Children of the Veil (Aisling Chronicles)

by Colleen Halverson

  I threw my hands in the air. “Okay, okay. I did a terrible thing.” My throat tightened, and I stared up into Máirtín’s deep brown eyes. “Now what do I do?”

  He sighed, his eyes flitting up to the ceiling, as if he were asking God for answers. “Start with retrieving your soul. As long as you do not wear the mark of Gede, he cannot touch you in this world.”

  I nodded and turned to go but then hesitated, my hand lingering on the brass doorknob. We never went to church growing up, and Dad was usually working over the holidays. Jesus, the Saints, heaven. These were just abstract concepts to me, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Convenient illusions. Stories for children. But hell, if Faeries, demons, and wizards were real, why not some beautiful divine force? Was that really such a stretch? After everything I’ve seen? I glanced over my shoulder at Máirtín. He stood there, his hand resting on the sink, his brown eyes clouded with concern as he studied me. After the close encounter with the demon, I felt drawn to him, his faith, and I thought if he touched me, maybe some of his goodness would rub off on me somehow.

  “Will you bless me?” I said.

  Máirtín raised a hand in the air, his palm facing me. “I am not a priest. Not any longer.”

  I waved him away. “I don’t care about that, and I doubt that our Father, His Holiness of Light, or whatever flying spaghetti monster is up there does, either.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “Just bless me, okay?” I inched toward him.

  “Fine.”

  Máirtín placed his hand on my head, and his touch felt like the summer rain, warm and tingling.

  “In nomine patres, et filii, et spiritus sancti, amen.” He made the sign of the cross over me, punctuating his last movement with a deep sigh.

  “Thanks.” I gave him a weak smile.

  Máirtín shook his head. “Let’s just hope you do not need a full-on exorcism.”

  “You can you do that?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  We walked back into the living room to find Seamus and Regina sitting close together on the couch, their hands folded between their knees. Dad hovered in the doorway to the kitchen, staring down at them with his arms crossed.

  They bolted to standing when we emerged from the hallway.

  “Ready then?” Regina said.

  Máirtín nodded, taking her hand.

  I approached them, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Are you sure you guys don’t need a ride somewhere?”

  Máirtín shook his head. He looked me over one last time and then gave a hard stare in the guest room’s direction where Finn lay. His mouth tightened into a thin line, and he pulled Regina out the front door.

  Seamus placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I jumped.

  “Take care of Finn.” His face twisted with a frown, and he turned away. “Please,” he whispered.

  The door shut with a small click, and a deep silence settled into the living room, only the dull hum of the refrigerator breaking through the silence.

  “Dad—”

  “No, Lizzie. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t even want to—”

  “Did you love her?” The words escaped my mouth before I could think.

  Dad blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Mom.” My throat tightened. “Did you actually love her?”

  “Of course I loved her.” His voice sounded small and faraway.

  Tears of rage pressed against my eyelids, but I pushed them back, clenching my fists. “Then why did you betray her?”

  Dad turned to go into the kitchen.

  “Answer me!”

  A mirror on the wall shattered.

  Dad wheeled around, his eyes wide. “Lizzie, what—?”

  I traveled so I was right behind him.

  “Why did you betray her?”

  He jumped, a look of panic flashing in his eyes before his combat training kicked into gear.

  “Stop this right now, young lady.” His eyes narrowed, his chest heaving.

  “Tell me why.” I planted my feet on the floor and met his dark gaze.

  “Your mother is not up for discussion.”

  “No!” The windows rattled, my aisling powers growing until I felt my skin would burst. “No more lies. No more silence. Why did you betray her?”

  “She betrayed me!” His eyes blazed, his face a bright tomato red.

  I stared at him in stunned silence, his words stinging.

  “She lied to me, and then she left me all alone, Lizzie. She abandoned you. How could I tell you the truth? What kind of mother walks away from her baby?”

