Page 65

Thirty-Nine

“Is she alive?” The words caught in Lydia’s throat as Henry knelt over Rebecca’s unconscious body, pressing his fingers to the side of her neck. Her skin looked waxy in the firelight. “Henry. Henry, please, is she alive ?”

He looked up, just for a second. “She’s alive.”

Lydia let out a gasp of relief. She quivered with exhaustion as she watched Henry give Rebecca’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, trying to rouse her. “How did you know it would work?”

Henry took Rebecca’s hand gingerly in his. “We didn’t.”

Rebecca whimpered, but she didn’t wake. Lydia wanted to go to her, but the book sat just inches from where she lay, and she didn’t trust herself.

“I’m so sorry.” Lydia hung her head in her hands. Evelyn’s blood still clung to her skin. “Great Mother, forgive me, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Hey . ”

Lydia looked up. It took her a moment to realize Henry wasn’t speaking to her at all, but Rebecca.

Rebecca grimaced at some internal pain as she rolled onto her side.

“Go slow.” Henry whispered something else to her, something that sounded like didn’t learn your lesson the first time? Rebecca laughed weakly in reply.

Lydia felt the shame like an ulcer in her stomach. “Rebecca…oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

Rebecca shook her head. “No time for that.” She nodded toward the Grimorium Bellum . “Finish it.”

Something fluttered inside Lydia’s chest, alive and afraid.

She looked at the place where Evelyn had died, just moments before.

The dust was covering her now, making her look like a statue on a tomb.

The grief felt like water in her lungs. If she let it take hold of her, she wouldn’t be able to complete the ritual, and everything she’d lost would have been for nothing.

She looked at Henry, and at Rebecca. “You should go.”

Henry’s head snapped to attention. “We’re not leaving without you.”

“Henry, listen to me—”

He crossed the room and knelt in front of her. “We’re not leaving you. We’re all getting out of here together, right after you—”

“I won’t survive the ritual.” Lydia’s voice didn’t feel like hers. It didn’t convey any of the terror she felt.

“What are you talking about? You did it once already, just a few minutes ago. You can do it again.”

“I wasn’t alone before. I had the coven.”

Rebecca pushed herself up to sitting. Lydia saw her eyes roam around the chamber, taking in the dunes of ash that covered the floor. “Why did you do this? Why didn’t you let them help you destroy the book? You could have survived it.”

Lydia shook her head. “They would have killed me as soon as they realized what I’d done.

And then they’d just find something else.

Some new monster for them to unleash. They would have never stopped.

” She swallowed. “My mother was going to help me finish it after they were gone, but she—” She gestured toward the place where Evelyn lay. Henry and Rebecca followed her gaze.

Henry spoke first. “Lydia, I’m so sorry.”

Something about the tenderness in Henry’s voice brought it all back to the surface again. Hot tears burned in her throat. She could hardly breathe.

“Maybe we can help you. Maybe if we—”

Lydia shook her head. “You can’t help me with this—”

“You don’t know that,” he said. “Maybe we can.”

“Henry—”

“We’re not leaving!” he barked, more harshly than Lydia had ever heard him speak before. She glanced at the window, at the hazy whisper of light on the horizon.

“Henry,” Lydia said softly, and now her voice did break, and she hated herself for it. She wanted to seem strong, just for this one moment. She wanted him to remember her as brave. “It’s okay.”

“You can take the book to London,” Henry said, desperation seeping into his voice. “Find a coven. You don’t have to do this alone. There will be other solstices. You can wait.”

“No, she can’t,” Rebecca said.

Lydia looked at Rebecca, and Rebecca stared back with a grim certainty that Lydia found strangely comforting.

“She’s bound the book to herself. It’s a part of her now. If she leaves here with it, eventually it will consume her. And when that happens, no one will be safe.” She spoke slowly, rationally, looking directly at Lydia as she did.

“This is insane.” Henry’s voice wavered. “Lydia, please—”

“Are you strong enough?” Rebecca looked at Lydia. “If we leave you here, can you destroy that thing, or will it take control of you again?”

“I’m strong enough.” Great Mother, please let me be strong enough , she prayed, and when she did, it was her own mother’s face that she saw.

Rebecca looked into her eyes, searching for something, for confirmation. After a moment, she nodded.

Henry stayed where he was, his head hung low.

“I’ll stay with you,” he whispered.

