Scarlette was already moving, fingers white-knuckled around the chalk. She dropped to her knees in the grass and started to redraw the circle, every stroke harder than the last. The chalk dust clotted in the dew, turned to a paste that streaked her hands gray. I watched her for a second, half-expecting her to stop, maybe to scream, but she just kept drawing, faster and faster.
Mama Celeste hovered at the ring’s edge, both hands full of talismans. Old teeth, glass beads, a sliver of stained wood I’d seen her use on harder cases. She talked in a whisper, not to us, but to whatever was left in the space between. Her eyes were wet, but her face didn’t move; she just clutched the beads so tight the cord bit into her skin. When Scarlette finished the ring, Celeste dropped to a crouch beside her and started tracing symbols in the mud, the beads ticking off each stroke.
Behind them, Maeve paced—five steps forward, five back, her skirt catching on the tops of the stones. The cold made her breath come out in little bursts, each one sharper than the last. She looked at the circle, at the sky, at the trees, anywhere but at her own hands, which curled and uncurled like they were trying to tear the air in two.
“Bring them back!” she shouted. The voice bounced off the old marble, came back doubled, echoing all the way to the road. Scarlette didn’t look up.
Nora stood a few feet away, just outside the ring, arms wrapped around herself. She didn’t make a sound, but the tears came down steady. She kept rubbing her nose with her wrist, smearing it red, as if she were ashamed to wipe it on her sleeve. Once or twice she glanced at me, and I tried to nod at her, tried to be some kind of anchor, but I didn’t have anything in me. Not yet.
Scarlette dug into her bag, pulled out a paper packet of salt, and emptied it along the chalk. She started the chant, voice flat and dry, the words tumbling over each other. I knew thebasics of the spell, had heard it before in a thousand backroom exorcisms, but the cadence was off—too panicked, too desperate. She tripped over the words, then started again, her voice ratcheting up in volume every time she missed. After the third try, her hands were shaking so bad she could barely hold the packet. She grit her teeth, snapped the last of the salt in half, and poured it out.
“Start again,” Maeve said, voice a rasp. “You’re not doing it right.”
Scarlette ignored her, kept chanting, hands pressed flat to the ground. Celeste added her own layer, a harmony that should have steadied things but instead made the air vibrate, unpleasant, like two notes not meant to play together. The mist thickened, pressed in, and for a second, I thought maybe they’d pull it off, maybe they’d open the rift again and get Toolie back. I wanted to believe it so bad my mouth hurt.
But nothing happened. No shimmer. No spark. The grass just sat there, soggy, the chalk starting to break apart under the weight of the dew.
Scarlette swore under her breath. “Fucking hell.” She went at it again, scraping a new line, the tip of the chalk catching in a root and snapping off. She threw the stump at the ground, fumbled for another, and kept going. Her knuckles were scraped raw, blood slicking the side of her pinky.
Mama Celeste’s voice wavered. “The resonance is off,” she said, but the words weren’t for us. “The time is past. The door—”
“No,” Scarlette snapped, “I can do it. I just need—” She slammed the chalk down, started drawing over the old lines, the symbols coming out crooked.
Maeve stormed up to the edge of the ring. “You said you could bring her back,” she hissed, eyes bright with hate. “You said if we did the blood, if we sat in the damn circle, you could open it again. So do it. Bring them back.”
Scarlette didn’t answer. Her mouth was pinched thin, jaw working like she was chewing on glass.
Nora finally moved. She crossed the ring, not caring about the chalk or the salt, and stood behind Scarlette, close but not touching. “Maybe they’re okay,” she whispered, so soft it barely registered. “Maybe it worked, and they’re together.”
Maeve wheeled around, hands out like claws. “Shut up! You don’t know that. Nobody knows that.” She sank to her knees, fists pounding the grass. The sound was sick, sodden, like she wanted to beat the life out of the earth itself.
Scarlette’s next attempt was a mess. She tried to light a slip of paper, but the lighter was too wet, the spark barely catching. She muttered “goddammit” a few times, then gave up, crumpling the paper in her fist. She started the chant again, voice breaking on the last syllable.
I couldn’t take it. I crouched beside Scarlette, close enough to feel the heat off her body. “It’s over,” I said, low. “You did everything you could. If anyone could’ve pulled it off, it was you.”
She looked at me, eyes ringed with blue from lack of sleep, and for the first time, she looked scared. “I felt him,” she said, words barely moving her lips. “I felt the link. And then it was like—like he just disappeared. Like there was nothing on the other side.” Her hand clenched around the chalk until it snapped again, white dust smearing down her palm.
Mama Celeste’s hands dropped to her lap, the beads sliding off her fingers and into the grass. She looked older than I’d ever seen her, the lines in her face deep, eyes sunken. “The window’s closed,” she whispered. “There’s no door to open now.”
Even Maeve went quiet, head bowed, the wet grass soaking through her skirt.
Scarlette started to rock, just a little, like a kid trying to shake off a nightmare. “He’s gone,” she said, not to anyone in particular. “I lost him.”
I sat down hard in the grass, the cold shooting up my spine. I let my hands hang between my knees, stared at the perfect ring of dead grass, the way it made a target out of nothing.
Nora broke first. She dropped next to Maeve and hugged her, both of them sobbing into each other’s hair. Scarlette crawled away from the circle, flopped on her back, and stared up at the blank sky. Her chest hitched every few seconds, but she didn’t make a sound.
Mama Celeste gathered the beads and bones, slipped them into the pouch at her waist, and stood, shoulders slumped. She didn’t look at anyone, just shuffled toward the cemetery gate, every step slower than the last.
I didn’t know what to do. For once, there was no tool I could grab, no enemy to punch, no machine to fix. All I had was the ache in my gut and the memory of Toolie’s last look—pure, uncut need, like he was about to beg me for something and didn’t have the words.
The mist cleared a little. The ring of grass stood out, burned into the ground. I got up, walked over, and knelt at the edge. I pressed my hand to the spot where the rift had been, half-expecting to feel a pulse, or a jolt, or even a shock. There was nothing. Just earth, damp and cold, and the realization that the only way forward was to live with it.
Behind me, Scarlette started to laugh—a short, bitter bark that made my scalp prickle. “He always said he’d die first,” she said, voice raw. “Guess the bastard was right.”
I wanted to say something clever, to make it better, but all that came out was, “He’s not dead, Scar. Not if he made it through. He’s just—”
She sat up, hair a wild halo around her face. “Just what? Gone? Lost in time? Some happy ending in a place we can never reach?”