  My mouth gaped open, and I spluttered, the words not quite forming in my mouth. “That’s not true. I’ve seen her. She came to me. Finn and I, we’re looking for her. We’re—”

  “Don’t bother.” He shook his head. “I’ve been looking for your mother for over twenty years. She’s gone.”

  “No, Dad. I’m telling you. I saw her. She’s trapped somewhere. She’s—”

  “Enough, Lizzie!” He shook his head, the muscles beneath his olive, standard-issue T-shirt vibrating with barely contained rage. “You don’t know the whole story.”

  “Then tell me.” My voice came out in a hoarse whisper. I blinked, and a hot tear fell across my cheek. I didn’t bother to wipe it away. It didn’t matter to me if my tears made him feel uncomfortable. No more hiding. I needed him to see me as I was, not what he needed me to be. My whole life, I had pushed away the pain because I knew he couldn’t deal with it. Deal with me. I planted my feet to the floor, my fists at my sides.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  He paused, his profile illuminated by the street light outside the window. For a moment I saw a glimpse of the young man he once was, memory softening the angular planes of his face. Something outside caught his attention, and his shoulders tensed.

  “Not now,” he said in a soft voice.

  “Dad, what is it? Who’s out there?”

  He turned to me. “You look exhausted. Why don’t you go lay down.”

  “Dad…” I breathed, choking on a fresh wave of tears. He was blowing me off. Again.

  He placed a hand on the back of my neck and steered me toward the hallway. “You can take my bed.”

  I wrenched away. “Don’t do this. I want to talk.”

  Nodding, he lifted his hands in a sign of surrender. “I need to get some things. Collect my thoughts. I promise you. We’ll talk.”

  I met his stare and nodded. “Fine. But I’ll stay with Finn.”

  A deep line creased the middle of his forehead, and he opened his mouth to speak. With a sharp exhalation, he turned and retreated down the hall.

  “Lizzie.” He glanced over his shoulder.

  “What?”

  “I loved your mother. I would have done anything for her. I want you to know that.”

  I rested my head against the doorjamb. “Okay.”

  He disappeared, and I heard the backdoor slam.

  I sneaked into Finn’s room. His large body lay curled up in the blankets, his hand clenched on the down pillow. He shifted and let out a small moan.

  “Hey,” I breathed, crawling into bed beside him. “It’s okay, Finn.”

  His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked hard, trying to focus on my face.

  “What happened?”

  I stroked his hair away from his cheek, tucking a few of the silk strands behind his ear.

  “You were injured in Tír na nÓg. But I found Máirtín. He healed you.”

  Finn tried to sit up, but he winced, clutching on his side. “Máirtín is here?”

  “He just left.”

  Finn nodded, accepting my explanation. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth, either. For a moment, my heart contracted, thinking of the small piece of my soul still lost in the grate at the church. I needed to wait until it was clear, let my strength return. But my hands itched with my aisling powers, the need to travel, to seek out the small orb. I scrubbed my fac
e with my hands, trying to push down the pulsing waves of anxiety churning my insides. I snuggled closer to Finn, breathing in his beautiful man smell, my lips grazing his neck.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “For what?”

  I leaned over Finn, staring into his gray eyes. He appeared thinner, haggard. I smoothed the lines across his forehead, and he closed his eyes and smiled, kissing the heel of my palm.

  “I put you in danger. I—”

  His eyes snapped open. “You didn’t put me in danger, Elizabeth. I’m a grown man capable of making my own decisions.”

  I shrank away, but he pulled me back against his chest.

  “I am proud to fight at your side.” He stroked my hair, and I buried my face into his shoulder, tears stinging my eyes.

  “You almost died.” My voice broke, and I curled my arm over my head.

  “But I didn’t.” He shushed me. “I didn’t.”

  A sob escaped my lips, ugly and terrible, and once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop. My chest ached, my body convulsing violently with each hiccupping cry. I dug my nails into Finn’s shoulder, needing the reassurance of his presence, his long body lying next to mine. His strong arms wrapped around me and he rocked slightly, his one hand pressed against the back of my neck while the other wandered up and down my back in a soothing rhythm. I would sell a thousand souls to keep Finn in the world. No matter what Máirtín said. I would pay any price for him.

