“They didn’t have cars back when you were awake,” I comment aloud.
No, he responds.
It’s so weird to have another voice in my head besides my regular thought-voice. He’s not raspy now; his voice is rich, deep, and dark. Like the most bitter chocolate, melted.
Part of me is revolted and terrified, doesn’t want to acknowledge him at all in case it speeds up the formation of our “bond.” But another, sneakier part of me wants to engage, to learn about him, because information is power, and I need every bit of power I can get.
“Were you aware of cars or anything else where you were…beneath?” I ask.
Somewhat. I had some knowledge of your machines, your language, your attire. Many people visited my resting place, and I gleaned from them in the moments when I was most lucid.
“People coming to take Instagram photos with Old Sheldon Church,” I say dryly.
Instagram? I’ve heard that word, but I don’t understand it.
“Think of it as a series of beautiful moments, some captured naturally and some created, like art.”
Your kind can manipulate time?
“No. Moments captured as images. Sometimes the images move, and sometimes there’s music—”
Music?His interest perks immediately.
“You like music?”
Yes. I did not get to hear much of it Below. Only the hymns that hurt me or the scraps of other melodies.
“Music has changed quite a bit from when you walked the world.” I reach for the radio and turn it on. Looks like the radio unit was a custom install, probably an upgrade Hindley added. It must be synced to Heathcliff’s phone because the readout says “Recovery Playlist.” I skip through a couple songs until I see Blue Oyster Cult’s name pop up, and I pause to listen. When “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” starts playing, I crank that shit up and press harder on the gas, sailing along the road away from Old Sheldon Church.
My heart swells with a kind of raw, bitter triumph, and I feel my face stretching in a smile that would probably look terrifying to anyone else. Blood is dried on my neck and shoulder, and I’m wearing the thin, bloodstained gown from last night, and I’ve got an eldritch god riding in my rib cage—but I’m here. I’m alive, and Heathcliff is alive, and we have friends who are coming to help us.
Daisy was right. I’ve got this.
Cernunnos’s presence inside me surges, tightens against my bones. Something about the rhythm or the resonance is making him stronger. Which is not what I want right now, so I turn the radio off and grip the steering wheel again.
A few seconds later, my hand moves toward the radio’s power button and punches it, turning the music back on.
Fuck.
I did not do that. The god did.
I’m terrified. The terror hovers at the edges of my thoughts, a gibbering, shrieking, incapacitating fear that will grip my mind if I let it and send me right over the edge into madness. And then it will be easy for Cernunnos to take over.
I can’t give in to that fear, that hollow horror. If I think too deeply about what has happened to me in the last twenty-four hours, I’ll break. I need another emotion—rage, dark humor, sheer fucking stubbornness.
I can do that. I can be obstinate and sarcastic and angry. I will fill myself up with all those emotions until there is no room for fear.
Apparently my first battle of wills with Cernunnos is going to be about music. Fine by me.
I shut the music off. And this time, when the god tries to control my arm and play it again, I resist. I fight the impulse, just like I’ve fought my banshee instincts since I was sixteen.
Cernunnos pushes back, and I have to grip the steering wheel tightly to avoid reaching for the radio, but I manage to hold him at bay. Eventually the pressure of his will eases, and I feel a trickle of wry amusement in my mind. He’s letting me have my way—for now.
I’ve been so intent on fighting him that I didn’t pay enough attention to the road. I think I’ve gone past a turn I was supposedto take. The question is, should I do a U-turn, or can I cut over to Chapel Road from the next street?
From the passenger seat, Heathcliff mumbles, “Take a left on Azalea.”
“Heathcliff!” I scream his name, accidentally swerving the truck.
