Page 43

Cathy

I scream.

I scream until the trees around the clearing groan with the force of my voice. I scream until Old Sheldon Church quakes. I howl my grief to the sky like some monster of the old world, like a demented herald of death.

I can’t stop shrieking, crying, sobbing. Can’t save him. I know he’s still breathing, but he’s slipping away so fast. I’ll feel it when he goes.

I’m already getting flashes of his life…

the scenes, the names, and the emotions, all in one overwhelming torrent.

His adoptive father, Buckland, grinning and ruffling his hair.

Fights with his brother, Hindley, and some Lockwood cousins.

When they were younger, the cousins teamed up with Hindley to torture Heathcliff, yet as adults, Hindley expected Heathcliff to take his side in disputes.

And through it all, Heathcliff rarely used his supernatural strength.

Rough as he seems, he’s gentle at heart.

Not a fighter unless he has to be. Unless something he values deeply is at stake.

I see him fighting four men in the graveyard so he could reach my body. Killing every one of them.

More flashes of his life, each one a split second, but they’re all imprinted in glaring high-definition in my brain.

Resurrections that caused him horrible agony because he had to complete them in tandem with Hindley.

Resurrections he completed in secret, so he could earn the money to take me away from here.

One resurrection that disturbed him deeply—a body burnt beyond recognition—and I don’t see the face because the memories move on, to a day decades ago when a very small Heathcliff resurrected a dog that had been smashed by a car.

I see Buckland Lockwood approaching him, bending down: “Come with me.” And Heathcliff did.

Back still further—glimpses of a past his conscious mind doesn’t remember.

A woman stirring sauce. Several men clustered together, voices raised in argument.

A dim, shabby room, where Heathcliff lay on a thin blanket while a woman cradled his head in her lap, singing softly in Italian.

Her name floats just out of my reach. Heathcliff doesn’t know it, not even in the distant recesses of his mind—she was simply Mamma to him.

A long, keening sob issues from my throat as I bow over him. My fingers flutter over his mouth, trying to feel his breath.

I’ve grieved so many times, as deeply as if the grief were mine. But this grief has sharper edges. It lacerates my heart and lungs with every inhale, every sob.

Suddenly a jolt of energy passes through me, running over my skin, lifting every hair to stand on end. Something tremors in my soul—a new presence. Like a weighty hand laid over my bleeding heart.

As if pulled by a puppet string, my head lifts. And I look up, up, and up—to It.

Its towering form is made of vines, grass, slender branches, and moss. Skinny legs, like a deer, but three times taller. From its mossy shoulders rears a thick, flexible neck. There’s no head, only antlers, huge and ponderous, constructed of sticks, branching out impossibly far on either side.

In the center of the Thing’s neck, the twigs and moss and vines withdraw, rearranging, folding themselves backward and inward to create an aperture like a mouth.

Inside, enmeshed twigs line the hollow like netting.

Something about the texture makes me sick.

My whole body shakes with the need to recoil from the Thing, and yet in my bones, I feel my connection to it.

“I can save him,” says the Thing. Its voice is a horrible, grating, breathy sound, cold air pushed through the web of sticks that form its vocal cords.

I can save him.

The urgency to mourn Heathcliff recedes a little. My banshee self senses the potential change in his future, and the grief is paused for a moment.

I find my voice, croaking out the essential words. No pleading, no questions, just the basics. This is not a gift but a bargain. “What do you want in exchange?”

“For centuries, I lay asleep,” the Thing grates out. “Generations of unease and torment. Shunned by my fellow gods and by humans alike. You are of my blood. You know the hunger when you are alone, the pain of being the enemy of all.”

The Thing—no, not just any thing ; it’s Cernunnos in some form—steps forward with one long leg.

“Your blood loosened the bonds of my spirit, and your scream in my domain did the rest. I have returned, but my body has not. I require a flesh form. Yours will do.” The weight on my heart intensifies, as if the invisible hand is squeezing.

“Accept, and I will spare you and the son of Juventas. Deny me, and I will let him die and destroy you as well. I have touched your soul already when you fled my realm. It will be easy to end you or to slip inside you. Make your choice.”

Oh god…this is bad. I can’t consider this option, not even for a moment.

