Declan watched, his face blank, then turned to the messenger. “Go,” he said. “Go back to Kilbride. See if there’s anyone left.”
The messenger nodded and ran, boots squelching in the mud, the sound fading into the night.
The clearing went silent except for the crackling of the fire and the distant howl of dogs somewhere out in the fields.
Catherine pulled free of her sisters, staggered to her feet, then turned away from all of us. I saw her silhouette against the fire, the curve of her belly outlined in red-gold. She wrapped her arms around herself and let her head hang.
I wanted to follow. To comfort her. To be forgiven, somehow. But I knew, then, that she never would. I sat in the mud, blood seeping from the cut on my hand, the sting a dull echo of thepain in my chest. No one spoke to me. Not Maeve, not Nora, not even Declan. They gathered around Catherine, whispering, holding her, building a wall I couldn’t breach.
The moon went behind a cloud, and the world went black.
I stared at my hands, at the ruin of the old tattoo and the new blood glistening in the lines. I flexed the fingers, slow, just to feel something. To remember I was still alive.
Maybe that was the curse, after all.
I watched Catherine, just a shape in the night now, and wondered if the grave had been a better place. At least there, I hadn’t hurt anyone.
At least there, I’d been at peace.
Toolie
We reached the graveyard just before midnight, the world blue-black and sodden, the sky holding its piss until the last possible second. I could see our breath, ghosted out in front of us like warnings. The headstones crouched in the mist, leaning at angles that made them look like they were listening. Every step forward, the ground sucked at my boots, and the cold worked up through my soles and into the hollows of my bones.
Catherine kept her eyes down, counting each stone with a little flinch. I stayed two paces behind, watching the tremor in her hands as she squeezed Nora’s fingers. Maeve carried nothing, not even a coat, just stalked ahead as if the idea of being cold were a personal insult. Declan limped after us, face set and grim, the old wound leaking through his makeshift bandage. Every few steps, he’d mutter a prayer under his breath, but I don’t think he expected God to hear it.
Moab was waiting at the edge of the plot, half-hidden by a weathered yew. He’d lost some weight, and his cheekbones stuck out sharp, eyes sunk in bruised shadows. His hand hovered near his waistband, where the knife from a dead guard was tucked. He didn’t wave, didn’t speak, just nodded once and scanned the trees, every inch a man expecting company.
Scarlette and Mama Celeste had set up shop in the center of the oldest part. They’d chalked a perfect circle onto the mossy flagstones and ringed it with tea lights and old beer bottles repurposed as candleholders. The inside of the circle looked like a witch’s chem lab—little jars of salt, bundles of dried herbs, scraps of animal bone picked clean. Scarlette was hunched over, hands busy breaking up some blackish root with the handle of a kitchen knife. Her hair was out of its usual ponytail, and it made her look younger, or maybe just more tired. Mama Celeste kneeled cross-legged, palms flat on the ground, muttering to herself while she ground something in a mortar.
Moab’s eyes tracked us in, then flicked to Catherine, then back to me. “You brought the whole damn crew,” he said, voice gravelly but low enough not to carry.
“No other choice,” I replied. “It’s now or never.”
Moab looked over my shoulder at Maeve, who was already glaring at him. “Nice to see you too, sister,” he said, deadpan.
Maeve just snorted. “Don’t start.”
Nora tugged on Catherine’s arm, trying to hide behind her, but Catherine kept her spine straight, chin up. The way her knuckles bled white on my hand, I knew she was hanging on by threads.
Scarlette stood, wiped her hands on her jeans, and met us at the edge of the circle. “You made it,” she said, like she hadn’t believed it until now.
“Barely,” I said. I felt the ache in my ribs every time I breathed, like some of Hale’s men were still working me over in that cell. “Is it ready?”
“Ready as it’ll ever be.” Scarlette gave Catherine a once-over, then Maeve, then me. She nodded toward the circle. “If you’re coming, you need to sit. Don’t break the line.”
Catherine hesitated. “Will it hurt?”
Scarlette’s laugh was short. “Not at first.”
I led Catherine in. She stepped across the chalk, pulling Nora with her, and sat cross-legged just opposite Scarlette. I stayed by Catherine’s side, one arm around her shoulder, careful not to touch the raw bandage at my own wrist. Maeve refused the invitation, staying just outside the circle, arms folded.
Declan looked at the chalk line, then up at me. “I’m not coming,” he said, soft. “My place is here.”
Catherine looked back at him, pain sharp on her face. “You saved us.”
He gave her a sad smile. “Don’t thank me yet.”
Mama Celeste finally stood, rising with a grace that made her seem weightless. Her skirt swirled around her ankles, catching the light from the candles, making her look part witch, part goddess. She addressed us all, voice big and round and full of command. “The window closes with dawn. We must complete the ritual before first light, or you will remain here—forever.”