by Horn, J. D.
“Ellen, this is not you speaking, not really.” Iris pleaded with her eyes. “You are speaking from a place of dark pain.”
“Why?” Ellen shrieked as every cupboard began to open and slam shut again and again. “Erik had two sons. Why would Josef be the one to live instead of Paul?”
And there we had it. Worse than Josef’s being another living monument to Erik’s colossal infidelities, a truth to which Ellen had long ago become accustomed, worse than the torture Josef had practiced on her during our night of horrors at Tillandsia, was the hard, cold stone of pain Ellen had been polishing since her son had died.
I felt my own fear for Colin, and for the first time ever, I thought I could begin to understand Ellen’s agony. God, all the times I resented her for giving in to another messy drunken bender. She needs to pull herself together. Move past it. What an insensitive little bitch I had been. I thanked God I’d always kept these ignorant thoughts to myself, rather than proving myself a fool by sharing them with her. Now, I could feel the gravity of her pain, how nearly impossible it had been for her to get out of bed some mornings. Still, she had, she’d gone on, and dang it, if she found herself too weak from time to time to go on without a crutch, I had no right to judge her. Help her, encourage her, remind her she could do better, but judge her, no.
“Please, Aunt Ellen,” I said, hoping to quiet the noise, “you’re scaring me.”
Ellen trembled, but the shaking around us stopped. Iris watched her sister, hesitating to speak, but finally said what the rest of us all were thinking. “You’re right, Ellie, it doesn’t make one damned bit of sense.” Iris fell silent, and the distant look in her eyes told me she was doing a bit of soul-searching. “Honestly, if putting Josef down would bring you back your boy, I think I might just do it myself. Single-handedly.” Ellen and Iris locked eyes. “But killing Josef is not going to bring Paul back to us. You know that.”
Ellen closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes, I do. I know you are right. My head tells me you are right. We have to handle him humanely. Oh, but Iris, my heart. The dark things it calls me to do.”
Iris joined the rest of us at the table. She sat between me and Adam, and took each of our hands. I, in turn, reached out for Ellen, she for Oliver, then my uncle completed the circle by tightening his grasp on Adam’s hand. We remained there for a minute or so, still, silent, connected. I felt my little one kick and gasped. The combined will of my magical family had woven a protective net around my son. It was working. My boy was a fighter. He wouldn’t simply fade away. I believed it in my soul. The faces around the table lit up as they realized what had happened. I tightened my grip on my family, and wished Maisie were there with us to enjoy this rare and glowing instant.
Then that moment ended. Iris released her grasp on those next to her. “Maisie,” she said, and I turned to find my sister standing behind me. “How did you get out of your room?”
“A bit of advice, Mercy.” Maisie wrapped an arm around my neck and gave me a gentle squeeze. “Be careful of what you wish for.” She released me. “Don’t blame me, blame little sister here. She sprung me from the pen.”
“Mercy,” Iris began, exasperation sounding in her voice, “we had agreed—”
“I didn’t mean to, I just . . . I just missed her.”
“Well, perhaps it is for the best,” Iris said, her shoulders relaxing. “But you, young lady”—she pointed at Maisie—“you are not to lift a finger against Josef, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Maisie replied, her tone reminding me of when Iris used to make us promise to come home before curfew.
Iris pointed at a chair and it slid out from beneath the table. “Sit,” she commanded, and Maisie did as she was told without protest. “Good.” Iris took a moment to look each of us over. I surmised she was trying to find the best way to make her case for a more rational course toward justice. “Listen, y’all. We are too close to this. We cannot be both victim and judge. I acknowledge our ordinary legal system is not capable of dealing with a creature like Josef. Still, I think we have to find a civilized way of dealing with him.” A wrinkle formed between her eyes. “Perhaps we should turn him over to the anchors. Let them judge his actions.”
“Iris,” Adam said, causing his chair to squeak as he shifted in it, “I don’t mean any disrespect, but I think you’re only shifting the responsibility.”
Iris’s lips pursed, but she held her tongue.
“Besides,” Oliver said, “we all know what will happen if they get their hands on him. They will execute him, and, I am sure, in a much less humane way than we might employ.”
Iris licked her lips and nodded. “Perhaps if we could convince them to hold him as a prisoner of war.”
“Yeah, right, sis. And if they do agree to that? You know they will end up trading him as soon as it is convenient for them to do so. Three weeks from now, you will probably wake to find Josef has been watching over you as you sleep.”
I shuddered. That was not a pleasant thought.
“I’ll take him,” Maisie said, striking the rest of us dumb. It struck me as a mad idea, but her lovely face was calm and her blue eyes full of a clarity like I’d never before seen in them. “I’ll take him to the dimension where they kept Gudrun. I know the way there.”
“That isn’t a bad idea,” Oliver said.
“Of course, I’ll stay there with him. Perhaps in time I can reach him—”
“Don’t be absurd.” Iris cut her off. “That is plain foolish talk. We are not going to allow you to sacrifice your life to that boy’s rehabilitation.”
Maisie folded her hands on the table. “He’s been damaged by those who would end the line.” Maisie’s eyes moved from one of us to another. “I have been damaged by those who would preserve it.”
“No, honey,” Ellen said, leaning in toward Maisie. “You are nothing like Josef. Nothing at all.”
“Nothing?” Maisie asked, but it was to me she addressed the question. “It’s true Josef takes pleasure in killing, but I could end Josef right now and not lose a moment’s peace.” She turned to Iris. “Am I really to live the rest of my life being locked in my room to prevent me from doing harm?” Then to Ellen. “I know you don’t want to see me as being like Josef, but honestly, Aunt Ellen, to me he is the truest of mirrors. Perhaps I can help him. Perhaps I can help myself.” She looked to Oliver. “Uncle Oliver, you understand, I know you do.” Her comment struck me as being a shade cryptic, but I’d process that one later. “Josef may be my only true shot at redemption.”