  “Sorry,” I spluttered, gasping for air. I wiped my tears away with the back of my hand. “God, I’m a mess.”

  He grabbed my fingers, arresting my gaze. “You look so beautiful right now.”

  “I need a shower.” I sniffed. “Or a fire hose.”

  Finn smiled, and sweet longing replaced the deep pit of anxiety in my stomach. My heart filled with his warmth, his love. I didn’t have a word for the connection I felt in that moment, the feeling of being a part of something greater than myself. I knew every inch of his skin. Every eyelash, every dark hair on his chest. And yet, beyond that, I knew I had finally touched some deeper landscape, some hidden territory. The knowledge hit me hard, leaving me out of breath and twisting my hands in the sheets. I opened my mouth to try to tell him, but the words wouldn’t form. The moment passed, and I swallowed, blinking rapidly.

  “Do you need anything?” I said. “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” He nestled back into the pillows. “Just tired.”

  I nodded, pulling the covers up to his chin. He flashed me a boyish grin before closing his eyes. His body went still, and in moments his breath evened with sleep.

  I watched him for a long time, hours ticking by. Occasionally I would run my thumb across the back of his hand or brush a stray hair away from his face. He would stir a bit, and I would wrench my hand away, cursing myself for disturbing him. Finally, deep in the early morning hours, I gave Finn a lingering kiss on the forehead, closed my eyes, and traveled.

  I opened my eyes and the frosty air stole the oxygen from my lungs. My feet sank into a snow drift in a dark alley on the side of the street across from the church. The sky was dumping snow, the spires barely visible behind billowing curtains of white. I slipped into the shadows, scanning the doors and windows for any sort of movement. My toes froze in my boots, growing numb against the bitter cold. I clutched my arms across my chest and waited. After an hour, with no sign of Fir Bolgs or Adepts, I crept up to the church, hiding behind cars and garbage cans until I reached the door. I crawled inside, being careful not to snag my coat on the shattered wood lining the archway.

  My eyes adjusted to the darkness. I blinked, training my sight down the aisle and straining my ears to seek out the slightest sound. My breath bloomed in front of me in tiny ice crystals, and other than a flutter of pigeon wings high above, the church remained still as a tomb. Nothing was left of the firefight, the floor cleared of Adepts and Fae.

  I waited one minute. Five. Ten. Then I scurried through the overturned pews, searching for the grate. I pressed my fingers into the rusted holes of the curly-cue design and pulled hard, shoving it to the side. I reached in, dead leaves crunching in my hand, an ancient mouse nest brushing up soft against my skin. I reached the cold stone below, and I sank my arm deeper into the drain, scraping away the debris. Panic twisted my chest, and bile burned the back of my throat.

  My soul was gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I pulled out weeds. Tiny rodent bones. More weeds. Dead leaves. Bubblegum wrappers. I grabbed my hair. Clawed at my scalp. Pounded my fist against the floor. Gone. My soul was gone.

  I sank against the tile, grabbing the grate and throwing it across the church. It landed with a dull metallic crash, sending a scurry of mice in all directions.

  “Shitfuckinggoddamnmotherfuckingshit,” I hissed, pressing my fist to my mouth and biting down to keep from screaming.

  My lungs constricted, cutting off my air supply. I forced myself to take a deep breath, the stream of cold air from my lips dissipating in the heavy silence of the church. Someone had taken it. But who? Thornton? Did the demon return for it? Did the Fir Bolgs steal it? Yes, it must have been them. They must have found it when they cleared the church of Adepts, shining like a beacon beneath the floor. Fuck.

  I took another deep breath, recalling Máirtín’s words about the rest of my soul healing on its own. The demon had said it himself. It’s just a small piece. I wouldn’t even miss it.

  I rubbed my hand across my chest, the bruised, achy feeling still pulsing deep inside.

  I did miss it.

