by E. E. Holmes
A solid few seconds of radio silence followed this thought.
“No. No, you don’t,” Hannah said.
“The last thing you deserve is for any of this to be harder,” Milo said.
I couldn’t agree with them, so I said nothing.
“Well, anyway, the books are there in my bag,” Hannah said. “Read them or don’t, but just remember that we’re working on this, Jess. I gave my proposed amendment to Kiera today to take a look at.”
I looked up at her, startled. In the craziness of the day’s events, I had forgotten all about Hannah’s amendment. “Why Kiera?”
“I was going through some old minutes, just to see what kind of precedent there might be for this kind of proposed change. And I came across an old proposal from about fifteen years ago. Keira helped to write it, and it was a proposal to overhaul the Caomhnóir-Durupinen dynamic.”
“You’re kidding!” I said. “Someone has tried this before?”
“I bet if I went far enough back, I’d find other attempts as well,” Hannah said. “The arrangements between the Durupinen and Caomhnóir have caused all kinds of tension since it began, you know that. Keira’s amendment wasn’t exactly the same thing—from what I’ve read, it focused more on training protocols and overhauling communication, but it seemed to acknowledge many of the same problems that my amendment addresses. Anyway, since Keira has worked on a similar proposal before, I thought she might be a good place to start. She seemed really interested, and promised to give it a thorough reading so we could discuss it the next time we meet.”
It was maddening to think of my chances of seeing Finn again going through a long, arduous bureaucratic process—that our lives were reduced to legal jargon and votes tallied—but I pushed the feeling away. It was the only chance we had right now. I had to be grateful for it, and for a sister who was willing to do the kind of work it took to change things for me.
“Thank you, Hannah,” I told her. I walked into the kitchen where she stood by the microwave, waiting for her chicken Bhuna to warm through. I wrapped my arms around her, and dropped my head onto her shoulder. She laughed in surprise, but wriggled her arms out from under mine so that she could hug me back.
“We’re going to figure it out, Jess,” she whispered into my ear rather than through the connection. “We’ll get him back.”
“Yeah. If anyone can do it, you can,” I told her. “I mean, it was more satisfying when you just unleashed spirit armies on people, but I’m sure this legislative process is cool, too.”
Hannah tried to smile at the joke for my sake, but I knew it wasn’t funny.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “Just kidding.”
The harsh metallic buzzing of the doorbell broke us apart.
“Who the hell could that be?” I asked, glancing at the clock on the microwave. “It’s past 12:30!”
Hannah, who had a hand pressed over her heart, shook her head. “Savvy, maybe? She’s crashed after a night at the pub before.”
Figuring this was the most likely explanation, I walked over to the buzzer and pressed the intercom button. “Sav, is that you?”
“Is this Jessica? Jessica Ballard?”
The voice was out-of-breath, tearful, and approaching hysteria.
“Yeah, this is Jessica Ballard, who is this?”
“Oh, thank God,” the voice sobbed. “It’s Jeta Loveridge. Do you remember me? We met at the Traveler camp?”
“Jeta! Yes, of course I remember—”
“Please,” she gasped, and I thought I could hear another voice behind hers, moaning and muttering. “Please, I need your help. It’s Flavia, she’s been attacked. I don’t know where else to go, please.”
I stared at Hannah, who shook her head in bewildered fear. Without a word, Milo blinked out of existence, and I knew he was going down to see what was going on.
“Attacked? Attacked by who?” I asked.
“I don’t know!” Jeta cried, Flavia’s voice rising behind her. “Please! Please, I need to get her help! I don’t know what to—”
At that moment, Milo’s voice rang through the connection.
“Open the door and get down here, now!”
I shook away my shock, jammed the door-release button with the heel of my hand and flung the door open, Hannah right on my heels.
“Get Ambrose,” I told her, but she was already banging on his door.
