Cathy
With Hindley under control and Daisy occupied, Heathcliff and I can finally move down the aisle and rejoin the others. I’m a little pissed at him for holding me behind his back like that, but I guess it was his turn to protect me. Not gonna lie, it feels good to have someone take care of me for once. Doesn’t mean I can’t handle things myself most of the time—but sometimes, I really can’t. Sometimes, he gets to be my defender, and that’s okay. That’s what partners do.
I’ve never had a partner before. It’s fucking amazing.
Once Daisy has drunk enough of Hindley’s blood, she becomes herself again. “Sorry for the…you know,” she murmurs, wiping her bloody mouth on the back of her hand.
We all mumble that it’s fine. But if Gatsby hadn’t been there, I’m not sure it would have been fine at all.
None of us want to stay in that church and wait for the Lockwood gang to show up, so Nick and Cody tape Hindley’s wrists and ankles, and Dorian gives Edgar Linton a knife so he can saw through the duct tape for Aunt Nellie and my dad after we leave. That way they won’t be at the mercy of the Coosaw Lockwoods, who accordingto Heathcliff will probably arrive drunk off their asses and ready to burn buildings, with or without people inside them. It’s Samhain, after all.
As we’re walking out of the church, Heathcliff mutters, “You go ahead. I got something to say to Hindley.”
I nod and move on, though I’m curious about what he’ll say. His brother fooled him for weeks—longer, really. He hurt Heathcliff his entire life. Even if he wasn’t willing to kill him there at the end, those wounds don’t go away. It cuts deep when family treats you like that.
For my part, I’ve got nothing to say to Dad or Aunt Nellie. I don’t plan to speak another word to them ever again. I died right in front of them at the ritual, and now they are dead to me. I don’t need closure, nor do I owe them that gift. My heart has already written “the end” under their part of my story.
Walking out of Wicklow Heritage Chapelalivewithout a ride-along god in my head feels like a miracle. I gulp lungfuls of October air, and in the sunlight, I look down at my fingers. They’re wreathed with tiny scars, much paler and less noticeable than the big ones on my limbs and torso. But they’remyfingers. Not the god’s.
I am not his. I am my own.
A shiver skates over my body, raising goose bumps.
“You okay?” Baz squeezes my shoulders lightly. “Dumb question, right?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s okay to be messed up inside, especially by stuff like this.” She traces the toe of her boot through the gravel. “It sticks with you. You’ll need to talk about it. Lucky for people like us, with the supernatural sort of trauma, there’s a counselor at Gatsby’s. You two should come to Asheville. Hang out for a while, until you’re feelingmore…settled…about everything.”
It’s exactly the invitation I was hoping for. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Cool.”
She and I stand there while Gatsby, Daisy, Nick, and Cody climb into the Rivian. Dorian is holding the passenger door of the BMW for her.
“He’s such an old-fashioned gentleman in some ways,” she says, humor in her voice. “And in other ways, he’s sonot.”
I laugh quietly. It feels good, the humor, the almost-girl-talk, the we-could-be-friends vibe.
“Wanna ride with us?” Baz asks as Heathcliff comes bounding down the steps. His tanned face is flushed, his eyes bright with emotion he’s trying to suppress.
“What do you think?” I ask him. “Should we ride with them?”
“I’ll drive Hindley’s truck.” He holds up a wallet and his phone. “Forgot I left my phone in the lobby. And I grabbed my wallet out of those pants I left in the bathroom, so I have my driver’s license with me.” His gaze latches on to the truck, and a sudden shadow passes over his face. “You know what, never mind. I don’t want to drive that piece of shit anymore. I got my own truck, if y’all can drive us to pick it up.”
“Sure,” says Baz. “Hop in.”
We climb into the back of Dorian’s car, and Heathcliff directs him where to go.
I can’t describe the relief as both cars turn out of the church parking lot, onto the open road. About three minutes later, we pass two weathered pickups and an SUV full of people hollering and whooping out the windows, openly waving beer bottles around. Heathcliff hunches down in the back seat.
“Coosaw Lockwoods?” I ask, and he nods.
“Don’t worry, choirboy. Windows are tinted,” Dorian says.
“Good to know, ass-licker,” Heathcliff retorts.
“Ass-licker.” Dorian cocks his head, pondering. “I like it. It’s got that ring of truth to it, eh, Baz?”