  “Well, shit, Elizabeth,” I said to no one. My words echoed up through the buttresses, bouncing off the saints staring at me, their blank eyes hollow with contempt. “Fuckup,” they seemed to whisper. Outside, a salt truck crept down the street, the swishing sound of the engine strangely soothing. The intermittent beep ticked off the seconds, the length of the block, before turning and fading off into the distance.

  The Fir Bolgs probably didn’t even know what it was. I mean, what was one magical orb in a church littered with pentagrams and candles. It could be anything. Right?

  With one last deep inhale, I closed my eyes and returned to Dad’s house. I traveled straight to the bathroom and stripped off all my clothes, slipping into a scalding shower. Grabbing a faded washcloth, I scrubbed off layers of regret and anxiety, then watched it all dissolve down the drain in a swirl of white soapy water. A piece of my soul was missing, and there was nothing I could do about it. The end. What’s done is done.

  I grabbed a towel and rubbed it savagely across my soaking hair. Strands of dark hair fell across my face, and I stared into the mirror. For a moment, I considered telling Finn. I needed to tell him. But I knew I couldn’t bear the disapproving look on his face, the guilt he would feel for the price I paid to save him. No. This was my problem, and I would figure out how to solve it. If one of my enemies had my soul, I would feel the consequences of it soon enough. My hands tingled with my aisling power, and I shuddered with the surge of energy. I would take back what’s mine. One way or another.

  I found some of Dad’s folded laundry in the hallway and threw one of his T-shirts over my head. His bedroom door stood open. He still hadn’t returned, and I shook my head, thinking of our earlier exchange. Story of my life. Dad running off. Dad remaining silent. Dad refusing to answer my questions. I’d lived with the man for eighteen years, but I couldn’t tell you who he really was. I had stopped caring years ago, honestly. But now, my mother’s fate hinged on him talking.

  Like squeezing blood from a stone.

  I wandered into the living room, my hands tracing over his record collection, the spines cracked and browned from being handled over the years. Dad had never quite entered the twenty-first century, his musical tastes remaining stuck somewhere between 1962 and 1982. Lots of classic rock. It’s one of the only ways I knew he was actually human, waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of “Wild Horses” crackling through the hi-fi. A man who li
stens to that song in the early hours of the morning must have a soul, right?

  I slipped my hand between the record sleeves, seeking his old copy of Abbey Road. I pushed the chunky play button of the record player and placed the record delicately on the turntable. Dad had taught me how to place the needle on the groove. Made me practice over and over. Records require a gentle touch, like a lover. You have to tease out the music, taking care to press the needle down with just the right amount of force. Too little and it skips. Too much and it scratches.

  The crystal tinkling of piano keys and Paul McCartney’s crooning voice filled the room as he sang “You Never Give Me Your Money.” I collapsed onto the couch, hugging my knees to my chest and staring at the wall.

  “Elizabeth?”

  Finn stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed and scratching his head.

  I flashed him a weak smile, sitting up a little. “You should be in bed.”

  “I woke up and you weren’t there.” He studied me, and his hand drifted over the arm rest. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, smiling wider, trying to push down the darkness in my chest. It hurt like a bitch. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  He sat down next to me and placed his arm around my shoulder. I curled up against him, my thigh resting over his. We listened, letting the harmonies wash over us.

  “Paul McCartney wrote this song about his manager who was cheating him out of some money,” I said.

  Finn pulled me closer, his hand squeezing my arm.

  “But to me, I always felt it was about empty promises, you know? You want the real thing. Not Monopoly money.”

  “Elizabeth,” Finn whispered in my ear. “What’s wrong?”

  “And after years of that emptiness, you forget how to give the real thing to yourself. You want to, but you just can’t.” I stared at my hands curled up on my lap. They looked shriveled in the darkness, like claws.

  “Because we break down, Finn,” I continued. “You can go for a long time. But in the end, you break down.” I tore away from his arms, staring him square in the eye. “I once read a story about pigeons that eat Styrofoam. They eat and eat and eat, thinking they’re getting the real thing. But in the end they die from starvation.”