I flew down the stairs and found Jeta at the bottom, trying to ease Flavia through the door. She had flung Flavia’s arm over her shoulder, but it was clear that Flavia could barely stand. She sagged against Jeta’s body, her head lolling back and forth on her neck. I would have thought she was unconscious except that she was groaning and muttering unintelligibly. I reached for her other arm, meaning to put it around my shoulders and take some of her weight, but as I did so, I got a clearer view of her and let out a horrified gasp.
Her eyes were closed—one of them looked like it was swollen shut. There were several cuts on her face that were bleeding freely, and bruises on her face and arms. Her shirt was torn and smeared with blood, and someone had inked runes onto her skin.
“Jesus! What happened to her?” I cried.
Jeta’s voice was thick with tears. “I don’t know. I found her like this outside her flat.”
Ambrose came thundering down the stairs two at a time. Swiftly, he assessed Flavia, then in one fluid motion he swept her up into his arms and carried her up the stairs. It seemed he had his uses after all.
We followed him into our flat, where he laid Flavia on the sofa, cradling her head in his hand as he slid a pillow beneath it, displaying more gentleness that I would have thought him capable of. He felt her pulse, timing it against his watch. We all stood in tense silence as he did this. Beside me, Milo was actually blurring at the edges, his nerves were so wound up.
“Pulse is strong but rapid,” Ambrose said curtly. “She seems in no immediate danger.”
“Did you say your name was Jeta?” Hannah asked tentatively, touching Jeta’s arm. Despite the gentleness of the touch, Jeta leapt back as though burned.
“Y-yeah,” she said.
“Tell us what happened,” Hannah said.
Jeta took a deep, shaky breath. “Flavia has been living in London. Since Irina’s trial, she—”
“I know,” I told her quickly. “We’ve been in touch since she got here.”
“I haven’t seen her since she left, and she’s been begging me to visit. I… I avoided it at first. Flavia has fallen out of the Council’s favor. She’s been cast out, ever since she defied their order and moved to the city. I… it was shitty, but I didn’t want to get in trouble.”
“It’s okay, Jeta, we get it,” I said a little impatiently. “Nobody wants to piss off the Council if they can help it. But what happened tonight?”
Jeta stifled a sob. “She was supposed to meet me at the train station, but she never showed up, and she wasn’t answering her phone. Eventually, I just hailed a cab and he took me to her building, but I couldn’t get in, so I waited again. Finally, the girl who lived in the flat downstairs got home and took pity on me and let me in so I wouldn’t have to wait in the rain. I went up and knocked, but no one answered. Then I found an extra key hidden up under her mailbox, so I just used it to let myself in.”
From the couch, Flavia gave a low moan. One of her hands was twitching.
“I waited a couple more hours. I started looking around the place for a clue about where she might have gone, but there was nothing—no note, nothing on her calendar,” Jeta said, her voice nearly unintelligible now as the sobs overwhelmed her. “I was debating whether I should head back home when I heard screeching tires outside. I ran to the window just in time to see a dark car peeling away from the sidewalk and… and… Flavia was just lying in a crumpled heap on the ground.”
“So, whoever was in the car just… dumped her there?” Hannah asked, throwing a hand up over her mouth in horror.
“I think so,” Jeta said.
>
“Did you get a good look at the car?” I asked.
Jeta shook her head. “It was raining really hard, so everything was very blurred. I just know it was big and dark—probably an SUV, but I couldn’t swear to it. I might not have even seen her on the ground if it hadn’t been for the hair color.” We all looked over at Flavia, whose hair had been dyed a deep magenta color since I had last seen her.
“So, what happened next?” Milo prompted.
“I ran outside and brought her in,” Jeta said. She crossed over to Flavia, knelt beside her, and started stroking her head. “She was shaking like mad, and bleeding everywhere. I tried to get her to speak to me, but she hardly seemed to realize I was there. It’s almost like she’s dreaming, though, because she seems to be reacting to things I can’t see.”
We all followed her gaze to Flavia again. It was true. Her lips were moving, and she appeared to be carrying on a fractured, frantic conversation with someone… or something. Her hands were twitching, and her fingers were tracing shapes in the air. Her head was also jerking around as though she were trying to follow the progress of something invisible that was moving ceaselessly around the room, though her eyes were still closed.
