by E. E. Holmes
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.
Siobhán stepped forward, nodding respectfully to each of us. “I’ve been instructed to take you up to the High Priestess’ office,” she said.
I had been expecting it, but that didn’t lessen the dread I felt as we followed Siobhán into the castle, through the corridors, and up the winding staircases, tight as corkscrews, to the tower room. Even if I hadn’t been out of breath from the stairs, I knew I would find it hard to breathe if ever I entered this room again. Hannah reached out and pulled my hand into hers, squeezing it tightly. Behind us, Milo pressed the reassuring coolness of his energy against us, a hand on each of our shoulders, and a supportive whisper in our ears.
“You’ve got this. I’m right behind you.”
The door opened and we stepped through. The contents of the room had been greatly changed since we had last stood inside it, but I could still see the old furnishings in my mind’s eye, haunting the space like the abundant spirits within the castle walls. I could still see the bed in the corner, Finvarra’s wracked and battered body beneath the sheets. I could still see the scattering of medical equipment—the pill bottles, the silenced machines, rendered useless after her passing. But more clearly than all of this, I could still see, in breathtaking detail, the form of my father, lingering just this side of the Gateway, clinging to the living world by the very tips of his fingers just to say goodbye to us.
“Jessica. Hannah. Thank you for coming.”
I jumped, startled, at the sound of Celeste’s voice, though she was clearly seated behind the desk, waiting for us. Hannah recovered herself first.
“Hello, High Priestess. We apologize for the late hour,” she said.
I stiffened beside her. Speak for yourself. I’m not apologizing for anything.
As though my thought had materialized in front of Milo for him to read, he sent a response through the connection. “Deep breath, sweetness. Picking a fight with the High Priestess isn’t going to help Flavia.”
“Why do you have to be so reasonable when I want to light shit on fire?” I asked him.
“It’s part of my charm?” Milo suggested. “Just keep it together. Repeat to yourself: we are here for Flavia.”
I repeated it under my breath like a mantra, keeping my temper under control.
Celeste waved Hannah’s apology away. “No apologies, please. This was an emergency, and you were right to bring her here.” She turned and looked at me, and I could have sworn, for just a moment, there was a flicker of guilt in her eyes.
“Jess. Nice to see you again. I trust you are well?” she asked delicately.
Other than the fact that I want to dive across that desk and tackle you, and rage and storm and scream at you until you beg me to let you restore the normalcy of my life and bring back the one person who makes me feel like I’m worth a damn? “I’m fine,” I muttered, looking anywhere but at her.
“So, please,” Celeste said, gesturing to two chairs in front of her desk. “Tell me what happened tonight.”
I remained stubbornly on my feet. With an uneasy glance at me, Hannah perched herself on the edge of the offered chair and explained, in as much detail as she could, about how Jeta and Flavia had arrived at our flat, and everything that Jeta had told us when we questioned her. Celeste listened intently. A long wavy tendril of black hair had escaped from her braid, and she was twisting it unconsciously around her finger.
“This girl, Flavia,” she said at last. “What do you know of her?”
“I don’t actually know her very well,” Hannah said, looking to me for assistance. “It was Jess who—”
“I met her in the Traveler camp when I hid there from the Necromancers four years ago. We became friends,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed deliberately on a blue glass paperweight on the desk near Celeste’s right hand.
“And why didn’t her friend—Jeta, you said her name was?—why didn’t she return Flavia to the Traveler camp?” Celeste asked.
“Flavia has broken with their traditions and chosen to live outside of the confines of the camp,” I replied. “Jeta can explain it better, but it’s my understanding that, because of that decision, Flavia has forfeited the right to protection and aid from the Traveler Clans. Jeta was afraid that if she brought Flavia there, they might refuse to help her.”
Celeste knitted her eyebrows together. “Yes, that is possible. I understand that the Traveler Clans have very strict guidelines, particularly when it comes to their borders. I would not be surprised if they had been turned away. Why did Flavia choose to leave?”
“To further her education,” I said. “She was—is—a doctoral student at a university in London. She wants to be a professor.”
Celeste tapped a finger thoughtfully against her lips. “And you know of no reason why someone would want to harm her?”
I hesitated a moment, thinking back to the way that Flavia had helped Irina to escape. If the Traveler Council had found out about her role in that plan, might they not seek some kind of revenge? But I couldn’t risk telling Celeste any of that. I didn’t see how that information could help Flavia now, but it could certainly hurt her if it got back to the ears of the Traveler Council.
“No,” I said. “And Jeta didn’t either, but… well…” I looked at Milo, who nodded encouragingly. “We noticed something strange about Flavia.”
Celeste fixed me with a serious look. “Go on.”
“It was her eyes. Did… has anyone told you about her eyes?” I asked, hesitantly.
Celeste shook her head. “No. I was told she was attacked, and that there were physical injuries and runes involved. That is all I know at this point.”
“Well, she opened her eyes and they looked… different.”
