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“Daisy.” My voice cracks, so I swallow and try again. “It’s Cathy Earnshaw, from Wicklow. The—the girl who had a weird reaction to your voice.”

“Oh! Oh my god, I’m so glad you called! You sound scared—don’t be scared, okay? I’ll be careful about the tone I use.”

“That’s the least of my worries right now. I was sacrificed to the god last night.”

“You what ?”

“The church at Wicklow. They sacrificed me to Cernunnos. And Heathcliff—he’s my…

He’s… Well, I love him, and he brought me back.

He’s a necromancer. And then he almost died, but Cernunnos said he could save him, so I made a bargain and Heathcliff’s okay, but I think the god is inside me—I know he’s inside me.

He’s taking over slowly, and I don’t know what to do. Oh, and I’m a banshee.”

“Oh. Oh god, that’s a new one.” Daisy’s voice sounds a little breathless but firm. “Okay, we’re coming to help you. We’re leaving right now.”

A man speaks, his voice like warm velvet. “Cathy, this is Jay Gatsby. Where are you right now?”

“I’m near Old Sheldon Church.”

“You need to find somewhere safe to go. Somewhere no one will think to look for you. Do you know a place like that?”

My brain races through the options. I can’t go to Aunt Nellie’s, Dad’s, or the store. I don’t trust the Lockwoods, so I couldn’t go there even if I knew where Heathcliff lives.

There’s one place where no one will be in the wee hours of a Monday morning. The very last place where I would willingly go.

Wicklow Heritage Chapel.

Yes . There’s eager assent from the god inside me, a nudge toward that choice. The faint, heated glee of impending vengeance. Cernunnos wants to go there, and not for any good reason.

In the end, I’m not sure who decides—me or him.

“Wicklow Heritage Chapel,” I tell Gatsby. “Meet me there.”

“On our way,” he replies.

“Cathy.” It’s Daisy’s voice again. “You can do this. We’ll get there as fast as we can, but until we do, I want you to know that you’re going to be all right. You’re smart, and you’re strong, and you’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” I whisper. “Hurry.”

I end the call, tuck Heathcliff’s phone back into the cupholder, and lift him into the car. Once I’ve got all his limbs arranged and his seat belt on, I slam the door, hop into the driver’s side, and start the engine.

Thank god Dad taught me to drive both manual and stick-shift. I’m not very good, since he rarely lets me drive his car, but I can manage.

I’ve got this.

I put the truck in gear and press the gas pedal, angling the vehicle onto the empty road. There’s a flare of interest in my mind, fascination with the truck and the way I’m driving it. I can feel the god’s intensity as he drinks in the information.

“They didn’t have cars back when you were awake,” I comment aloud.

No , he responds.

It’s so weird to have another voice in my head besides my regular thought-voice. He’s not raspy now; his voice is rich, deep, and dark. Like the most bitter chocolate, melted.

Part of me is revolted and terrified, doesn’t want to acknowledge him at all in case it speeds up the formation of our “bond.” But another, sneakier part of me wants to engage, to learn about him, because information is power, and I need every bit of power I can get.

“Were you aware of cars or anything else where you were…beneath?” I ask.

Somewhat. I had some knowledge of your machines, your language, your attire. Many people visited my resting place, and I gleaned from them in the moments when I was most lucid.

“People coming to take Instagram photos with Old Sheldon Church,” I say dryly.

Instagram? I’ve heard that word, but I don’t understand it.

“Think of it as a series of beautiful moments, some captured naturally and some created, like art.”

Your kind can manipulate time?

“No. Moments captured as images. Sometimes the images move, and sometimes there’s music—”

Music? His interest perks immediately.

“You like music?”

Yes. I did not get to hear much of it Below. Only the hymns that hurt me or the scraps of other melodies.

“Music has changed quite a bit from when you walked the world.” I reach for the radio and turn it on.

Looks like the radio unit was a custom install, probably an upgrade Hindley added.

It must be synced to Heathcliff’s phone because the readout says “Recovery Playlist.” I skip through a couple songs until I see Blue Oyster Cult’s name pop up, and I pause to listen.

When “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” starts playing, I crank that shit up and press harder on the gas, sailing along the road away from Old Sheldon Church.

My heart swells with a kind of raw, bitter triumph, and I feel my face stretching in a smile that would probably look terrifying to anyone else.

Blood is dried on my neck and shoulder, and I’m wearing the thin, bloodstained gown from last night, and I’ve got an eldritch god riding in my rib cage—but I’m here.

I’m alive, and Heathcliff is alive, and we have friends who are coming to help us.

Daisy was right. I’ve got this.

Cernunnos’s presence inside me surges, tightens against my bones. Something about the rhythm or the resonance is making him stronger. Which is not what I want right now, so I turn the radio off and grip the steering wheel again.

A few seconds later, my hand moves toward the radio’s power button and punches it, turning the music back on.

