Page 53

Heathcliff

Cathy’s dad and aunt show up about fifteen minutes later.

Doesn’t take me more than a few seconds to get Mr. Earnshaw under control and tape his wrists, mouth, and ankles.

Then I pick him up like he weighs nothing, even though he’s about the same size as Hindley, and I carry him over to Nick, the redheaded vampire, while Dorian and Baz subdue Aunt Nellie.

We tape their mouths so they can’t scream, and when I feel a twinge of pity, I picture them standing there, watching Cathy’s throat being cut. Fixes my guilt right up.

It’s funny how quick you can get used to things during a crisis.

After watching Cathy get dismembered by a god and reassembled afterward, seeing Nick’s freckled face pressed into the crook of Mr. Earnshaw’s neck, sucking his blood, doesn’t seem so shocking.

But it’s still strange as hell watching the vampires’ wounds closing and their shattered bones clicking back into place as they drink.

Cathy doesn’t explain anything to either her aunt or her dad.

She’s wearing a pair of faded, stretchy leggings and an oversized T-shirt that Baz found downstairs in some donation bin.

She stands there, arms folded, watching her relatives struggle while the vampires drink.

I notice her fingertips fumbling along the seams of her new scars.

They don’t bother me a bit, but they seem to make her self-conscious, and I hate that. She’s been so strong.

While I hold Mr. Earnshaw still for Nick, I glance over at Daisy. She’s been locked in a low, one-sided conversation with Cernunnos’s new form for a long while now.

“Think she’s okay?” I ask Baz.

She shrugs. “Dorian and I haven’t been part of this group very long.

I don’t know everything about Daisy’s powers.

But I do know she once got deep inside the head of this older vampire—really messed him up.

Made him pretty much catatonic. He’s still locked up in Gatsby’s dungeon, and he’s got just enough brain function to take care of himself, nothing more.

Maybe that’s what she’s doing to Cernunnos. Locking him down.”

“Can she do that to a god?”

“I guess we’ll see. Maybe she wants to be really sure he’s contained, and that’s why she’s taking so long. I hope it works.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Cody lifts his head from Aunt Nellie’s neck, smiles, then takes another long pull at her vein. He licks the wound afterward.

“They lick it to heal the punctures,” Baz explains. “Their saliva has some healing properties. Can’t heal deep injuries, though…or scars.”

She says “scars” quietly, but Cathy still flinches and tightens her arms around herself. After a second she walks away, up the aisle. She turns left when she reaches the platform and disappears through the door that leads to the back room.

“You good?” I ask Nick, and he nods. He’s a skinny guy, but now that he’s had some blood, his vampire strength is returning. He can handle Mr. Earnshaw.

I jump up and head to the back room. At first I don’t see Cathy at all. Then I locate her, wedged into a corner beside a rack of hymnals, curled into a ball, sobbing.

“Cathy.” I kneel down and keep my voice as gentle as I can. “Can I help? Is it okay if I touch you?”

“God, always,” she chokes out, and she lunges into my arms.

I hold her head close to my chest with one hand and wrap my other arm around her while she cries. I’m wearing cast-off clothes now, too—gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that hugs me way too tight and has a big wet spot from Cathy’s tears. But she’s here with me, and that’s all that matters.

I duck my head and inhale against her tangled brown hair.

She smells like midnight, the winter kind where you walk out under the stars and the cold is so sharp it stings, but the air is fresh, too, so you can’t help inhaling again.

It’s the smell of darkness, and cold, and death.

Beyond that, she smells a little bit like the soap from dispensers in the woman’s bathroom.

There’s a bitter coppery smell, too. And then, underneath it all, as I nuzzle deeper into her hair, she smells like Cathy.

Honey and magnolias, green leaves and wild summer.

“Are you smelling me?” she asks.

“You bet your ass I am. You smell sexy as hell.”

She mumbles something, and all I catch is the word scars .

“I got scars, too,” I tell her quietly. “Yours just mean you were strong enough. Not even a god could keep you down.”

She hiccups a laugh. “But they look awful.”

“Nah. They’re badass. But hey, if you ever want to cover them up, I know a few good tattoo artists.”

She lifts her head, brightening. “Tattoos. I could be good with that.”

“Yeah? Okay then. We’ll get it done. On second thought, though, maybe we shouldn’t do it around here. Maybe we wait until we get wherever we’re going? If you still want to leave Wicklow, that is.”

“Leave Wicklow? Fuck yes.” She brushes her brown curls out of her eyes. “We’re not just leaving Wicklow—we’re gonna leave the damn state, maybe even the damn country.”

