In the dim light, I exchange startled looks with Cathy.
“Those aren’t supposed to exist anymore,” Edgar says.
“I don’t know, son. I don’t have all the answers. And we can’t be sure if these folks are trying to resurrect the demon themselves or if they’re actually concerned about keeping him quiet.”
“But they talked toourpeople, not the Lockwoods. If anyone is working to resurrect the demon, it would be the Lockwoods,right?”
“The Lockwoods and the LeGares try this and that every few years, but those backwoods hicks can never get organized enough to do any real damage. They’re a bunch of drunken, inbred blowhards without the intelligence to go head-to-head with us. They’ve lost the knowledge of their ancestors. To be fair, we’ve lost a lot of knowledge, too. If there was a way to seal that tomb more effectively, to besurehe can’t rise…”
“I can do some research,” Edgar offers. “I’ve done plenty over the past four years, but there’s always more to learn. If you’d agree to broadening our research beyond Irish folklore, into other cultures—”
“The myths don’t mix,” the older Linton interrupts.
“There are similarities among myths across many nations,” Edgar says. “Mirrored stories with shared elements. Another culture might have helpful information on how to keep a demon buried, how to reinforce the original charms holding him down. If you’d just let me—”
“It’s late. Too late to get into all this,” his father says firmly. “Go let Judah out, and then get to bed.”
In the silence that follows, Cathy’s hand drops from my mouth. We’re in the shadows, but the light from the window illuminates her features enough for me to see her expression—puzzlement, concern, and a hint of guilt.
She thinks these people might be the good guys. But there’s no such thing as good guys—not here and maybe not anywhere. I have to tell her the truth about the leaders of Wicklow Chapel, so she can protect herself. But first, we’ve got to get out of here. I gesture for her to follow me as I head back across the lawn.
I’m nearly to the trees when a door opens. When I glance back, Cathy is running, fleeing the swath of yellow light. A dog barrelsfrom the doorway where Edgar’s slim frame stands silhouetted.
Cathy is racing toward me, her eyes frantic. She makes a leap for me, for the shadow of the forest, but then she screams. The dog’s jaws have latched onto her sneaker.
I grab the dog’s collar and pull it away, snarling, “Fuck off!” It growls, stiff-legged and threatening, but it seems to recognize I’m willing to do damage if it touches Cathy again.
I scoop her into my arms and run through the woods as fast as I dare. A few minutes of heart-pounding tension, and then we’re in the truck, speeding down the road.
“Did the dog get you at all?” I ask.
“Just ruined my shoe, I think. Even if he had, I heal faster than normal people.”
“Yeah…why is that, anyway?”
“Well, I’m descended from some old god, right? Some of its regenerative power must still be hanging around in my genes.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I grip the steering wheel harder. I’m stronger than any human male of my size should be, but I don’t have healing powers like she does. My tattoos cover more scars than most people realize.
Cathy’s taking off her sweater. Why is she taking off her sweater? Maybe she’s hot from running.
I cut another glance at her, liking the way her tank top hugs her breasts. She leans over, unlacing her sneaker, probably to check her ankle and make sure the dog’s teeth didn’t punch through to her skin. I glance down too, but her ankle is in shadow, and I can’t tell if there’s any damage. I try to focus on the road, but my gaze is magnetized by the curve of her neck, the little bumps of bone along her spine, the soft tumble of her curly, brown hair.
“Eyes forward, Heathcliff,” she snaps, and I whip my attentionback to the road just in time to brake and turn for a sharp curve.
“Honestly. Men.” She scoffs a little and rolls down the window a crack, angling her face toward the cool air. “So about what we heard back there… Are you Lockwoods trying to raise the god under Old Sheldon Church?”
She says it so matter-of-factly, like every word of that sentence is normal.
No use pretending I haven’t heard stories of the god trapped under the church. I’m familiar with the legend, and I’ve heard the Coosaw Lockwoods talk about stirring him up. Apparently folks have tried, in each generation, but the magical barrier keeps out everyone with a drop of Lockwood blood.
“Are they trying to resurrect the god?” Cathy persists.
“Nope.”
“You said the church leaders like Pastor Linton kill supernaturals. But they don’t sound like murderers. I think they’re decent people. Weirdly religious, sure…but decent. Don’t you think so?”
“No.”
