between bits of evidence, a visual representation of the connections I'm painstakingly trying to piece together.
Diarmuid believes these visits to my grandparents are a respite, a return to normalcy in the chaotic aftermath of Rian's death. He doesn't know that instead of seeking solace, I've been chasing shadows, diving deeper into the rabbit hole Rian was consumed by. The guilt of my deception twinges at my conscience, but the drive to continue Rian's work, to expose the truth he died for, overshadows everything else.
As the room settles back into focus, I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the disorientation. It's been weeks since Rian was killed, weeks in which I've wrapped myself in layers of lies, presenting a facade to the world while my private life has been consumed by this investigation. Rian had been years ahead in his research, his knowledge far surpassing what I've managed to piece together so far.
Every time I return here, Rian's sacrifice looms large in this room, a silent echo in every scrap of paper and line of red string. He risked everything in his quest for the truth, paying the ultimate price for his bravery. The reality of his loss is a constant shadow, a weight that drives me forward even as it threatens to pull me under.
The images haunt me, unbidden and relentless—a spectral replay that jolts me awake in the small hours of the night, leaving my heart racing and my sheets cold with sweat. Rian, standing before me, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination, the moment before his life was snuffed out. It's a memory that clings to me, a shadow I can't shake, coloring every decision. I never thought someone's death would affect me so greatly. Watching someone brimful of love for life in one moment and dead in the next —gone in the snap of a neck—is an image I can’t bear. It’s there every time I close my eyes.
With a heavy sigh, I turn my attention back to the task at hand, my fingers moving almost of their own accord as they sift through the stack of papers before me. The Hand of the Kings, an enigma wrapped in rumors and whispers, has been the focus of my investigation—a group as elusive and shrouded in mystery as the Illuminati or the Freemasons. The deeper I delve, the more convoluted the trail becomes, with countless theories and conjectures clouding the truth.
Among the scattered documents, an article catches my eye, its headline bold and provocative: "The Hands of Kings: Alien Architects of Human Destiny?" According to the piece, this clandestine group wasn't just a power behind thrones but an otherworldly force, its origins tied to alien beings with a grand design for humanity. The theory states that these extraterrestrial architects seeded the Earth with human life, the Hand of the Kings serving as their intermediaries, selecting and guiding the leaders of these "herds" to fulfill an ancient agenda.
Skepticism wars with fascination as I read on. Other articles draw connections to biblical narratives, suggesting that hidden within sacred texts are references to this shadowy cult. Passages that have baffled scholars for centuries, the writers argue, are not mere parables but coded messages pointing to the influence of the Hand on human history.
But it's a claim by a conspiracy theorist that truly captures my imagination. This self-proclaimed expert asserts they've unraveled the core principles upon which the Hand operates, detailing edicts that dictate their actions. Edict IV resonates with a chilling clarity: "Kings are made to lead our world, but they must be guided. One Hand shall place the Kings in their places. One Hand should make Kings. One Hand should destroy Kings."
This cryptic phrase is one Rian had once uttered, his voice heavy with the gravity of his findings. It echoes in my mind as I pore over the notes spread out in front of me. "One Hand should make Kings. One Hand should destroy Kings." The implications of his belief is that there is a council above the Hand, above even Victor, who holds the reins of power.
If Rian believed in the existence of a higher council, then it was more than mere speculation; it was a lead worth following.
But it's the symbols associated with the group that present the most tantalizing mystery. Among the myriad documents, one phrase stands out, its letters seeming to pulsate with a significance I can't yet grasp: *luíonn an dorn ag Sí an Bhrú.* The language is unfamiliar, its meaning elusive, yet its repetition across several pieces of evidence suggests a significance that cannot be ignored. It's a clue, perhaps a key, to understanding the true nature of the Hand and the power it wields.
As the clock hands march forward, marking the passage of another hour, I know I need to return to my grandparents’ home for dinner.