“Different in what way?” Celeste asked, the slightest bite of impatience in her voice.
“They used to be dark brown—almost black. But now they’re this milky silvery-white color and she can’t seem to see anyone.”
Celeste’s own dark eyes became very wide in her shock. “She’s gone blind?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. She doesn’t seem to be able to see any of us, even when her eyes are open, though she does seem to be looking at something, because her eyes are moving around.”
“That is… very disturbing,” Celeste said.
“You haven’t even heard the disturbing part yet,” I said.
Celeste raised an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
“I—that is to say, we—have seen eyes like hers before,” I said.
Celeste looked from Milo to Hannah to me, still mystified. “Am I supposed to know where?” she asked at last.
“Right here,” I said. “At Fairhaven. An army of them. The Necromancers—at least, the ones I saw up close—had eyes that looked just like Flavia’s.”
For a moment, Celeste did not respond. In fact, she gave no indication that she had heard me at all. Then s
omething in her brain seemed to snap into place and she started toward us so quickly that all three of us jumped back in surprise.
“You are sure of this? You are absolutely sure?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you know the significance of it? That is to say, was it ever made clear to you why the Necromancers’ eyes looked the way they did?”
I shook my head. “No. I remember thinking that they looked creepy, but… well, they were creepy, so I didn’t really stop to consider it. Not to mention the fact that we were running for our lives at the time.”
Celeste turned her laser-focused gaze on Hannah. “Hannah, you spent more time amongst them than any of us, as their captive. Did any of them ever do or say anything that might shed some light on this?”
Hannah shook her head, but said nothing. I knew she was doing her best to hold it together at the mention of her time with the Necromancers. Though she was doing much better at not blaming herself, there was still a lot of lingering guilt there. I jumped in, to give her a chance to recover herself.
“It just seems like too much of a coincidence that a Durupinen would be attacked using runes, and that afterwards her eyes would resemble those of a Necromancer, doesn’t it?”
Celeste bit on her lip, staring off into the middle distance, considering my words. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, it does.” And again, with a swiftness that startled us, she spun around to face the door where her Caomhnóir stood like a statue. I hadn’t even realized he was there.
“Did you hear all of that, Colin?” she asked.
“Yes, High Priestess, I did indeed,” Colin replied stiffly.
“Please alert the Council that there will be a meeting in the morning. Nine o’clock. I want every Council member there, no exceptions. Have the Trackers send word to Catriona that I need her back here, and to make whatever arrangements she must in order to make that happen.”
Celeste whirled back around and asked, “You will stay and tell the Council what you have just told me?”
I glanced at Hannah, startled. “I… sure, if you want us to.”
“I do.”
Hannah nodded grimly. “Then, we’ll be there, of course.”
“Very good,” Celeste said, and then turned back to Colin. “When you have done that, please have Mrs. Mistlemoore come here to give me an update on the young woman’s status.”
“It shall be done at once, High Priestess,” Colin said, and backed out the door with a respectful bow.
“Thank you for telling me all of this,” Celeste said to us, once Colin had closed the door. “If you’d like, I can have someone prepare your clan’s room, and you can get some sleep? Surely you must be exhausted.”
“I don’t think I could sleep, do you?” Hannah asked, turning to me.
I shook my head. “No way. Not until we hear something about Flavia, and even then…” I shuddered, remembering the emptiness of her eyes.
Celeste held up a hand. “I understand. Of course, it is all very traumatizing. I shall prepare the room anyway, and have some tea and sandwiches sent down. You can wait there until an update is available, and rest if you so choose.”
Hannah nodded gratefully. “Yes. Thank you.”
I nodded as well. As far as I was concerned, I could not get out of this room fast enough.
Celeste used an intercom I had never noticed before to call for assistance, and then ushered us out the door. We began the long walk down to our old clan digs on the second floor. In the time it took us to reach the familiar corridor, the beds had been turned down, the lights turned on, the fire in the grate lit, and a full tea service set up on the coffee table.
“Impressive,” Milo said, examining the three-tiered serving tray of sandwiches. “They’ve even cut the sandwiches into cute little shapes.”
I couldn’t say how long we sat, staring into the fire, cramming tiny sandwiches into our mouths just for something to do. I think I might have dozed off at one point, although I couldn’t say for sure; everything was just a tired, jittery haze. Sometimes, I would check the clock, sure hours had gone by, and five minutes had barely passed. At other times, I would look at the clock, convinced I had only just glanced at it, and a whole hour had slipped by unnoticed. It was disorienting. Finally, when it seemed I would go insane from the anticipation, a gentle knock sounded on our door.
“Come in,” Hannah called, her voice cracked from hours of silence.
Mrs. Mistlemoore poked her head inside the door. Jeta stood beside her.
“Your friend is resting comfortably now,” Mrs. Mistlemoore said. “We’ve sedated her and treated all her wounds. Her wrist and three fingers sustained fractures, and her clavicle is broken as well.”
