23
Heathcliff
It’s not hard to break into Wicklow Heritage Chapel. The locks are a joke against my strength—and Cathy’s, apparently. She turns on the lights but adjusts them to the lowest setting, so the place is gloomy. She’s light-sensitive sometimes, I’ve noticed.
We sit on the back pew where we sat that first Sunday. Cathy’s pretty face is salt white, her brown hair creating a cloud of wild curls as it dries. She’s fidgeting with the hem of the flimsy, white dress. The bloodstain along the neck and shoulder is freaking me out even worse than the Rockford murder scene.
She tells me everything.
When she’s done, I don’t move or speak. I’m processing. Might take a while.
I would believe her anyway, but the fact that I’m sitting here, feeling rested and whole when I should be dead or worse, is more than enough proof. Supernatural intervention is the only way to explain it. The god brought me back—in exchange for crawling inside Cathy’s body.
A haze of red rage burns behind my eyes, and I’m breathing fasteven though I’m trying to stay calm.
“Cathy,” I begin, trying to keep my voice calm, “what you did—”
“I didn’t have a choice,” she interjects.
“You called me an idiot for saving you,” I point out. “All I gave up was my life. You’re giving up your will, Cathy, signing up for god knows what…literally.”
“That’s not funny.” But there’s a hysterical glimmer of amusement in her eyes, and her mouth twitches.
“Let’s lay this all out.” I clear my throat and poke the cushioned seat of the pew for emphasis like I’m showing her parts of a blueprint. “The cult thought sacrificing you would keep the god down forever, which is bogus because any Lockwood knows that bloodresurrectsthings. But the Wicklow congregation believed what some shady stranger told them. I don’t think you ever mentioned his name…”
“Ian Holcum,” Cathy says.
My body erupts into goose bumps.
Ian Holcum, the coma guy from the Lockwood mansion. He’s been sound asleep at the Grange, but he has also been up and about, the sneaky bastard. He’s been coming into Wicklow and talking to the members of the church, brainwashing them to do what he wants. He’s been listening when I thought he was asleep. That’s how he knew all about my powers and how I need to recover afterward. That’s how he knew about my connection with Cathy.
“Heathcliff, what is it?” Cathy’s slim fingers slide over mine.
“I know the fucker.”
She gapes. “How?”
Quickly I explain. “I swear he’s been truly unconscious most of the times when I checked on him. I knew something was off about him, but I didn’t think he was a threat—at least, not like this.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” she says. “How could he get in and out ofthe house without you or Hindley seeing him? How did you never notice he was gone?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. My body may be strong as ever, but my brain isn’t working as fast as I’d like. “Hindley never checked on him…not that I saw, anyway,” I say slowly. “It was mostly me, and I checked maybe once a day, usually in the late afternoon or early morning. And there were a few days I didn’t look in his room at all, when I was extra tired after a resurrection. When Hindley and I aren’t at the brewery, we’re in the living room or in our own rooms. He could have slipped past us either way. Besides, there’s a window in that guest room. I boarded it up yesterday, but maybe he’s been climbing out…” My voice drops as I remember the black feather I found. “Motherfucker. I saw him shift into a stag once. I’ll bet he can shift into a bird, too. A crow, most likely. Could’ve flown right out.”
“Heathcliff.” Cathy’s forehead wrinkles with concern, like she’s doubting my sanity. “People can’t turn into crows.”
“There are supernaturals who can shapeshift. Like the púca.”
“Pooka? Sounds made up.”
“Yeah. But then again, you’re asking me to believe that while we were in the Vague, a god decided to grab hold and ride out with us for some reason.”
Cathy cocks her head for a second, her eyes distant, like she’s listening to something. “Cernunnos says the sacrifice was meant to raise him. But he didn’t rise right away because there was deeper spellwork in place to suppress him…more than was laid on the graves of most other gods. The other Tuatha Dé Danann laid those bonds upon him because they hated him.”
“Can I join their club?” I growl. “And tell him to stop fucking talking. You and I are having a conversation.”
“He knows things that could help us understand this. Maybe heknows about the púca thingie—”
“Cathy!” I grab her hands. “We’ll talk about folklore later. Right now, we gotta face the facts, baby, because it’s looking like I brought a homicidal púca back from death and you gave your body to an eldritch god, so we’re both seriously fucked, okay?”
