Moab double-parked, flashed the hazards, and glared at me in the rearview. "Get it out of your system," he said. "But don’t go alone."
Scarlette opened her mouth to argue. I got out before she could.
The air slapped me. I walked half a block with my head down until I found an archway that looked like every alley in my dreams. Leaned against the stone. Tried to keep my hands steady. The rain was cold, but it felt good, washed the film from my head, and left just the ache behind. My fingers hurt, the nails bitten to the quick, a tic I’d picked up after Catherine started showing up in my head.
She was there, now. Not the way she was in the last dream, blood streaked down her chin, and her hands were sticky with mud. No, this time it was just her laugh. I heard it, a flash of wild joy in the dark, and for a second I was sure she’d walk up behind me and clamp her arms around my chest.
Instead, it was Moab. Heavy boots on slick stone, breathing hard enough to rattle the bricks. He didn’t say anything. Just stood at my side and lit a cigarette.
I watched the smoke and let it calm me.
Moab didn’t push, but after a while, he said, "You know where we’re headed?"
I nodded. "Cemetery. North of here. I saw the gate once."
He flicked the cigarette. "You want to sleep first?"
I shook my head. "No point."
He grunted, and we went back. “We need the others, Toolie. None of this cowboy shit.”
Mama Celeste and Scarlette were at the bar, Scarlette nursing a Guinness, Celeste picking at a bowl of something green and gelatinous. Scarlette looked me up and down. Scarlette had adjusted just fine to 2026, over 300 years from her home. Once she adjusted to the crowds and all the noises, the amenities and conveniences convinced her the change was good. She said she missed the family she left behind. I figured Catherine would do the same. But what if she didn’t want to come here? What if she were happy staying in the seventeenth century?
"You okay?" Scarlette asked
"Yeah," I lied. "Let’s go." To hell with the hotel.
Nobody argued. Not even Celeste.
The drive out was silent. Dublin faded behind us, streetlights turning to old gas lamps, then to nothing. The driver stopped a hundred yards from the entrance, muttered something about “gates closed at night,” and let us out in the dark.
The graveyard was older than dirt. Iron gates, black and wet, ran rust streaks down the stone pillars. Beyond, the grass looked like a scalp gone moldy. We didn’t need a flashlight—moonlight bounced off the mist and made the headstones glow. I was scared to fucking death at what was about to happen.
The walk up the main path was short, but every step doubled the gravity. My legs went concrete. Moab noticed, hung back to keep pace.
“You got this, brother.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
He obviously hadn’t even considered the possibility. What if we’d made this fucking trip and nothing happened? I stopped in my tracks.
“I can feel it,” Mama Celeste said. “It’s in the dirt.”
At the fork, I stopped. Scarlette was right behind me, barely breathing.
"This is it?" she whispered.
I said nothing. My left hand found the shamrock tattoo on my forearm and squeezed it hard enough to feel the ink burn.
Celeste caught up, her presence warming the air despite the cold. She looked at me, then at the stones, then back again. “Go on, son. She’s waitin’.”
I led them left, past a row of Celtic crosses to a sunken patch beneath a yew tree. The branches were so black they looked painted. I dropped to one knee before the headstone.
“Fuck this shit,” I said and started to walk away.
Moab grabbed my arm. “We’re in this together, Toolie.”
The moss was thick, but I didn’t need to read the name. I ran my hand over the letters. O’Toole. The birth and death dates were gone to time, but I could feel the years.