“Jesus,” Milo muttered.
“Come sit, Jeta. You look exhausted. Do you want something to eat?” Hannah asked, waving Jeta into the room. “Mrs. Mistlemoore, do you want some tea?”
“No, thank you,” Mrs. Mistlemoore said, with the air of a person who had never taken a break when there was an opportunity to keep working.
“I don’t think I can eat anything,” Jeta said. “But… would you mind… could I lie down?”
“Of course you can!” Hannah said. “Take my bed, it’s the one right over there.”
Jeta stumbled over to it, sat on the edge, and began removing her shoes. She still had on her raincoat and her hair had dried into a mass of untamable curls.
“Can you tell us anything else?” I asked her. “About her attack?”
“She isn’t speaking yet, so I haven’t been able to question her,” Mrs. Mistlemoore said. “It is hard to be certain whether she is in shock, or if the Casting has rendered her incapable of communicating clearly.”
“So, she has definitely been placed under a Casting?” I asked, my heart speeding up inside my chest.
“Almost certainly,” Mrs. Mistlemoore said. “Someone has at least attempted a Casting. What it was, and whether it was properly done, I cannot say. The placement and combination of the runes is unfamiliar to me, and many were smudged and washed away by the rain. We have been able to identify lavender, sage, and copper dust on her body as well. She also bears marks that she may have been bound at the wrists and ankles. I have the Scribes looking at her now, and they will research meticulously to try to interpret the meaning.”
“And what’s wrong with… I mean, do you know what’s happened with… with her eyes?” Milo asked, barely able to get the question out over the power of his revulsion.
For the first time, Mrs. Mistlemoore looked disturbed. “I cannot say how, or why, but… it is her Spirit Sight. It has been… altered.”
A ringing silence met these words. For a few moments, no one seemed to breathe. Then Hannah asked, in a squeak of a voice. “Altered? What do you mean?”
“It… I have never seen anything like it, so I cannot be sure, but… her Spirit Sight appears to be… twisted. Turned inward.”
“I don’t understand,” I said in a whisper.
“Our gift has imbued us with Spirit Sight. We can see spirits in the world around us. But something—a perversion of a Casting, it seems—has turned Flavia’s Spirit Sight inward on herself. Rather than seeing spirits around her, the sight has been… twisted, and she is being forced to stare at her own spirit.”
“Is… that bad?” I asked. “Looking at your own spirit?”
Mrs. Mistlemoore seemed to be choosing her words very carefully. “It is… disorienting. Possibly maddening. We are not aware, in life, of our spirit’s wish to be free of our mortal shells and seek the Aether. But Flavia is being forced to confront that need while being trapped inside her own body.”
“Is that why she kept clawing at herself? At her clothes and her skin? We thought she was in pain, or… or feverish… but she felt so cold!” Jeta’s voice was shaking so badly that it was hard to understand her.
“Yes, I think so,” Mrs. Mistlemoore said. “Her body feels unnatural now that she is seeing her spirit for the first tim
e in its true form.”
A pall of horror fell over the entire room like a cloak. We were all wrapped in it. But Mrs. Mistlemoore’s words had stirred something besides my horror: a memory. My mind, reeling, traveled back to the first time I’d ever met my grandfather.
“What you’re saying… it made me think of someone else. Our grandfather… did you ever hear what happened to him?” I asked Mrs. Mistlemoore.
She looked a little taken aback by the turn the conversation had taken. “Your grandfather? No, I… I don’t think I know what you’re referring to.”
“He walked in on our mother and Karen in the middle of a Crossing. He entered the summoning circle and tried to pull their hands apart.”
Mrs. Mistlemoore closed her eyes, as though that could somehow lessen the horror of what she had understood. From the corner of Hannah’s bed, Jeta let out a horrified gasp.
I went on, “He didn’t die, but Karen told me his spirit was pulled partially from his body before they could end the Crossing. Since then, he has lived in a state of desperation, obsessed with a constant, all-consuming desire to be sent back to the Aether, because, now that he’s seen it, he can’t bear to remain trapped in his body. It has driven him mad.”
Mrs. Mistlemoore’s eyes remained closed, but she nodded. “So that’s the truth of it, then. I often wondered, but your grandmother did not want the details made public. I think it was only ever the Council who knew the whole story. It is terrible, what your grandfather has suffered. The soul cannot rest within the confines of the living body once it has glimpsed the Aether.”
“Mine did,” I pointed out.
She opened her eyes. “Yours is different.”
“Because I’m a Durupinen?” I asked.
“In part, yes, but also because you are a Walker. Your soul did indeed traverse into the realm of the Aether, but it remained tied to your body and your living consciousness. It had to be, or it could not have made the journey back.”
“Flavia’s soul hasn’t left her body. It hasn’t entered the Aether, and yet what you’re saying sounds a lot like what Karen explained about my grandfather. Is it really as bad as all of that?”