Heathcliff

Of all the things I planned to do tonight, slinking through the trees at the edge of the Lintons’ property wasn’t one of them.

Meeting with a guy about a private business venture I’m starting—sure.

Fucking Cathy Earnshaw—if I was lucky enough.

But this ? I got enough shit to deal with.

Don’t need to add trespassing to the list.

But Cathy seems determined to sneak up to the house.

She takes off, out of the trees, running half-bent across the lawn until she’s right under the bright rectangle of an open window.

Swearing under my breath, I follow her, pressing myself against the siding as well.

A few bugs dance over our heads, drawn to the light and warmth, bouncing off the screen.

I swat one away and curse. Cathy clamps small fingers over my mouth and I go still, my dick instantly hard.

Does she know what she does to me? I’m furious, raging with lust, but at a word from her, I’d go boneless in a second, just melt into a sacrificial puddle right here at her feet.

Voices drift through the window, growing clearer. A fridge opens.

“I scared her off. I’m not sure she’ll give me another chance.” That’s young Linton. Edgar.

“Is she going to that picnic thing this weekend, on the Fitzpatricks’ beach?” That’s his dad, the pastor.

“I don’t know.”

“Text her tomorrow. Apologize for prying and ask her to come on Saturday. We need to understand what’s going on. She might be a threat…or she might be able to help.”

Cathy’s fingers loosen over my mouth. Don’t tell me she’s buying into this whole “helpful pastor” act.

I’ve seen plenty of holier-than-thou do-gooders in my day.

Narcissists, most of ’em, addicted to the hit of self-righteousness they get when they think they’re “fixing” someone.

They’d never admit it, but they get off on being the leader, the master, the one who’s better , who’s got it together, while the rest of us are red clay to be lifted out of the ground and formed into something useful, into neat red bricks with which they can build their stairway to heaven.

“Those people who came to Aunt Nellie’s—any idea what they were?” Edgar asks.

His dad sighs loudly. “One of them has some kind of voice power. The others—I’m not sure, except the brown-haired guy is faster than he should be. The way he moves isn’t natural. And did you see his teeth? Like fangs. The girl with the voice had them, too. Abhartach, maybe…vampires.”

In the dim light, I exchange startled looks with Cathy.

“Those aren’t supposed to exist anymore,” Edgar says.

“I don’t know, son. I don’t have all the answers. And we can’t be sure if these folks are trying to resurrect the demon themselves or if they’re actually concerned about keeping him quiet.”

“But they talked to our people, not the Lockwoods. If anyone is working to resurrect the demon, it would be the Lockwoods, right?”

“The Lockwoods and the LeGares try this and that every few years, but those backwoods hicks can never get organized enough to do any real damage. They’re a bunch of drunken, inbred blowhards without the intelligence to go head-to-head with us.

They’ve lost the knowledge of their ancestors.

To be fair, we’ve lost a lot of knowledge, too.

If there was a way to seal that tomb more effectively, to be sure he can’t rise… ”

“I can do some research,” Edgar offers. “I’ve done plenty over the past four years, but there’s always more to learn. If you’d agree to broadening our research beyond Irish folklore, into other cultures—”

“The myths don’t mix,” the older Linton interrupts.

“There are similarities among myths across many nations,” Edgar says. “Mirrored stories with shared elements. Another culture might have helpful information on how to keep a demon buried, how to reinforce the original charms holding him down. If you’d just let me—”

“It’s late. Too late to get into all this,” his father says firmly. “Go let Judah out, and then get to bed.”

In the silence that follows, Cathy’s hand drops from my mouth. We’re in the shadows, but the light from the window illuminates her features enough for me to see her expression—puzzlement, concern, and a hint of guilt.

She thinks these people might be the good guys.

But there’s no such thing as good guys—not here and maybe not anywhere.

I have to tell her the truth about the leaders of Wicklow Chapel, so she can protect herself.

But first, we’ve got to get out of here.

I gesture for her to follow me as I head back across the lawn.

I’m nearly to the trees when a door opens. When I glance back, Cathy is running, fleeing the swath of yellow light. A dog barrels from the doorway where Edgar’s slim frame stands silhouetted.

Cathy is racing toward me, her eyes frantic. She makes a leap for me, for the shadow of the forest, but then she screams. The dog’s jaws have latched onto her sneaker.