“Henry.” She took his face in her hands. His cheeks were wet with tears, glowing in the firelight. “Henry, please. It’s too dangerous. You have to go now. You have to. Please.”

And then she kissed him. Because she wanted to.

Because she would never get the chance again.

He kissed her back, cradling her face in his hands.

He cupped the nape of her neck, holding her close.

She whispered her goodbyes against his skin.

She told him that everything would be all right, and pressed the words into his lips with hers.

···

Henry tried with every cell in his body to stop time.

He felt Lydia, warm and solid in his arms. He could smell her skin, its sweet floral perfume, and sweat, and blood.

He told himself that if he could inventory every part of this moment, every sensation down to the most minute detail, that he could make it last forever, and the terrible future they were racing toward would never come.

And then she pulled away from him.

“Go.”

The candles had gone out. The sun was nothing but a splinter of light at the bottom of a swiftly darkening sky.

“Henry, please, go !”

The frozen air seemed to vibrate, like a bell being struck. Henry looked up.

There, standing on the other side of the chamber, was a woman.

She was instantly different from the other spirits Henry had encountered.

Warmer, more alive. Perhaps it was the magic that still pulsed around her, humming like a battery, rising off her like heat waves.

He knew her, he realized. He’d seen her in Lydia’s memories—fixing her breakfast, braiding her hair.

He knew her name. She looked up, and to his astonishment, she smiled.

“You must be Henry,” she said.

One moment, they were surrounded by black marble tile, and candles, and ash, and the next it was midday, and they were in the sitting room of the house where he grew up.

All the furniture had been stripped away, the potted plants, and candles, and family photographs, all gone.

A gentle breeze blew through the old shotgun house, tickling his skin.

As Henry looked around, he saw that where there should have been the cracked plaster walls of his childhood, now there were dozens upon dozens of doors .

Some were ordinary, like the front door of a house, the type you’d walk past without ever really noticing.

Some looked impossibly old, the brittle wood barely holding together.

Some were painted vibrant colors—red, yellow, cobalt blue, emerald green.

Some had heavy iron knockers or shining brass knobs. And each and every door was closed.

Henry looked at the woman in front of him. She looked so much like Lydia, and yet nothing like her at all. She was softer, rounder in the face and in her body, and yet something in the shape of her was unmistakable.

“You’re Lydia’s mother.”

She smiled again. Henry had never seen a spirit smile. “Evelyn. I’d shake your hand, only…”

“No, that’s all right.” He shook his head in astonishment. “You’re so different from the other…other—”

“Dead people?” Evelyn laughed. “I’m a witch, love. Witches live their whole lives on the edge of the veil, even if we don’t always realize it. Crossing over must be very jarring for some.” She winked. “Less so for people like us.”

That word, us , bloomed in Henry’s chest, warm and sweet as honey. He looked around, almost expecting to see the black marble of the ceremonial chamber again, but seeing only the familiar, sunny sitting room. “What about the others? All those witches who were turned to ash?”

Evelyn made a face. “Ah, yes. I believe whatever’s inside that book devoured them, body and soul.

I don’t expect we’ll be seeing any more of them.

I’d say I’m sorry about it, but…” She shrugged.

Evelyn looked into Henry’s eyes then, her irises gone soft and pewter, and for a moment, she looked almost alive. “She needs your help, you know. Lydia.”

“She won’t let me. She needs you. She—” Henry stopped. “Use me . My body. Maybe if you step inside me, together we can—”

Evelyn shook her head, a little sadly. “It won’t be enough. She’s weakened. Heartbroken. And I’m…” She tsked. “At full strength, we might have been enough, but now…” She stepped closer, looking into his eyes. “She won’t survive it. Not alone. She needs her family, Henry.”

All at once he understood. He looked at the rows of closed doors that surrounded them.

Some of them had been painted shut. Some were bolted fast, padlocked, chained.

Henry looked at each one, fear making his heart beat faster.

Not the fear of what he was about to do, but the fear of what would happen if he failed.

He looked at Evelyn. He wished he could have known her while she was still alive.

“I’ve never called up so many at once. What if I…” He trailed off. Evelyn waited. “What if they don’t come?”

Evelyn chuckled, a strange sound that seemed to be piped in from some other place. “Oh, my darling. Don’t you know? They’re already here. They’re waiting.”

···

First, Lydia smelled tea.