Get up, Heathcliff, get up, get up!
I climb to my feet, but my stomach lurches. I stagger outside onto the church’s narrow porch, crashing against the railing and vomiting over it.
Dimly I register Hindley’s truck, Edgar’s car…and two more vehicles. They must have just pulled in.
I try to calculate how long it’s been since Cathy called Daisy. I was still unconscious at the time, so I can’t be sure…but it’s been a few hours, I think. Possibly enough time for Daisy and her group to get here. Either it’s them, or it’s someone from the congregation. At this point, I’d welcome anybody, whether they’re here to help or to fight. I could use some support or something to punch.
I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my choir robe and wait, gripping the railing. It’s wet, and the peeling paint is rough against my palms.
The driver’s side door of the BMW opens, and a long-legged blond man gets out. He’s well over six feet and skinny, like some kind of male model. The bones of his face look especially crushable. He reminds me of Edgar Linton—except more vivid. More intense and alive somehow.
He saunters toward me, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. Looking me up and down, he smirks. “Aren’t you a little old to be a choirboy? Or is this just a bold fashion choice?”
“Dorian, stop.” A tattooed girl with pink-and-black hair runs up behind him, grabbing his arm. “Sorry,” she says to me. “He’s still learning to benice.”
“I can be nice,” Dorian mutters. He reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a flask, like guys in old movies carry. Unscrewing the lid, he holds it out to me. “You look like you need this.”
If there’s alcohol in there, thenhell yesI need it. I descend a couple of steps so I can grab it from him.
“See?” Dorian shoots the girl a saucy look. “I’m helping the traumatized choirboy.”
I relish the burn of the drink. Rum, I’d guess, but a fancier kind than I’ve ever sampled. Rich and syrupy, with a hell of a kick.
Four more people have climbed out of the other car and crossed the parking lot. One of the guys is as tall as Dorian but broader. He mounts the lowest steps and reaches out to shake my hand. There’s a casual dominance about his stance that tells me he’s the boss of the group—and the boss of this whole church and everything in it for as long as he wants to be. Maybe it’s stupid to feel instantly relieved, but I am. I may have walked beyond death, but I’m out of my depth here. This guy looks like he’s met with a lot of shit during his life and shoveled his way out of it every time.
“Jay Gatsby,” he says. “You must be Heathcliff. We came as fast as we could.”
Mechanically I shake his hand, then take another swig before handing the flask back to Dorian. My voice is a haunted rasp. “I think you’re too late.”
I hate the words even as they come out. Feels like I’m giving up on Cathy. I want to fight for her, and I will. I’m just not sure how these strangers can help me.
Two more men stand just behind Gatsby. A redhead with an upturned, freckled nose. A Korean guy with a shock of black hair. But it’s the young woman moving quietly into place beside Gatsby who catches my eye.
Her golden hair shines faintly in the morning light, and there’s a silken grace in the way she moves, but it chills me too, like my body recognizes her as a predator. “Where is Cathy?” She keeps her tone light, but there’s a honeyed warmth underneath it. Like if you couldhearrum, that’s what it would sound like.
“She’s in the church,” I tell them. “That thing inside her, the god—it’s changing her. Breaking her.” I fight the impulse to vomit again.
Gatsby reaches for Daisy’s hand, then glances back at the two guys. “Fangs out, boys. Baz, you hang back a little. Dorian, try not to make it angry.”
“Don’t pretend like you’ve faced a god before,” Dorian retorts. “Of the six of us, Baz is the only person who has actually spoken to one.”
Gatsby ignores him and turns back to me. “Show us where she is. We’ll go in, take stock of things, and devise a plan. Baz, you have your supplies?”
The girl with the pink-and-black hair pats a leather satchel she’s carrying. “Got ’em.”
That sounds promising. Sounds like hope, like a fighting chance. And even if there ain’t a snowflake’s chance in hell of saving my girl, I will die trying to finally get her that freedom she’s wanted for so long.
Clenching my fists, I lead the way into the lobby. “I know I said you’re too late,” I mutter to Gatsby, “but I appreciate you coming here so fast.”
“We were speeding,” he says casually. “We were stopped a couple times, but Daisy talked the cops out of giving us tickets.” He nodsto the blond.
I meet her eyes. “What are you exactly?”
“A blend of merrow and Leannán Sídhe,” she says. “And most recently, a vampire. I can persuade humans, to a certain extent, and when it comes to my fellow vampires like Gatsby, Nick, and Cody, I can force them to do whatever I want. My voice compels them.”
Vampires. Abhartach, from the old legends. But Meemaw told me they had died out. I have about a million questions, but most of them will need to wait until I get Cathy back. One question, though, seems important enough to ask now. “Would your voice work on me?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t tried it on many other kinds of supernaturals.” She glances at Gatsby. “We’ve learned a lot since I became a vampire, and we’ve gained even more insight since Dorian and Baz found us. My voice is more effective on Dorian than Baz, but both of them seem more susceptible that regular humans.”
