Page 45

Heathcliff

It’s not hard to break into Wicklow Heritage Chapel. The locks are a joke against my strength—and Cathy’s, apparently. She turns on the lights but adjusts them to the lowest setting, so the place is gloomy. She’s light-sensitive sometimes, I’ve noticed.

We sit on the back pew where we sat that first Sunday.

Cathy’s pretty face is salt white, her brown hair creating a cloud of wild curls as it dries.

She’s fidgeting with the hem of the flimsy, white dress.

The bloodstain along the neck and shoulder is freaking me out even worse than the Rockford murder scene.

She tells me everything.

When she’s done, I don’t move or speak. I’m processing. Might take a while.

I would believe her anyway, but the fact that I’m sitting here, feeling rested and whole when I should be dead or worse, is more than enough proof. Supernatural intervention is the only way to explain it. The god brought me back—in exchange for crawling inside Cathy’s body.

A haze of red rage burns behind my eyes, and I’m breathing fast even though I’m trying to stay calm.

“Cathy,” I begin, trying to keep my voice calm, “what you did—”

“I didn’t have a choice,” she interjects.

“You called me an idiot for saving you,” I point out. “All I gave up was my life. You’re giving up your will, Cathy, signing up for god knows what…literally.”

“That’s not funny.” But there’s a hysterical glimmer of amusement in her eyes, and her mouth twitches.

“Let’s lay this all out.” I clear my throat and poke the cushioned seat of the pew for emphasis like I’m showing her parts of a blueprint.

“The cult thought sacrificing you would keep the god down forever, which is bogus because any Lockwood knows that blood resurrects things. But the Wicklow congregation believed what some shady stranger told them. I don’t think you ever mentioned his name… ”

“Ian Holcum,” Cathy says.

My body erupts into goose bumps.

Ian Holcum, the coma guy from the Lockwood mansion.

He’s been sound asleep at the Grange, but he has also been up and about, the sneaky bastard.

He’s been coming into Wicklow and talking to the members of the church, brainwashing them to do what he wants.

He’s been listening when I thought he was asleep.

That’s how he knew all about my powers and how I need to recover afterward.

That’s how he knew about my connection with Cathy.

“Heathcliff, what is it?” Cathy’s slim fingers slide over mine.

“I know the fucker.”

She gapes. “How?”

Quickly I explain. “I swear he’s been truly unconscious most of the times when I checked on him. I knew something was off about him, but I didn’t think he was a threat—at least, not like this.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” she says. “How could he get in and out of the house without you or Hindley seeing him? How did you never notice he was gone?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. My body may be strong as ever, but my brain isn’t working as fast as I’d like.

“Hindley never checked on him…not that I saw, anyway,” I say slowly.

“It was mostly me, and I checked maybe once a day, usually in the late afternoon or early morning. And there were a few days I didn’t look in his room at all, when I was extra tired after a resurrection.

When Hindley and I aren’t at the brewery, we’re in the living room or in our own rooms. He could have slipped past us either way.

Besides, there’s a window in that guest room.

I boarded it up yesterday, but maybe he’s been climbing out…

” My voice drops as I remember the black feather I found.

“Motherfucker. I saw him shift into a stag once. I’ll bet he can shift into a bird, too.

A crow, most likely. Could’ve flown right out. ”

“Heathcliff.” Cathy’s forehead wrinkles with concern, like she’s doubting my sanity. “People can’t turn into crows.”

“There are supernaturals who can shapeshift. Like the púca.”

“Pooka? Sounds made up.”

“Yeah. But then again, you’re asking me to believe that while we were in the Vague, a god decided to grab hold and ride out with us for some reason.”

Cathy cocks her head for a second, her eyes distant, like she’s listening to something.

“Cernunnos says the sacrifice was meant to raise him. But he didn’t rise right away because there was deeper spellwork in place to suppress him…

more than was laid on the graves of most other gods.

The other Tuatha Dé Danann laid those bonds upon him because they hated him. ”

“Can I join their club?” I growl. “And tell him to stop fucking talking. You and I are having a conversation.”

“He knows things that could help us understand this. Maybe he knows about the púca thingie—”

“Cathy!” I grab her hands. “We’ll talk about folklore later. Right now, we gotta face the facts, baby, because it’s looking like I brought a homicidal púca back from death and you gave your body to an eldritch god, so we’re both seriously fucked, okay?”

“But Gatsby and Daisy—”

“They sound great, but what do we know about them? What can they do about this? They’re more than three hours away, longer with traffic. How far gone are you going to be by then?”