I grab the dog’s collar and pull it away, snarling, “Fuck off!” It growls, stiff-legged and threatening, but it seems to recognize I’m willing to do damage if it touches Cathy again.

I scoop her into my arms and run through the woods as fast as I dare. A few minutes of heart-pounding tension, and then we’re in the truck, speeding down the road.

“Did the dog get you at all?” I ask.

“Just ruined my shoe, I think. Even if he had, I heal faster than normal people.”

“Yeah…why is that, anyway?”

“Well, I’m descended from some old god, right? Some of its regenerative power must still be hanging around in my genes.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I grip the steering wheel harder. I’m stronger than any human male of my size should be, but I don’t have healing powers like she does. My tattoos cover more scars than most people realize.

Cathy’s taking off her sweater. Why is she taking off her sweater? Maybe she’s hot from running.

I cut another glance at her, liking the way her tank top hugs her breasts.

She leans over, unlacing her sneaker, probably to check her ankle and make sure the dog’s teeth didn’t punch through to her skin.

I glance down too, but her ankle is in shadow, and I can’t tell if there’s any damage.

I try to focus on the road, but my gaze is magnetized by the curve of her neck, the little bumps of bone along her spine, the soft tumble of her curly, brown hair.

“Eyes forward, Heathcliff,” she snaps, and I whip my attention back to the road just in time to brake and turn for a sharp curve.

“Honestly. Men.” She scoffs a little and rolls down the window a crack, angling her face toward the cool air. “So about what we heard back there… Are you Lockwoods trying to raise the god under Old Sheldon Church?”

She says it so matter-of-factly, like every word of that sentence is normal.

No use pretending I haven’t heard stories of the god trapped under the church. I’m familiar with the legend, and I’ve heard the Coosaw Lockwoods talk about stirring him up. Apparently folks have tried, in each generation, but the magical barrier keeps out everyone with a drop of Lockwood blood.

“Are they trying to resurrect the god?” Cathy persists.

“Nope.”

“You said the church leaders like Pastor Linton kill supernaturals. But they don’t sound like murderers. I think they’re decent people. Weirdly religious, sure…but decent. Don’t you think so?”

“No.”

“Explain.” Frustration edges her tone. “You’re so cryptic and silent.”

“As opposed to Edgar, who talks plenty. About himself.”

“At least he has something to say. You’re just…a lot of nothing.”

“I have things to say. I’m just not sure how to say it in a way you’ll believe.”

“Try me.”

“Fine.” I blow out a breath. “You and I live in the same area. Wicklow and Kinsale aren’t that many miles apart—two little towns, not much by way of population.

But you’ve never met a Lockwood before me, right?

Not from Coosaw or from Kinsale. You and I went to different schools growing up, and we never crossed paths. Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”

“I guess…maybe…”

“There’s a spell in place. A barrier that keeps Lockwoods from coming into Wicklow.

Keeps out a couple other families, too—the LeGares and the Byrnes.

They can’t get near your chapel or Old Sheldon Church.

That’s why I took care of the delivery to your aunt’s store for my brother, Hindley.

He can’t physically go there. I couldn’t cross the barrier either until I turned twenty-one.

Even though I’m adopted, I counted as one of the Lockwoods until I became a legal adult in every sense.

Whoever set up that barrier did some high-level magical shit to keep us out. ”

She nods, seeming to accept what I’ve told her. “Why, though? I mean…I know the barrier is there to keep your family from resurrecting the god, but why would you even want to raise him?”

“Are you kidding? The raising of a god means a power boost for supernaturals, for anyone with inherited gifts, like yours.” I delve into memories of Meemaw’s stories, uprooting facts I’d nearly forgotten until now.

“If you raise one or two gods, they’ll eventually fade without the worship of humans and the support of a pantheon.

But if you can raise three of them…well, that shit can change the world as we know it. ”

Cathy pulls on her sweater again and shuts the window. “So the Lockwoods and those other families you mentioned, they want a power boost. Which means they’re supernaturals. They have gifts?”

I glance over at her. She’s staring at me, her brown eyes wide.

“They are, aren’t they?” she breathes. “Heathcliff. Are you…some kind of supernatural?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh god.” She covers her mouth. “What are you?”

“Can’t tell you that, Earnshaw. Family secret.”

“But you’re adopted.”