“That can be endgame, but we’ll need passports first. Maybe we can stay with this bunch”—I jerk my head in the direction of the sanctuary—“until we get the passports, and then we hightail it down to Mexico.”

Cathy winces, shakes her head. “I was thinking Canada. Less humidity, no swampy areas or roaches like in South Carolina. Cold weather, big open spaces. Huge stretches of forest where no one lives. If I’m far enough from people, I won’t have to mourn anyone.

We can travel a bit, too, north to the tundra, west to the plains—anywhere we have room to roam. ”

“You and me living in a cabin, middle of nowhere,” I muse. “I like it. Maybe I’ll start my own brewery. Small at first, see where it goes.”

Cathy’s eyes light up. “I’ll help with the marketing. Take pictures, set up the website, create an Instagram account—”

“Make a business out of it. Hell yeah. And I can do some resurrections on the side to fund the startup costs. Already got a chunk of change waiting for us on Hindley’s property. Speaking of which…aw, fuck.”

Hindley. I haven’t thought about him since our phone call got cut off. I have no idea whether he’s dead or alive. And no idea where Ian Holcum went. He could still be passed out, or he could be out walking around, itching to cause more trouble.

“If you can manage it, we need to go. That sick-ass jerkwad who set this whole thing up is still unaccounted for, and that makes me nervous.”

“Same.” She shudders a little.

We get up, hand in hand, and walk out into the sanctuary.

I pause by the platform, taking stock of the group.

Dorian is lounging with his legs kicked over a pew while Baz feeds Gatsby a little of her blood.

Cody’s got a hand wrapped around the back of Nick’s neck and they’re talking quietly, foreheads pressed together.

Aunt Nellie, Edgar, and Mr. Earnshaw are duct-taped at the mouths, wrists, and ankles, lying on padded pews since they’re done serving as blood bags.

And Daisy…she’s still holding Cernunnos’s face, eye-locked with him, murmuring words none of us can hear.

I’m opening my mouth to get everyone’s attention, to explain about Ian—when the motherfucker himself strides into the church.

Dorian scrambles upright.

“The fuck?” he gasps. “Lloyd-Henry?”

“Lloyd-what?” I exclaim. “He’s Ian Holcum, a Gancanagh and a shapeshifter, and he’s the one responsible for all this.”

Ian’s gaze fixes on me, and he lifts his eyebrows.

“You figured it out. Well done. I’ll admit, I underestimated you.

Hindley told me you weren’t very clever—‘dumb as balls,’ isn’t that how you put it?

” He glances over his right shoulder just as Hindley steps in beside him, holding his favorite shotgun.

“That’s right.” Hindley spits on the sanctuary threshold. “Dumb as fuckin’ balls.”

“Such a delicate turn of phrase.” Ian—or Lloyd or whoever he is—chuckles.

Gatsby climbs to his feet. There’s no hole through his middle now, but from the back I can see his spine and a lot of red muscle. He’s nowhere near fully healed.

“Lloyd-Henry Woodson,” he says quietly. “So this is your doing.”

Lloyd-Henry raises a cautionary hand. “Now before you start getting all riled up, I didn’t come here to fight.

Baz understands, don’t you, love? Yes, she knows I don’t enjoy violence or confrontations.

I’m simply here to collect Cernunnos. I assume that’s him?

” He points to the tall, dark-haired man.

Daisy has finally stopped speaking to him, and Cernunnos stares around vacantly, confused.

“Well now, that’s not very nice.” Lloyd clicks his tongue. “Daisy, Daisy, what have you done to him, you interfering little cunt?”

Gatsby lurches forward, but he wobbles and Baz has to steady him.

“Nasty wound there, Jay,” Lloyd says. “Might want to wait a bit before you try to defend your lady’s honor.”

“We welcomed you as a friend when you visited us in Asheville.” Gatsby’s tone is low and menacing. “I showed you—fuck, I showed you everything .”

“Not at first.” Lloyd gives him a tight smile.

“I had to work on you awhile, longer than I expected, because of her .” He nods to Daisy.

“Her voice doesn’t work on me, and I can’t seem to influence her—due to the similarities in our powers, I assume.

Her resistance delayed me, and things in Charleston did not go smoothly because of it. ”

“Because I shot you,” Dorian puts in. “Did that fucking house resurrect you?”

“No, that was my good friend Hindley. The entire Lockwood clan have been my friends and allies for a long time. Well, except for you, Heathcliff. Couldn’t trust you, as an outsider. And the old lady had to be kept out of the loop—she knew too much about me due to our past encounters.”

He’s talking about Meemaw. He must be the Gancanagh she knew back in New Orleans.