Cathy

I call in sick Monday and Tuesday, claiming that I have a cold. By Wednesday I’m fully healed, so I show up for my shift as usual.

“Feeling better?” Aunt Nellie asks as I tie my apron.

“Yeah.”

“Good. You can work the café.”

The “café” is a counter in the back right corner of the store, where we sell coffee, pastries, and prewrapped sandwiches.

A side door leads to a covered strip of concrete with a few tables and some colorful chairs.

It’s open from 8 a.m. to 2 p.m., Monday through Friday.

I don’t mind playing barista, especially since we keep it simple and the cappuccino machine does most of the work for me.

I’ve barely stepped behind the café counter when the bell on the side door jangles. I look up just as Edgar Linton walks in.

The morning sun illuminates his wavy, golden hair, and when he smiles at me, my breath catches. He looks fucking angelic. Under his arm he carries a few books, and I glimpse the word occult on one of the spines. Not the kind of reading I’d expect a Bible college graduate to be doing.

“Hey, Cathy.” He rests a hand on the countertop, drumming his fingers lightly. “I came around earlier this week, but you weren’t here. I heard you were sick. You okay?”

“Peachy,” I say lightly. “What can I get you?”

“A pumpkin spice latte, please—skim milk. And I wanted to ask if you’re free for dinner tonight.”

Oh god . “Tonight?”

A soft pink tinges his pale cheeks. “It’s just…I know we’ll be hanging out at the beach thing this weekend, but I thought it might be nice to catch up before then.”

This is a date. Edgar Linton, pastor’s son and probable heir to the pulpit of Wicklow Heritage Chapel, is asking me out on a date.

I can’t think of a reason to blow him off and I’m taking way too long to answer and… “Um…sure.”

“Great!” He brightens. “Moretti’s, around seven? Or…what time do you get off?”

“Six or so. We close at five thirty, but I help out with a few things afterward.”

“Pick you up at your house, then. Seven o’clock.” He turns away, heading for the door.

I clear my throat. “Don’t you want your coffee?”

“Oh! Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Flushed and laughing, he returns to the counter, and I can’t help smiling as I ring him up. He’s cute. Why shouldn’t I go on a date with him? It’s not like I’m dating anyone else, certainly not that grouchy, tattooed Heathcliff with his menacing, mysterious comments.

Once Edgar’s coffee is ready, he takes it outside and sits at a table with his books, occasionally glancing at me through the window.

Not gonna lie—it feels good to have someone like him notice me.

He’s so…clean. Such an upstanding Captain America type.

Most guys around here are grubbier than Heathcliff and less satisfying in bed—though to be fair, I rarely do it in an actual bed anymore.

It feels more transgressive and exciting to do it literally anywhere else.

Eventually Edgar leaves. The lunch rush begins, keeping me too busy to wonder about his motives for asking me out.

Around one thirty, a shiny Rivian pulls into one of the café parking spots, followed by a second car, a BMW M8. Yeah, I notice cars. When you don’t have one and you long to travel, they tend to be extra fascinating.

Four of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen climb out of those cars and walk toward the café tables.

They’re eye-catching in a way that goes deeper than surface-level hotness—they all possess an indefinable grace, a cool confidence, as if they’re perfectly at ease with themselves in a way most people aren’t.

I could almost swear they’re walking in slow motion, like in movies…

but nope, this is real life, and they’re sitting down at one of the outdoor tables.

I grab the tablet we sometimes use to take orders outside, and I’m about to go greet them when I see two more cars pulling in—Pastor Linton’s Toyota and my dad’s Ford.

Dad and the pastor head straight for the group of strangers.

Like they were expecting them to be there. Like this is some kind of meetup.

What the hell is happening?

I walk to the side door and lean against the wall beside it, right next to the big window. The window isn’t sealed well, and if I focus, I should be able to catch a little of the conversation. Pretending to be fiddling with something on the tablet, I concentrate on the voices outside.

“—heard you’ve been asking questions around here,” Pastor Linton is saying. “Thought we might be able to answer them so you can be on your way.”

“We also heard you were poking around Old Sheldon Church,” Dad puts in.

“Sightseeing,” says a light male voice with a hint of a British accent. “That place has quite the history.”

“It’s an important site, wouldn’t you say?” Another man’s voice, quieter and sleeker somehow. More dangerous. “We just want to ensure that it’s being well maintained. We heard there’s a group around here that’s in charge of keeping an eye on it.”

