Shatter the Earth (Cassandra Palmer 10)

It had been warmer in the daytime, when Pritkin and I had gone clamming, our feet bare and sand covered, our trouser legs rolled up, and I’d showed him the long, weird looking ones that Gertie had said made good chowder. She’d been right; we’d had some for dinner. But now it was nightfall, with just the last gleams of sunlight flirting with the horizon, as if reluctant to leave.

“Ready?” Pritkin asked, coming up behind me.

I nodded.

He walked over to a large pile of wood that he’d spent more than an hour building into just the right shape. It had been kind of him; I knew that. But I almost didn’t want him to light it.

Samhain was here, and at its heart, it wasn’t about carnivals and candy and face painting. It’s why we had returned to our time but not to the hotel, where my court had been informed that I was taking a small break. The truth was, I didn’t want to see laughing kid’s faces tonight, or cutesy costumes, or overly sugared tykes running rings around their minders. I’d thought I wanted this, the real meaning of the holiday, which originally had been about honoring those who had passed throughout the year.

But now that I was here . . .

“Wait,” I told Pritkin hoarsely, the sea spray wet on my face. “I just . . . wait, okay?”

He nodded and came back over. He wrapped his arms around me, the unlit taper in front of us, the sea roaring in our ears. We just stood like that for a long time, while the sun finished setting and the stars came out.

It was beautiful, but I wasn’t seeing it. I was seeing the search for Billy, which had taken half a day. A small group of corpsmen and fey had volunteered after the battle, once they’d understood what he’d done for them—for all of us. But they hadn’t found anything for hours, leading me to hope that maybe they never would. That he’d fallen out of the band of Faerie’s energy, that he’d had shifted back to his ghost form again before hitting down, that he’d landed somewhere but was only hurt, that . . . that something.

Then I’d seen them coming, as the late afternoon light spread over the hillside, four of them carrying something wrapped in a sheet. And it had been like seeing him go over that cliff all over again. My world had cracked and shattered, and it wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. I didn’t know how anything was supposed to be okay ever again.

We’d buried him in Ireland, near his family home, two days ago. I didn’t know if I should have or not. “

You’re my family.” It felt like a betrayal; it felt wrong.

Everything was wrong and dark and we’d won and I hated it, because the price—

Had been too high.

“The ancient Celts believed that this was a special night,” Pritkin said. “The one night of the year when the veil between worlds was thinnest, and the living could communicate with the dead.”

“And yet I can’t,” I said harshly, and tried to push him away.

He held on, his touch firm but gentle. “You don’t have to do this,” he told me. “But you haven’t cried. You haven’t grieved.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’m here for you, when you need me,” he finally said.

“I know.” My throat was tight, but my eyes were dry. I nodded at the pile. “Go ahead. Light it.”

The bonfire burned tall and bright, scattering sparks off to the left, because the wind had come up. It was beautiful, the orange red flames against the blue-black night. I turned into Pritkin’s chest and he just held me for a while.

It didn’t help. Nothing helped. My best friend was gone, and nothing would change that.

We went to bed.

The little house was a rental, on a beach somewhere in Wales. I hadn’t asked where; didn’t care. It was pretty, and I could hear the waves from here. Pritkin was “breathing loudly” next to me within minutes, but I couldn’t sleep.

After half an hour or so, I got up and went to the living room. It had a bow window overlooking the sea. The bonfire was still guttering, blowing streamers of sparks into the night sky, and the moonlight was dancing on the water. It looked magical, or it should have.

But there was no magic in the world for me.

“How’d it go?”

My head had been resting on my arms, which had been crossed over back of the couch, and my eyes had been closed. But now I opened them to see a glimmering, transparent cowboy, sitting on the seat beside me. He was rolling a cigarette, and could swear I smelled the smoke.

It was a dream; I knew it was.

I’d take it.