Dublin Ink Novels & Stories

“But Boston is compromised.” “I have contacts in Dublin who can do the tracking without leaving a trace,” Declan answers. “Your contacts have the level of encryption necessary—” “My contacts built the secure communication infrastructure for half of Europe,” Declan interrupts. “Don’t underestimate what gets built when you operate outside the law for twenty years.” Harvey considers this. “Fair,” he says, and the concession seems to cost something real. I look at both of them—the Irish wolf and the American architect, so completely opposite and so completely alike in the threat they represent—and I feel the impossible weight of being at the center of this forced alliance.

The machine hummed like a restless heartbeat, the needle gliding across skin as Ayla Cross filled the curve of a raven’s wing with black ink. The smell of antiseptic and cedar oil wrapped around her, the familiar perfume of creation. Outside, rain streaked the windows of The Runed Den, her little shop tucked between a pawn store and a bakery that stayed open too late.

"Paper has a memory, Damian. This stock is from a mill in Connecticut that closed in 2016. If I use a modern bond, Isabella will know the second she touches it. She’s spent her whole life handling high end stationery. She knows the 'tooth' of the grain. ​Damian leaned against the table, his eyes tracking the way I had laid out the chemicals. And the ink? ​That’s the hard part. I pointed to a small glass vial. Ink from ten years ago has oxidized. The acidity in the paper reacts with the iron gall or the synthetic dyes. If I write it today, the ink will sit on top of the fibers like a fresh coat of paint. I need it to sink. I need it to look like it’s been suffocating in a dark box for a decad

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • ....wherever you see Dilion, there you will find Griggs; and wherever Damian is, there is also Fred. Declan is a solo walker...a man of seclusion. ....and there are many of us...many too identical... • • RED INK EP 30: Where two roads shall meet • •

A gull shrieked back, furious at being ignored. I reached into my coat and found the ticket—creased, salt-damp, the ink almost bled away. Below it, a folded scrap from Finch’s ledger I hadn’t burned: a single page that listed the Dublin contact. The witch’s handwriting curved through the ash like a vein. “Ireland buys time, not peace.” Time. That was all I needed. Time to disappear. Time to learn. Time to make what came next hurt. I found a place on the lower deck between stacks of cargo nets and sealed barrels that smelled like rust and oranges. The air was heavy with diesel and the breath of people who’d paid to be ghosts.

Placing my head in my hands I closed my eyes and listened to the ducks quack, I hear the screeching of impatient drivers pass by. I said, "ego te accipere donum." ------- [Chapter quote: " all the clouds in me are raining"- r.h. Sin]

“You have a Scripta Conoscenza.” “Yes, of course. What library is complete without it?” I blink, staring at her, uncertain if she’s teasing me. “This book was written twenty-five hundred years ago.” Darby scrunches up her face, giving her head a little shake. “Probably not that copy. I lent my original out and never got it back. I picked that one up in some burgeoning little town with a funny name—Eblana, I think— on the east coast of Ireland. That copy’s maybe… eighteen hundred years old.”

The old handwriting continued across the page. Then I noticed the newer writing.Black ink.Sharper.Cleaner.Written between the original lines.My chest tightened.Those notes weren't ancient.They had been added much later."When were these written?""We don't know.""You said the ledger was ancient.""It is.""Then someone came back and wrote in it.""Exactly."I looked closer.

She replied, "The red ink pen in the office." I started laughing harder. "You mean the indelible red ink pen in the office that will not come off." She looked horrified and then started laughing hysterically. "Just please fuck me good for my attempt to be creative." I did. Brittney's personality always kept me off balance. Most people have a business face and a personal face. Brittney's was more than that. One day I bought three yellow roses from a peddler at a stoplight. When Brittney came home the roses were in a small crystal vase on the kitchen table.

The ink clings to the quill, its viscosity carefully crafted to prevent dispersal in the water. Turning his attention to the kelp paper in front of him, Bryan observes the faint shimmer on its surface. The kelp fibers have been infused with a unique hardening agent, a secret formula known only to the skilled artisans of Tritania. The agent causes the ink to react, triggering a chemical transformation that solidifies the liquid, ensuring that the words he pens will remain intact and readable.