Fuck.

I did not do that. The god did.

I’m terrified. The terror hovers at the edges of my thoughts, a gibbering, shrieking, incapacitating fear that will grip my mind if I let it and send me right over the edge into madness. And then it will be easy for Cernunnos to take over.

I can’t give in to that fear, that hollow horror. If I think too deeply about what has happened to me in the last twenty-four hours, I’ll break. I need another emotion—rage, dark humor, sheer fucking stubbornness.

I can do that. I can be obstinate and sarcastic and angry. I will fill myself up with all those emotions until there is no room for fear.

Apparently my first battle of wills with Cernunnos is going to be about music. Fine by me.

I shut the music off. And this time, when the god tries to control my arm and play it again, I resist. I fight the impulse, just like I’ve fought my banshee instincts since I was sixteen.

Cernunnos pushes back, and I have to grip the steering wheel tightly to avoid reaching for the radio, but I manage to hold him at bay. Eventually the pressure of his will eases, and I feel a trickle of wry amusement in my mind. He’s letting me have my way—for now.

I’ve been so intent on fighting him that I didn’t pay enough attention to the road. I think I’ve gone past a turn I was supposed to take. The question is, should I do a U-turn, or can I cut over to Chapel Road from the next street?

From the passenger seat, Heathcliff mumbles, “Take a left on Azalea.”

“Heathcliff!” I scream his name, accidentally swerving the truck.

“Easy, Cathy!” he exclaims. “Shit!”

It worked, it actually worked, and he’s here , he’s back with me. Even in my joy and relief, I still feel the horror of his impending death and what I did to prevent it.

But all I say is, “You’re awake, thank god.”

“Want to tell me why I’m awake?”

I swallow and shrug. “I guess you weren’t as far gone as you thought.”

“Catherine. Don’t lie to me. I know exactly how far gone I was.

And even if I managed not to die, I’d be comatose for a lot longer than—” He leans over to check the dashboard clock.

“Half an hour. I’d be in recovery for hours, if not days, but I feel totally fine.

You hiding some kind of healing power you haven’t told me about? ”

“Yeah, let’s talk about hiding powers from each other,” I say. “You didn’t think it might be a good idea to tell me you’re a fucking necromancer?”

“You didn’t need to know.”

“The tattoos had something to do with it, didn’t they? Matching tattoos, for ‘protection,’ you said.”

“You’re smart,” he replies. “I love that about you. But I’m smart too, Princess, and I know you’re trying to distract me. Answer the question: How am I alive?”

Again the tightening sensation grips my insides, and I shiver. “I can’t tell you. Not yet. Not until we get where we’re going.”

“Which is?”

“Wicklow Heritage Chapel.”

“Oh, hell no,” Heathcliff says.

“It’s fine. No one will be there this early on a Monday morning.

We just need to lay low there until Daisy and Gatsby arrive—you know, those people I told you about, who visited Aunt Nellie’s store asking about buried gods.

I called them, and they’re coming to help me with…

um—” I break off the sentence, biting my lip hard.

Now that Heathcliff’s awake, it’s somehow harder to stay strong and fend off the panic.

When I’m alone, I can handle pain. I can deal with huge, excruciating emotions.

But when he’s there, asking about me in that rough, low voice of his, I just want to throw myself against his chest and hide my face until everything is over.

He is your weakness , comments the god.

“Shut up,” I say aloud.

“I didn’t say anything,” Heathcliff answers. “Cathy, pull over and talk to me.”

“No.” I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Just guide me to the church, okay? Once we’re inside, I’ll explain everything, I promise.”

“And you’re sure no one will be there?”

“I’m sure. There’s no prayer, Bible study, or confession time on Mondays. And Pastor Linton always did his sermon preparation at home, where his books are. Pretty sure Edgar will do the same.”

Edgar’s name triggers an image in my mind—the broken silhouette of the church, golden lanterns, the dark forest, and Edgar, with his halo of blond hair, euphoric and fervent, standing over me and eloquently condemning me to death.

My fingers turn lax, slipping from the wheel.

But before the truck can swerve, a steadying impulse rises inside me, strength coursing along my arms to my fingers.

We will have revenge on them all. Cernunnos’s deep voice echoes in my mind. Until then, hold true.

I hate that flow of unnatural strength. Over the past several years, I’ve fought to keep my entire life from being swallowed by my banshee nature.

I managed to work around it, live with it, even exert some measure of control over it.

I won’t give that up for an existence as the sidecar passenger to an ancient deity.

“I don’t want your help,” I seethe.

“Cathy.” Heathcliff’s large, warm hand slides over my right one, and instantly my body relaxes. His strength is wholesome, honest, and true.

I glance at him, my eyes filling with tears, and he looks back at me, his handsome face taut with concern. I don’t know if I can bear confessing to him that he might lose me again.

“Let’s just get to the church,” I whisper. “And then I’ll tell you everything.”