“Where is her Caomhnóir?” Ambrose barked. “Why has she been left unprotected?”
“Traveler Durupinen forfeit their protection if they leave the camp without permission,” Jeta said. “Flavia has had no Caomhnóir for several months.”
“That’s bullshit,” Ambrose hissed through clenched teeth.
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?” Hannah asked.
Jeta glared at her as though she’d just suggested calling the Buckingham Guard. “We don’t trust hospitals. Or law enforcement.”
“We don’t like to get them involved either, if we can avoid it, but in some instances…” Hannah murmured, gesturing to Flavia.
“And what would they have thought, with these runes drawn all over her?” Jeta snapped, finding her anger amidst the wash of fear and sadness. “I’d have been hauled in and hammered with ignorant questions about voodoo and satanic rituals. Then some trashy tabloid would have gotten wind of it and splashed it all over the bloody country.”
“She’s right,” Ambrose grunted. “We cannot involve the authorities. It would be a disaster for the code of secrecy.”
“I can’t bring her back to the Traveler camp. They’ll refuse to help her, she’s betrayed the bloodlines, and anyway, how could I possibly get her there without being stopped and questioned?” Jeta asked. “I knew you were in the city. I found Flavia’s phone on the sidewalk, searched through her contacts, and found your number. When you didn’t answer, I searched your address, and here we are. There was nowhere else to go. The cabbie looked suspicious, but I told him she was on some drugs, and I think he bought it.”
“No, it’s okay,” I told Jeta, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder and then giving it a squeeze when she didn’t shrug it off. “You absolutely should have brought her here. That was the right thing to do.”
“I just don’t understand who would do something like this to her,” Jeta said.
“Did she have any enemies that you know of?” Ambrose asked.
Jeta shook her head. “She’s so quiet. Such an introvert, you know?”
“You do not believe, then, that the Traveler Durupinen had anything to do with this attack?” Ambrose asked, scowling at her.
Jeta looked affronted. “Of course we didn’t,” she spat at him.
Ambrose crossed his arms truculently. “You just said she had been banished from—”
“Banishment and physical torture are not the same thing!” Jeta hissed at him. “I realize our ways and laws are not yours, Northerner, but we are not savages, whatever you may believe in your ignorance. We do not inflict physical punishment on members who simply choose to leave the protection of our camp. She may not be welcomed back, but no one from our camp would ever attack her. It is not in our code.”
“Codes can be broken,” Ambrose said stubbornly.
“Not where I come from,” Jeta shot back. “Honor counts for something there.”
Ambrose snorted, as though the idea of Travelers and honor had little to do with each other. Jeta opened her mouth to retort, but Flavia groaned loudly at that moment, thrusting a trembling hand into the air as though pointing to something and then letting it fall again.
I took advantage of the distraction to intervene before they could argue again. “What about the attack itself? Do you have any idea what the nature of it was? What the attacker was trying to do?”
Jeta shook her head, looking tearful again. “I don’t recognize the placement or combination of runes. It’s not any Casting I know.”
“Nor do I,” Hannah said, stepping forward for a closer look. “It seems to be… pretty crudely done.”
Ambrose stepped forward, pulling his phone from his pocket and holding it up. “I’m going to document them,” he said, his tone wavering somewhere between hostility and asking for permission.
No one objected, and so he began taking photos like a crime scene investigator, walking around the couch and making careful adjustments to Flavia’s limbs so that he could get clearer shots.
As he worked, I knelt down beside Flavia and caressed her forehead with the back of my fingers. Her skin was cool to the touch, though she looked flushed and feverish. “Hey, Flavia. Hey, it’s Jess. You know, Northern Girl. Can you hear me?”
Flavia just continued moaning and muttering, making no sign she knew I was there.
