Page 25

With a low, eager huff of hot breath, Heathcliff nestles his face into my pussy.

His scruff grazes my inner thigh. It’s scratchy, but I don’t mind. Weirdly, it’s the perfect counterpoint to the slick invasion of his tongue.

His broad lips seal over my sex, and his tongue quivers along the seam of my pussy, a rhythmic licking that sends sheer bliss pulsing through my core.

Then his lips close over my clit, suckling that tender bit of me, and I whimper.

Can’t help it. I plant one bare foot on the dashboard and set the other against the inside of the truck, right where the shoulder belt hangs.

In this position I can hold myself steady, even while I’m losing my mind to his thick, warm tongue.

Heathcliff rises and bends over me, eating me out like I’m a feast prepared just for him.

Each thorough stroke of his tongue makes me squeal softly, until he takes my clit between his teeth and tugs it gently.

Electric thrills jolt through that spot, followed by a surge of pleasure as he lets go and kisses me there instead.

Then he’s shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth, his tongue and lips rubbing over my clit with just the right rhythm—fuck, fuck.

I throw back my head and I come. Somehow I manage not to scream, but frantic breaths burst from my lungs, each one edged with a grateful whimper.

As my pussy flutters, spasms, he kisses it deeply, firmly, compressing my clit just right as I shudder and whine for him.

“Heathcliff,” I sob. “Heathcliff, Heathcliff.” And he grabs me, hauls me against him, kisses my mouth. He shoves one big hand between my legs, cups my pussy, and holds me there, secure and soothing, the tip of his middle finger dipping just slightly into my slippery center.

I wrap both arms around his neck, a convulsive, possessive grip. My kiss turns cruel, my teeth snatching at his lips, his tongue, his jaw. I feel like I could eat him whole, unhinge my jaw and swallow him serpentlike, and that way I could keep him forever.

“Don’t you ever fucking do that to anyone else,” I hiss in his ear.

His hand leaves my pussy. Grips my throat, right under my jaw, and he kisses me brutally, until my lips are sore and swollen, and yet I’m choking a laugh through the sting of it because he’s making me the best kind of promise.

He releases my throat, and without warning, his two central fingers ram deep into my pussy.

I gasp, tightening my grip on his neck. He pounds me ruthlessly, those fingers thrusting thick and deep, the heel of his hand hammering against my clit.

I’m so wet I’m spraying droplets with each rapid thrust, and normally I might be embarrassed but I’m mindless for him, every inhibition blurred, my body slave to the violent thrusting of his fingers.

I come with a gush of bliss, with a voiceless scream, with a spastic tightening of every muscle in my body. I can’t breathe. I bite Heathcliff’s shoulder through his T-shirt while my limbs shake and my wetness showers his hand.

When the bliss recedes, I’m limp and soft. The edge of the seat is damp, but Heathcliff produces a roll of paper towels from somewhere and shoves a wad against the cushion to soak up the moisture. He cleans me up, too, wiping carefully between my thighs.

I manage to get my shorts back on, and within minutes we’re headed back to the road.

“You gonna tell your brother what we did in his truck?” I ask.

Heathcliff’s mouth twists in a wry grin. “Nope. Besides, he’s done worse in here.”

“Ew.” I glance around the discolored interior of the cab with fresh understanding. Not like I’ve got room to judge, though, after my own contribution to whatever bodily fluids have stained this vehicle. And honestly I’ve had sex in worse places.

I pull out my phone and my stomach does an unpleasant lurch when I see a text from Dad. You missed church. Again. You better be at prayer meeting tonight.

“Everything okay?” Heathcliff cuts me a sidelong look.

“Yeah.” I lean back against my seat with a sigh. “Just…back to reality, that’s all.”

For some reason, I feel like crying. Not just crying— weeping , in the biblical sense.

To me, weeping represents a more visceral kind of grief, the voicing of an ache that is soul deep.

It’s the thought of being away from Heathcliff, of not having this again—breakfast and conversation, messy sex in an open field, even encounters with strange gods.

“We haven’t really talked about the god thing,” I venture, attempting to rein in that soul-deep sadness.

“What’s there to say?”

“Aren’t you curious as to how Manannán was raised? Why he was there?”

