Cathy
Six months later
Heathcliff turns the truck off the main road, onto a narrower lane that tilts uphill. My stomach is full of butterflies, and I’m drinking in the scenery—pale birches, thick evergreens, slopes coated with scruffy blueberry bushes.
After a short climb through forested land, we break out of the trees onto a broad, flat hill. And there it is—a cabin, a huge barn, and a sprawl of rolling hills under a bright blue sky.
Tears spring to my eyes immediately, which surprises me a bit. I guess when the heart is full, the emotion has to spill over somehow, and for me, tears are the most familiar outlet.
I’m opening the door before Heathcliff has fully parked, and he yells out, alarmed, as I dive out and race across the grass to the lip of the hill, where it starts sloping down again. I spread my arms to the April wind, and it dries my tears, leaving only faint traces of salt and a sense of reckless joy.
Heathcliff turns off the truck, slams the door, and jogs up beside me.“Hell of a view, ain’t it? Gatsby says the cabin’s furnished and stocked—Daisy’s goodbye gift to us. Electricity should be all hooked up, and I got all the info for taking care of the well and the septic system—”
I grab the paper-stuffed binder he’s holding and drop it into the grass. Then I seize his hands and dance him around, through the wind, under the blue sky. “It’s ours, Heathcliff! It’s all ours!”
“Yeah, yeah,” he drawls, but he’s grinning. “How do you think two Southerners gonna fit in up here with the Canadians?”
“Just fine!” I shout. “We’re gonna fit in just fine, and who cares if we don’t, anyway? Not fitting in up here is a hell of a lot better than not fitting in with the folks of Wicklow or the damn Lockwoods, wouldn’t you say?”
“You got that right.”
I sober a little, catching the tinge of bitterness in his tone. “You heard from Hindley at all?”
“Nope. Don’t want to.”
“What did you say to him that day when you stayed behind? I never did ask.” Truthfully, it seemed like too sensitive a subject. But we have some distance from it now, both physical and emotional.
Heathcliff sighs. “Told him he was a mean son of a bitch, a loser, and an all-around dickwad. And…” He grimaces. “Told him I loved him anyway.”
“Oh god. What did he say?”
“Well, when I yanked the tape off his mouth, he spat in my face and called me something I ain’t gonna repeat, as it was goddamn homophobic.” He shakes his head. “Typical Hindley.”
“Well, he can’t bother us now. No one can, except Gatsby and the others, if they need us.”
“Doesn’t look like they will. It’s been quiet for half a year. No sign of Manannán or Cernunnos.”
“Except those two weird hurricanes,” I remind him. “And the floods that came out of nowhere, remember?”
“No one died, though. Coulda been climate change or some shit.”
“Could have been.” I doubt it, but I understand why Heathcliff is so determined to believe that the two gods aren’t going to be a problem—that Manannán is helpless without a pantheon and worshippers and that Cernunnos is still trapped in his own mind, his powers chained by Daisy’s voice.
Maybe Heathcliff is right. Maybe we’ll never have to deal with them again. But he told me what Meemaw Lockwood said about dormant powers awakening and lost magic resurfacing. That’s not something we can brush off like it’s nothing.
Or maybe wecan. Maybe we can leave all of that in the hands of Gatsby, Daisy, and their group. Maybe Heathcliff and I, the necromancer and the banshee, really can escape it all and live out our days in this stunning landscape, with a cute little town just half an hour away and a highway that could take us anywhere. Thanks to Gatsby’s advice, our business plan is solid, and we’ve always got Heathcliff’s necromancy talent in our back pocket if we need extra money.
More than all of that, we’ve got each other. Which is more than I ever hoped to have.
Heathcliff moves nearer, aligning his broad body with mine, cupping my face in his big hands. “You look sad now. I didn’t mean to bring you down.”
“Are you kidding?” I capture his hands and pop up on tiptoe to kiss him. “This is the best day of my life. Ain’t nothin’ gonna bring me down for long.” I twirl, dragging him with me.
“Get outta here with that Southern drawl, girl,” he says. “We gotta learn to say ‘eh’ and ‘aboot’ and ‘God save the queen’ and shit.”
“Plenty of time for that later. Why don’t you take me inside and I’ll make a few new sounds for you. I hear there’s a really comfy couch.”
Heathcliff crouches, wraps both arms around my thighs, and lifts me right off the ground while I squeal in mock protest. His strength returned to its usual levels shortly after the battle with the god, but the inner reserves are more accessible to him now—like a temporary bonus he can tap into as needed. Not gonna lie, it makes me feel safer.