Brushing her sweaty hair back from her cheeks, I took a closer look at the runes. Very carefully, I reached out and touched one with the tip of my finger. It smudged easily, leaving a gray sooty residue on my fingertip.
“Is that… charcoal?” Hannah asked tentatively.
I lifted the finger to my nose and sniffed. “Ash,” I said. “From a fire.”
“Ash?” Jeta repeated.
“Yeah,” I said. “You can see the rain has washed it away in places. And see the skin here?” I pointed to her right cheekbone, where the skin beneath the rune was red and a little blistered. “The ash was hot when they put it on her face.”
“That’s just sick,” Milo muttered, squirming uncomfortably.
At the sound of Milo’s voice, Flavia’s eyes fluttered open and I fell back into the coffee table, gasping in shock. Flavia’s eyes, once dark and full of sparkling wit, were a milky, silvery color. They darted around in their sockets, as though following the rapid process of something that only she could see as her eyelids twitched.
“What the… what the hell happened to her eyes?” I breathed.
Hannah squeaked with fear. Jeta let out a cry of terror. Milo swore quietly under his breath. Ambrose leaned forward and snapped a photo.
“Her eyes do not typically look like this?” he asked matter-of-factly, staring down at the screen to make sure he had gotten a clear image.
“No, of course they don’t!” I snapped at him. “Who the fuck’s eyes typically look like that?”
Ambrose shrugged, unconcerned.
“I know,” Milo said quietly.
I looked over at him. “What did you say?”
He hesitated, his form crackling with an anxiety so powerful that it seemed to chill the entire room. “I know whose eyes look like that. And you do, too.”
“Milo, what are you…” But it hit me like a sledgehammer mid-thought.
I had seen eyes like these before.
We all had. Many of them. A virtual army of them.
But only one pair in particular really stood out in my mind. One pair that had burned though me, that had torn my life apart, that had nearly destroyed all I had held dear.
Those eyes had stared out of the face of Neil Caddigan.
I looked up at Ambrose, who looked mystified by our sudden understanding.
“Bring the car around. We need to get her to Fairhaven. Now.”
34
Blinded
&nb
sp; BY THE TIME WE REACHED FAIRHAVEN, the worst of the rain had passed, and the castle loomed up at us out of a thick white fog that rolled and swirled like a sentient creature stalking rays of moonlight through the grounds. They were waiting for us, lined up along the drive, holding torches aloft, like living candles. Ambrose had called ahead to warn Seamus that we were coming, and to ask him to alert the Council members on site and Mrs. Mistlemoore, who ran the hospital ward.
The SUV crunched through the gravel and came to a stop. No one had spoken much during the drive, except to ask periodically how Flavia was doing. She lay across the back seat now, her head in Jeta’s lap, as seemingly oblivious to our arrival at Fairhaven as she was to any of our presences.
With almost creepy efficiency, the Caomhnóir descended on the car, opening all four doors simultaneously. Mrs. Mistlemoore hurried forward, saying briskly, “Let me give her a quick look, and then I will need you to help her onto the stretcher and inside.”
Two Caomhnóir stepped forward alongside her, ready to carry out these instructions.
Mrs. Mistlemoore’s hands flew expertly over Flavia, from her pulse in her neck, to her temples, to her chest. She lifted an eyelid and muttered what sounded like a curse under her breath. She looked up at Jeta, her face unreadable but her voice gentle. “You are the one who found her?”
Jeta nodded, lips pressed together against another onslaught of tears.
“What’s your name, love?”
“Jeta Loveridge,” she managed to choke out.
“Very well, Jeta. I would like you to come with me into the ward, so that I may ask you some questions. Can you manage that?”
Again, Jeta nodded.
“Very well. Gentlemen, if you would move her. Carefully, please, and especially mind her head and face.”
The Caomhnóir smoothly transferred Flavia from the back seat to the stretcher and marched her into the castle, followed immediately by Mrs. Mistlemoore and Jeta jogging along in their wake. Hannah and I clambered out of the car, followed by Milo, and found ourselves facing a row of grim-faced Council members.