“I don’t know,” she says quietly.

“Well, you fight it,” I grit out. “You fight that bastard, and meanwhile, I’ll…” I rise from the pew, fists clenched. “I’ll do something . I’ll figure something out.”

Cathy rises, too, a wistful smile on her face. “I am fighting. And I won’t stop. But there’s nothing you can do to fix this. You’ve already given me everything.”

She slips her arms around my waist and moves close, leaning her head on my chest. I wrap her up and hold her tight. There’s more strength in her grip than I expected—the god’s strength.

I have her here with me. But she’s still not free, and it’s my fault. My throat tightens, tears stinging my eyes. I refuse to let those tears out, though. Last thing she needs is me losing my shit.

“Dry clothes,” I say abruptly.

Cathy leans back and quirks an eyebrow at me.

“We’re both covered in mud and blood. There’s gotta be something else around here—a giveaway bin of clothes, maybe some choir robes. I’ll check, and you can go get cleaned up.”

Cathy looks down at herself. “Yes. I’m definitely on board with that.”

I decide to go through a door to the left of the pulpit platform and snoop around.

There’re a couple narrow rooms back there, on each side of the baptistry, and sure enough, one of them has a bunch of the choir robes I saw people wearing when I visited.

They’re a weird plum color, and the buttons only go down to the waist, but I’d rather Gatsby and the others see Cathy in that than the transparent tissue of a dress she’s wearing.

Plus she’ll be warmer, drier, and more comfortable.

After grabbing two choir robes that look about the right size for us, I head to the women’s restroom in the lobby.

I don’t know what I expected to see, but it sure wasn’t a nude Cathy standing in front of the sink, wiping dried blood off her neck with a wet paper towel.

“The rain didn’t wash it all off.” There’s a tremor in her voice, tragedy in her eyes.

It’s starting to really register—what those bastards did to her.

Her town, her church. Her own family. She’s hurting.

But at the same time, she’s so goddamn beautiful—the curve of her spine flowing into the roundness of her ass cheeks, the slope of her stomach down to her pussy, her long legs.

Shit, I’m being an asshole. An asshole .

I will not get a fucking hard-on. This is not the time, Heathcliff, you selfish bastard. Not the time.

“Here.” I hold out the choir robe stiffly.

She gives me a pitiful little frown. “I could use a hug.”

If she hugs me, she’ll feel how hard I am. She’ll know what a horny ass I can be at the worst times. “No hugs.”

“Okay.” She sighs, turns toward me, and lifts her arms, gathering her hair up, twisting it, then letting it fall down her back. Which leaves her tits on full display.

Jaw clenched, I look away.

“If you won’t give me a hug,” Cathy says softly, moving nearer, “will you give me something else?”

“Clothes.” I wave the choir robe a little, still looking away from her.

“Heathcliff.” She’s in front of me now, gathering the damp, grimy fabric of my T-shirt in her hands.

“Heathcliff, I don’t know if I’m going to be myself a day from now, let alone an hour from now.

I have this feeling, this itching in my bones, this crawling sensation under my skin—it’s the banshee, Heathcliff. ”

“A death prediction?”

“I can’t be sure, but I feel unsettled. Like the god is rearranging my insides, and it’s uncomfortable.

” Her palms stroke my pectorals. “My dad and Aunt Nellie—they killed me, by intent if not with their own hands. And there’s a god in my head, and the banshee squirming under my skin.

” Her whole body gives a violent shudder.

“I’m brimming with horror and unease and wretchedness, Heathcliff, and I need to feel something else . Something good.”

I bite back a groan as my dick jumps, pressing against my pants. “What about him ? Cernunnos? If we do this, he’s going to watch.”

Cathy’s slender fingers cup the back of my neck, and she gives me a fierce, reckless look. “Let him watch. We’ll pretend he doesn’t exist.”

Her face quivers right after she says it, and I suspect Cernunnos said something to her.

But the next second, she tightens her grip on my neck, her expression resolute.

“Come on, Heathcliff,” she urges. And then, with a sudden, malevolent smile, “Haven’t you ever wanted to fuck a girl in a church sanctuary? ”

She’s for real about this. Utterly serious. This is what she wants, what she needs , just like she needed me the day I delivered the beer to her aunt Nellie’s store.

I kiss her lightly on the mouth, then set my cheek against hers and feel her tremble with anticipation at my low voice in her ear. “As a matter of fact, I have had a fantasy or two of that nature. Let me get myself cleaned up real quick, and then we’ll see what we can do to defile this place.”