Honora relaxes slightly next to her. She gets it now. They’re protecting the Watchers by attacking them. By keeping this monster out of their home.
“The coast,” the Sleeping One says. His eyes are fixed above her head. “I cannot go there. The call of the ocean, the weight of the stones, the press of humanity. If I go, will I want to stay? I stayed once. Longer than I should have.”
“Right,” Sean says. “We’re keeping you far away from the little ginger Slayer. Let’s get you back to Dublin before the bobbies get wind of this”—he gestures with disgust toward the still-warm body—“and then you leave it to my girls.”
Artemis struggles to hide her disgust at Sean’s possessive words. Honora looks at her nails, stained nearly black with her favorite fingernail polish. Artemis tries not to think about how her own nails used to be cheerful rainbows once a week thanks to Nina and their manicure and movie nights. She tries not to imagine how much blood must be under the Sleeping One’s fingernails right now.
Sean pulls out a handkerchief and gingerly retrieves the eyeballs. “Did you want these for some reason?” he asks the Sleeping One.
“I want only the power to save this corrupted world and this corrupting form.”
Artemis is even more bothered by how much she relates to that than she was by Sean’s possessiveness. She brushes it off, though. One of them wants power to dominate the entire world. One of them wants power to protect it. She’s nothing like this monster.
“Cheers to that.” Sean hands the eyeballs to one of the goons. “All right, ladies. Demons to steal, gods to recharge, bills to pay. Don’t disappoint me.” He tries to sound intimidating, but he’s not the threat and they all know it.
The Sleeping One fixes his eyes on Artemis’s. “This one is hungry,” he says. “She needs. She will bring me my prize.”
“I will.” She’ll attack her own family to do it. She’ll break Nina’s heart forever. And she won’t apologize for any of it, because a Watcher makes the hard sacrifices. A Watcher makes the choices no one else can. The test she failed was a simulation; she won’t fail the real one.
16
MARICRUZ LEANS INTO THE SPACE between the front seats. Doug is driving, and I’m in the passenger seat losing my mind. “Wait, so you are a Watcher, or you were a Watcher, or … ,” she asks.
“It’s complicated.”
“Okay, but Watchers have, like, a crap-ton of research, right? So tell me this: Mermaids. Real or not? Because if all these other monsters and demons are real, can’t we at least have mermaids, too, to balance the scales?”
“Not mermaids exactly, but I’m pretty sure I’ve read about something similar. Carnivorous, though.”
“No way!” Maricruz leans back, almost bouncing in her seat.
“How do mermaids do it?” Taylor asks, staring out the window at the night. We’re almost at the ferry. “Do they lay eggs like fish? Or do they … you know, do it?”
“Rhys can tell you. Stake me, Rhys. I forgot.” I pull out my phone to see dozens of texts and several missed calls. This was way longer than we were supposed to be gone, and we haven’t checked in with him at all. Not to mention my last call with Cillian was probably quite alarming. I text Rhys the details of our London trip. I hesitate, then leave out Artemis and Honora. Too much to get into. It’ll be easier to explain in person. I include the Slayers and Oz with a sinking feeling. No way to avoid mentioning that we hit Von Alston. Which means my mother will know I deliberately went against her advice. Even though I’m glad we did—who knows what would have happened to Oz and the Slayers otherwise—that old fear of displeasing her is hard to get rid of. I spent so many years desperate for her to acknowledge me, to approve of me, that disobeying her is terrifying.
But all those details about the trip are lost to context when I send the last text. My terse line about finding Leo is met with many, many nonterse texts back, which I ignore. At least their minds being blown over Leo might distract them from when I tell them about Artemis. I still don’t know how I’m going to do that.
On the ferry, I pace the deck and try not to think about Leo, who is sleeping in the van. The Slayers keep to themselves, which I get. They still don’t know me, not really. And I’m positively radiating my angst—a fact Doug let me know very unsubtly by keeping the windows rolled down on the drive, even though it’s January.
Between the drive, the wait for the ferry, and the ferry itself, it’s dark again when we finally get to Ireland. Rhys texts me as the ferry docks and I slide back into the car. I frown at my phone. “They’re here.”
“Who’s here?” Doug asks.
“Rhys and at least one other person, unless he refers to himself using the royal ‘we’ now. Said to meet them immediately. Parking lot one street over.” I give Oz directions to follow us. The few humming streetlights bathe the parking lot in eerily flat orange light. We pull in to find the only other car is one of ours, and standing outside it are Rhys, Cillian, Imogen, Tsip, and my mother. And then ancient Ruth Zabuto, she of the knitting needles and openmouthed snoring when she’s supposed to be watching the Littles, comes around the side holding a sword.
I’m out of our car before Doug puts it in park. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Get out of the van,” Rhys shouts. Doug climbs out of our car, the same look of confusion and fear on his face. The Slayers follow him, Taylor holding the kitten in front of her face like a shield.
Maricruz looks pissed, but I suspect it masks fear. “What is this?” she demands. “Did you set us up?”
Rhys is holding a crossbow. My mother has one hand in her suit pocket, where I’m almost positive she has her brutal handgun. Imogen doesn’t look tense; she’s casually leaning against their Range Rover. Tsip is shimmering in and out of existence. And Ruth has her feet apart in a fighting stance. How is she even holding the sword up? It’s got to weigh almost as much as she does.
I hold out a hand to Maricruz, who looks ready to run. “No! I have no idea what this is about.”
“I knew I should have RSVPed,” Oz says, climbing out of his van. “I always forget.”
Chao-Ahn slides free from the passenger seat with a stake in her hand and daggers in her glare as she looks at me.