“I’ve made it back in worse shape than this,” I say, more to myself than to my nameless companion, whom I’m fairly sure my brain invented to help me through the trauma of this episode.
Heavy footfalls in the leaves. Sudden heat warms my back, and then a pair of sinewy arms scoops me up, muscles bunching beneath crisp shirtsleeves. The rich scent of sandalwood and amber.
My brows pinch together as I drag his name out of the recesses of my traumatized brain. “Heathcliff.”
“Earnshaw,” his deep voice replies.
“Youfollowedme?” I conjure up scant memories of someone removing my sandals after I twisted my ankle, someone helping me across the stream. “How long was I—”
“Let’s see… The service started at eleven, and it’s a little after midnight now, so…thirteen hours. Not gonna lie, I’m starving and thirsty myself. I couldn’t leave, though. Didn’t want to lose track of you.”
The bloody remnants of my heart seal themselves back together at those words.
No one has ever come with me or even offered to follow me. After my first couple of episodes, my parents just let me run off and go through the agony, knowing I’d come crawling back eventually, when it was finished. After my episodes, Mom would give me water,aspirin, and food. She’d help me change and clean up. These days, Dad just hands me a water bottle and leaves me to recover on my own.
No one has ever cared enough to go through this hell with me.
If I still had tears, I think I’d cry again.
But even though I’m touched, I’m suspicious, too. Dad says the Lockwoods are bad news—pagans of the old way, through and through. Demon-worshippers. And though my dad has myriad faults, I’ve never known him to lie about the supernatural world. If he says the Lockwoods are dangerous, they are.
And one of them knows my secret now. He could use it against me. If Heathcliff outs me to the town or to the church, my dad will lose his place as a deacon, and he’ll lose his real estate clients. I’d probably have to quit working for Aunt Nellie as well. Right now, she thinks I suffer from migraines and that I’m prone to focal seizures. It’s the excuse I’ve given her for any sudden strangeness or random absences from work. If she knew the real reason, she’d bail on me, like everyone does.
I can’t risk Heathcliff telling anyone about this, so I need to tread carefully here. Not easy with my brain fractured by weariness and my body one massive lump of pain.
Heathcliff strides through the woods with me in his arms. With one hand he holds his phone, angled to shed light over the ground so he doesn’t trip.
When I’m wandering, I usually move slowly, in circles. Since we’re walking in a straight line, it shouldn’t take us nearly as long to get home as it did to get out here.
“You want to head slightly more to the right,” I tell him.
He scoffs, as if he can hardly believe I’m a supernatural GPS, but he makes the adjustment.
“I’m sorry you had to witness all that,” I venture. “I know it’sloud and gross.” Ofcoursethe hot guy I hooked up with had to see me when my face was glazed with snot and tears. Because that’s just how my life goes.
“It was loud,” he admits. “And intense.” He strides on for a few minutes before adding, “So you do this often, and you talked about mourning…you said it’s supernatural…which means you’re a banshee.”
He says it so simply. No dramatic shift in tone, no fear.
So I reply just as succinctly. “Yeah.”
“How’s that work?”
I suck on my cracked lower lip, unsure how to respond. His casual use of the wordbansheemeans he’s at least somewhat familiar with supernatural ancestry, specifically the kind that has influenced this area for generations. My dad, the deacons, and Pastor Linton are the most recent warriors in a long crusade not just to keep one god buried but to destroy every last vestige of old magic. According to Dad, the Lockwoods have always been on the opposite side of that effort, advocating for a resurgence of ancestral worship and the old ways. It makes sense that Heathcliff would have some knowledge of the topic. But how much does he know? How much can I tell him?
It was a mistake to fuck this guy. He’s pretty much stalking me now, showing up at church, following me into the woods. And now he knows my secret.
How am I going to get out of this?
“I’m guessing your dad knows what you are,” Heathcliff says matter-of-factly. “But you’ve managed to keep it hidden from everyone else or explain it away.”
He is scarily perceptive. “Aunt Nellie thinks I occasionally have hallucinations or seizures. Between that rumor and my reputation as the congregation’s snarky rebel, people interpret my behavior theway they want to—which is usually light-years from the truth.”
“So what triggers these bouts of screaming and crying? Death, right? All death or certain ones?”
Maybe it’s the powerful flex of his arms around me, the heat of his chest, or the steady way he strides through the chilly darkness. Maybe it’s the fact that I always feel fragile and wrung-out after an episode or the relief that I don’t have to stagger home alone this time. My hold on the secret relaxes, and I start to speak, slowly and hoarsely through my weary throat.
“Usually I mourn the death of people in established families, folks who have lived in this region a long time. There’s a radius to my ability, though I’ve never been exactly sure of its boundary. But even if I’m in another state, I can be triggered by people in large crowds, especially those with significant Irish ancestry.”
