“What matters most right now is figuring out how she affects Cathy,” Gatsby interjects. “When we first met Cathy and Daisy said her name, Cathy had a strong reaction.”
“And I wasn’t even using my compulsive voice,” Daisy adds. “She reacted to a completely different tone. It seemed to cause her pain.”
The black-haired guy, Cody, is leaning against the wall, inspecting a set of claws that definitely weren’t there a second ago. His canines have elongated, too. “The real question is, how will Daisy’s voice affect a god?”
I grip the handles of the sanctuary doors with both hands. “Let’s find out.”
26
Heathcliff
The doors resist when I try to open them. I plant my feet and I pull, straining.
Gatsby steps forward to help, but I grit out, “No!” This is something I need to do.
I haul on the doors with all my might.
Inside me there’s a wall, like a dam, one I’ve been building all my life to hold back the full force of my strength, so I wouldn’t cause irreparable damage to the things and people around me. Without warning, that dam bursts—explodes like the glass Cathy shattered in the Vague—and a new surge of power gushes into my body. My muscles swell larger than ever before, my heart pumps faster, and a rush of hot blood through my veins gives me fresh energy.
With a violent heave, I wrench the sanctuary doors open. They rip free of their hinges with a groaning crack, and I stand there, holding the two heavy oak doors in my hands as easily as if they’re a couple of beer bottles.
“Damn, choirboy,” Dorian says appreciatively.
I set the doors against the wall, taking my time about it whilethe others file into the sanctuary. I’m being a coward, hanging back like this, but I can hardly bear to see the god and what he has done to Cathy.
When I’m done with the doors, I follow the group. They’ve halted just inside the sanctuary, and they’re all staring up at the god.
He’s even taller now. His antlers divide into dozens of branches, the tips of them grazing the ceiling. His face is Cathy’s, but his body is masculine in shape—a titanic figure formed of solidified shadow, grayish brown in color and ridged in texture like the bark of a tree. More vines and shadows have emerged from the central column of his body, like secondary limbs undulating and stretching outward. His clawed fingers are each as long as my arm.
When he speaks, his voice is deep as the bones of the earth. It’s monumental. “Have you come to worship me?”
Gatsby glances at Daisy, a question in his eyes. At her nod, he steps forward. “The body you’re using isn’t yours. It belongs to a friend of ours, and we would like her back.”
“You’re barely friends,” responds the god. “Acquaintances, perhaps. Don’t try to fool me, little abhartach. I know the mind of my host. You have come to worship Cernunnos, god of death, though you may not yet realize it.”
“Worship?” Cody hisses through his fangs. “I worship no one.”
“What is fear but a futile resistance to the impulse of worship?” The god moves closer, stalking slowly on massive legs. “Yield to that natural impulse, and your fear will diminish. Worship, and I will grant you power.”
He’s stalking nearer, taking step after step on his long legs, shadows flowing off him like water.
“Every one of you trembles at the idea of death, and that fear has driven you to become greater,” he intones. “You are so terrified at theidea of your lives ending that you have done wicked and wonderful things. You have surpassed the state of normal human existence. And yet you still fear the end. You fear being cut off long before your natural span of years. You fear the decline into old age that brings about a slower demise. No matter how the end comes, you will always fear it. You will always fearme.And this one.” Cernunnos bends, grazing Dorian’s jaw with pointed claws. “This one fears me the most.”
Dorian grins, defiant. “You can’t kill me.”
“It’s not your own death you fear,” replies Cernunnos. “Perhaps once, but no longer. You fear the death of another. You dread it with all your heart, soul, and mind. The terror of that impending loss consumes you. Every second you want to scream at your loved one to protect herself. To become abhartach, like them.” He gestures to the four vampires.
“Dorian, is that true?” Baz steps forward, frowning. “I mean, I know you want me to do the whole vampire thing, but I thought we agreed there was no rush.”
Dorian’s blue eyes dart to each of us, as if he’s looking for someone to help him. But I’m out. I can’t handle anything beyond my own raw, throat-searing terror for Cathy. I wish they’d all shut up so we can get on with this and get that fucker out of her body, if that will even help. The way Cernunnos has changed her… I don’t see how it could be reversible. And if it’s not…if she doesn’t survive, I can’t either.
“No rush?” Dorian stares at Baz, his words tight and clipped. “No rush with people getting killed in car crashes every day, contracting cancer, choking to death on a morsel of food? With ancient deities and monsters stalking the coastline? Yeah, Baz, I think you need to become a vampire and soon. Like yesterday.”
Cernunnos cocks his head—Cathy’s head—and stares at Bazwith those cold, calculating eyes. “Baz’s fear is less than yours. She accepts life and death as they are, and celebrates both in her art.”
“What are you, a mind reader?” I choke out. “Let’s cut the crap. I want you out of my girlfriend right the fuck now, and I want you to put her back like she was.”
Baz pushes her way in front of Dorian, looking up at the god. She’s so small compared to him, and her voice is a little breathless but strong. “I can make you a body,” she offers. “I need to connect with you a bit, and then I should be able to draw the form you used to take among humans—or close enough. I’ve done it before. I’m not of your bloodline, so I’m not positive it will work, but we can try it.”