“That would be us. Our church,” says Pastor Linton.

“Ah. Then maybe you can tell me if there have been unexpected disturbances or anything out of the ordinary—”

“For god’s sake, Gatsby, just say it.” Exasperation bleeds through a third voice, a girl’s.

“Look, priests, ministers, whatever you are—have you seen any weird supernatural shit? Wolves made out of sticks, clouds of black moths, apparitions, illusions? Signs that the god underneath the church is less than dormant?”

There’s a silence so thick, I swear I could cut it in slices.

Then Pastor Linton speaks, his voice so warm and gooey and reassuring it makes me want to puke. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but everything is quiet and peaceful here.”

“Really?” challenges the same girl. “Because when Dorian and I lived in Charleston, it was anything but quiet and peaceful. And we heard a rumor that there had been sightings here, too—maybe even deaths? They might look like animal attacks, but they’re not.”

In my mind’s eye, I see the church lobby—Pastor Linton’s anxious face and the worried, almost haunted expressions of the deacons.

Pastor Linton is lying to these strangers, whoever they are. Something bad has happened around here. He just doesn’t want to tell them about it.

“We don’t associate much with the Charleston branch,” says Dad.

Pastor Linton makes a startled, reproachful sound, but Dad continues.

“They already know, Mark. It’s pointless to pretend we don’t understand what they’re talking about.

As I was saying…the watchers in Charleston lost their faith.

They stopped taking their mission as seriously as they should, and frankly, that’s their problem, not ours.

But we have things well in hand here. Not that it’s any of your business. ”

A fourth voice speaks, feminine and musical and so entrancing, I instinctively strain to catch every word. “You say it’s their problem, but if actual gods start to rise, wouldn’t that be everyone’s problem?”

“Well, I suppose…” begins Pastor Linton.

“Were you aware that the god Manannán was recently set free?” The girl’s voice is softly compelling, slithering through my ears into my brain and coiling there. “Tell me the truth.”

I want desperately to answer her, to have the information she needs, but I don’t, so I press my lips together and stay put.

There’s a long pause before Pastor Linton speaks, slowly and reluctantly, as if the words are being forced out of him.

“We heard something like that, yes. But there have been no sightings of him, no great works or terrible catastrophes.”

“And why do you think that is?” continues the girl in her gentle tones.

“Because the gods need each other,” Pastor grits out. “They function as a clan, as a family. No god can attain their true power without the active presence of others in the pantheon and without the faith and worship of human beings.”

“Cathy?” Aunt Nellie’s raised voice travels across the store, and I startle. I guess I’m done eavesdropping for now.

“Sorry, just…had a problem with the app,” I call to her, and I push through the side door into the bright October afternoon.

“What can I get you?” I say breezily to the group.

“Not now, Cathy,” Dad snaps.

Pastor Linton notches a finger into his shirt collar, tugging as if it’s too tight. He and Dad are the only two standing; the rest are seated, relaxed.

Swiftly, I scan the group, trying to guess whose voices I heard.

There’s a young woman my age, wearing shorts that show off her long, tattooed legs.

Beside her lounges a tall blond man—stunningly pretty, like a twenty on a scale from one to ten.

His blue eyes linger on the tattooed girl with such warmth that I instantly know they’re together.

Next, there’s a man with a serious, handsome face and brown hair. The fourth member of the group is a blond woman who turns to me, smiles, and says, in a light, bright tone, “Cathy.”

In her mouth, my name isn’t just a word—it’s a bell, a clarion call. Cathy, Cathy, Cathy … It echoes in my head, shivers in my bones, vibrates my blood louder, louder, until my entire skull is ringing with her voice.

Cathy, Cathy, Cathy…

I drop the tablet and clamp both hands to my head. “Stop,” I gasp. “Make it stop!”

“Cathy!” Dad snaps. He hustles in front of me, his bearded bulk serving as a wall between me and the strangers. “Don’t lose your shit. Not here,” he says, low and furious. “Go pull yourself together. Now.”

His voice cracks through the ringing in my head, and it stops. I gasp with relief. “I’m sorry.” I pick up the tablet, inwardly groaning at the cracks branching through the glass.

“Oh god, no, don’t be sorry,” says the blond woman in an entirely different tone. She rises, concern bending her delicate eyebrows. “ I’m sorry. I thought you were human. I didn’t realize my voice would have that effect. What kind of supernatural are you?”

“What are you talking about?” Dad scoffs at her loudly, desperately. “Cathy, go inside.”