It’s fucking possession , by an ancient god no less, not something any sane person would agree to.

To have my body overtaken, shared with some eldritch being who could have any number of malevolent plans and motives… It’s irrational to say the least.

But maybe I’m not rational when it comes to Heathcliff.

Maybe I’m recklessly, ruthlessly devoted to him, so much so that I’ll do anything to make sure he survives.

He went into the darkness and dragged me out, knowing he might die in the process.

And I won’t let him sacrifice himself like this—I won’t. I refuse.

My existence is already difficult enough. If I allow him to die for me, it will be unbearable. I will wake up every day thinking about him, and I’ll dream of him all night long. I’ll live in a perpetual state of agonized mourning, until the day I finally die again.

He wouldn’t accept the misery of losing me, and yet he would put me through the pain of existing without him? No. No, Heathcliff .

He contributes something to the world. He saves people, rescues souls. And what do I do? I howl and scream about death. I can’t even fulfill my true purpose as a banshee. I’m practically useless. If either of us deserves to live, it’s him. Kind, strong, tender, protective, wonderful him.

My decision is made. But I need to do the smart thing and ask a couple of questions, just so I know what to expect.

“Will I be conscious?” I ask. “Will I be myself? Otherwise, letting you possess me would be as bad as dying.”

The Thing shifts its weight, its body creaking. “You will have both thought and sensation. And until our bond is complete, you may retain full control of the body. You will have stamina and strength beyond normal humans. Choose quickly. Three more breaths, and he is gone.”

I don’t have any more time to think about what I’m agreeing to. As far as I’m concerned, it’s done.

“Yes,” I gasp. “I consent. Do it. Save him, and take me.”

The tall creature shudders, and its form disintegrates. As the sticks fall apart and tumble to the ground, a thick, white mist surges from the center of the Thing and rushes toward me. It plunges straight between my parted lips, rocketing down my throat.

I can feel its presence instantly, like pale threads curling around my mind and heart, coiling along my spine, creeping through my bloodstream, settling against my bones.

The urge to mourn is entirely gone, and in its place is a beguiling sensation of warmth and strength. The exact opposite of what I’d expect from the god of death.

I rise smoothly to my feet, marveling at the healthy flush of my skin, despite the deprivation of the past week and a half. I’ve stopped shivering, and I barely feel the cold, even though some of the grass nearby is tipped with frost.

Heathcliff’s chest jerks as he inhales sharply. He coughs, mumbles something. He’s still unconscious, but he’s all right. He’ll recover.

And I feel amazing…for now. No amount of comfort can make me forget what the god said: Until our bond is complete, you may retain full control of the body.

Until then.

I’ll be damned if I give anything full control of me without a fight. I’ve spent my whole life developing the strength of will to subvert the banshee’s instinct, to control where I go and when. I can handle this—at least until I get some help.

I don’t know how long it’s been since Heathcliff killed those four men, but cops could arrive any minute. Heathcliff and I need to get away from here and find somewhere safe where he can recover and I can figure out what to do next.

I stare down at Heathcliff, chewing my lip. My muscles feel full and tight, packed with strength like the god promised. Tentatively, I lean down and slide my arms under Heathcliff’s body.

He’s shockingly easy to lift, so I shift him into a bridal carry and head toward the road, frosty grass crunching lightly beneath my bare feet. We probably look ridiculous—a slim girl like me carrying a tall, muscled guy like him.

Hindley’s truck is a ways down the road, skewed onto the gravel. I lay Heathcliff down for a second while I open the passenger side door. Then I check his pockets. The keys are there, but no phone, so I poke my head into the truck and find his phone sitting in the cupholder.

A sudden ripple of energy passes through my body, and there’s a tightening sensation around my spine and lungs. I freeze for a second and focus on breathing steadily. The feeling of the god’s presence inside me has intensified a fraction.

I don’t know how much time I’ve got.

Quickly, I turn on Heathcliff’s phone. He’s got it set to unlock with his face, so I hold it in front of him and it lets me in.

I know Daisy’s number by heart. I enter it quickly, press the green phone symbol, and wait.

Fuck, it’s like four in the morning. She’s not going to answer…

“Hello?” Her voice is unmistakable, smooth and clear and musical.