“Guess I just kind of accepted it.” He glances at me again. “You know something?”

“Not much, but yeah. You overhead some of it when we spied on the Lintons, but I think I should fill you in on the rest.” Quickly I tell him about the strangers at Aunt Nellie’s, what they said, and what my dad and Pastor Linton told them.

“Doesn’t that freak you out? Or maybe it doesn’t, since your family is all about worshipping the gods and bringing them back. ”

“Never said I want to raise them,” he mutters.

“Well…do you?”

“The way I figure, it doesn’t much matter who’s in charge.

Gods, devils, big-talking men with nuclear weapons at their fingertips—doesn’t really change how I live my life.

I’ll keep eating, fucking, shitting, and sleeping all the same.

You and me, Cathy, we’re at the bottom of the heap, you know?

What happens at the top filters down, sure, but it doesn’t make a huge difference to people like us. ”

“The bottom of the heap,” I say quietly. “That’s how you see me? How you see yourself? Don’t you want something more, something better?”

“Sure I do. But I got no ambitions to live in a fancy-ass house and work a corporate job or some shit. Best I hope for is a truck in my own name, food on the table, beer in my hand, and a decent place I can call home.”

“And that’s all?”

He chuckles. “No. That’s not all. There’s one more thing I need. Otherwise the rest ain’t worth having.”

My skin turns hot. I refuse to ask if it’s me. If I’m the one thing . Because that would be ridiculous. I’m a problem. Having me around would make his life unpredictable, uncomfortable, and depressing.

“I don’t let myself think much about what I want,” I say. “I don’t have a lot of choices. I’m…stuck—stuck with Dad, stuck in Wicklow, stuck with the banshee thing. I used to think a cabin in the mountains would be nice. But that won’t ever happen. No use wishing.”

Heathcliff is quiet for several minutes. Then he says, “I think you gotta have wishes and plans, even if they look small or dumb to other people. Otherwise you might as well curl up and die right now.”

“Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

“It’s not about encouragement,” he replies. “It’s about having a reason to live. And from now on, Earnshaw, you’re my fucking reason.”

My chest swells tight with a joy that hurts, and my eyes sting. “Fine.” I manage to keep my voice steady. “Then you’re mine, too.”

***

His words echo in my head when he drops me off a short distance from my house. I sneak in and shower, but it turns out I didn’t have to be sneaky because Dad isn’t home. He must have gone to Sunday dinner with someone from church.

I’m not really hungry, so I flop onto my bed and check my email.

There’s one from Pastor Linton—a church-wide email.

Usually I’d delete it immediately, but the subject line catches my attention: “The Power of the Blood.” Pastor Linton’s emails usually have subject lines like “Weekly Update” or “Church Luncheon Info” or “Prayer Request Chain,” stuff like that.

I click on it.

Hallowed Family,

Those who were at morning worship today heard these words spoken aloud, but I write this letter to you now, as an apostle of God, to ensure that you keep this word ever before your eyes.

Speak it to your families, guard its message from outsiders, write its truth upon the walls of your heart.

Put it on like armor, that you may be ready to stand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.

Most of us live faithfully from week to week, quiet soldiers of the Lord, never expecting to be called up to active duty.

But the time comes when faithfulness alone is not enough, and we must prove our love and loyalty through acts that are not only spiritual but physical.

Sacrifice is not solely an Old Testament practice, nor is it limited to the intangibles alone.

Our congregation has a deeper experience with that concept than most.

Most of you know the truth of our mission, but for some, faith may have faded and doubt may have crept in. Others may have lingered on the fringes of the church, worshipping with us without being fully attuned to the unique role that Wicklow Heritage Chapel fills in this world.

Now is the time for doubters to believe, for longtime believers to renew their faith, and for those on the fringes of the camp to draw nearer and understand our blessed purpose, a mission unique among God’s people.

For generations we have served as the guardians of Old Sheldon Church, which is not only a ruined place of worship but a burial site, the resting place of a pagan monstrosity that some might call a god but that we call by its true name—demon.

The demon Cernunnos, bringer of death, enemy of life and righteousness, confined long ago.

Our ancestors took up the duty of guarding the demon’s burial site and ensuring that he sleeps forever.