Hot tears burst from Oliver’s eyes. “I understand, sweetie. I do.”
“How could you agree to this?” Iris turned on her brother.
“Because I don’t really care what we do with the boy. Kill him. Keep him. I do not care. But I do care about our Maisie here, and I just realized how inhumanely we have been treating her. She isn’t a little girl we can warn not to run with scissors. She’s a grown woman. A grown woman who has done horrible things. Things, thank God almighty, it is in her soul to regret.” He paused and looked at Maisie. “That, my girl, is how you differ from Josef.”
“He’s right, Iris,” Ellen said calmly. “We have been unable fully to embrace Maisie. We may not have served her with the death sentence, but we have locked her up without hope for parole.” Ellen turned to Maisie. “I’m sorry. I do love you so very much. If you think doing this might bring you peace, help you find some form of resolution, then I too support you . . .” Her voice broke, and she choked back a sob. “Just promise me you won’t stay away forever.”
Maisie reached across the table to take Ellen’s hand. “I’ll try.”
“What is happening here?” Iris said, fear and anger taking her over.
Oliver stood and circled behind Maisie. He placed his hand on her shoulders. “What’s happening here is our little girl has grown up, and we’ve got to let her go.”
> “No,” Iris said, her tone firm, resolute, unyielding. She blinked. “She may be grown, but she is still my baby.” Iris looked to me for support. “You both are. I raised you. You’re mine.”
I drew a breath, fighting the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. “And we always will be, but Maisie is right. We owe Maisie her freedom. She deserves a chance to become the person she would have been if the dispute over the line hadn’t robbed her of the life she could have had.” I turned to Maisie, and lost all control. “I know I’ve got to let you go, but I don’t think my heart can take another loss right now. If you really need to do this, I won’t stand in your way, but don’t you dare say good-bye.” I forced my chair back from the table and stood. I walked to the door, and put my hand on the handle. I couldn’t look back or I would capture her, bind her to this house forever so she could never leave me. “And by God, you’d better come back to us or I will find you and drag you back . . . again.”
“I’m counting on that,” Maisie said.
“I love you,” I said and yanked the door open.
“I love you too.” Her words found me as I shut the door behind me.
TWENTY-SIX
I started walking in my fastest waddle toward the river. I had to put some space between myself and the realization that I had, once again, lost my sister. So many holes had formed in my heart, I could almost hear the wind whistling through it.
As a reflex, I went out into Savannah, my hometown, trying not to think how the city had been changed for me. So many parts of my city had come to seem polluted. I’d grown up playing in Oglethorpe Park. Now were I to walk its paths, I would either think of Gudrun, or feel the loss of Peter eating away at my heart. Looking across at the Candler Oak, I would sense if not see the remnants of the spell my grandfather had placed there to protect Savannah from the child-murdering demon Barron. Of course now, rather than feeling proud of Granddad, I would be left to wonder how he could have deserted his first family.
The good people of Savannah, the same I’d grown up with, befriended, loved, and tried to help whenever I could, they were rejecting me now my powers had come to me. The change in their attitude was not overt, but I still felt a chill in my heart as true friendship turned to mere politeness. All the same it hurt like hell to be rejected by the people of the city I loved, no matter how polite they were when building the walls between us. I knew the change wasn’t their fault; regular folk just kept witches at an arm’s length. Maybe this aversion on the part of the everyday Joe to those of us who had magic written in our very DNA had developed as a defense.
I realized there wasn’t a single sidewalk in this city I hadn’t walked a rut in. For the first time in my life, I began to see Savannah as the small town it was. A small town with no room for the outsider, even if that outsider had been born and raised here.
The only time I’d ever really been more than a stone’s throw from it was when I visited Oliver in San Francisco after I’d graduated high school. After growing up in the low country, the hills amazed me. I loved the city and its vibrancy. The way it gravitated toward the new, despite its Victorian façade. Still, at that point, I couldn’t imagine anywhere as home but Savannah. Now I wished I had traveled more. Gone to New York and Paris. But not even a year ago, it seemed like I had all the time in the world to see the world.
Was this how it had been for Ginny? Had the feeling I had right now been the same seed that grew into a harvest of bitterness in her heart? Had she felt trapped, regretful? Had the response of Savannah to her power caused her to come to feel like an unwanted guest at the party? I would not end up like she had, though. I had love in my life. I had someone to live for. Someone who in the end was far more important to me than I was even to myself. I may have lost my husband, but I still had my son, and I forced myself to hold on to the hope that nothing would take him away.
I would have to avoid passing directly in front of the Cotton Exchange. Now, the image of my mother’s torso bound to Old Rex would be forever burned into my mind’s eye. I could swing wide and head down East Broad past the Pirates’ House. I ran inventory of recent trauma. No, the Pirates’ House was still good. Nothing heartbreaking or terrifying had occurred there. Yet.
I could avoid the Exchange area entirely by cutting east down Bay. I stopped dead in my tracks. The green space in front of the exchange was called “Emmet Park.” I couldn’t believe I’d never before made the connection, but another realization piggybacked on that thought. I sighed and let my head fall forward. “You’ve been doing a good job hiding, but I know you’re here. You might as well go on and show yourself.”
The thin air before me opened like an envelope and out stepped my nearly seven-foot friend. “I’ve had to work hard,” Emmet said, “to keep up with your own magical growth spurts. It appears you have surpassed my skills.” He seemed both proud and disappointed in the same moment, never fearing even for a split second I’d lay into him. How many times had we had the talk about stalking?
Another day, a lifetime ago, I would have let him have it with both barrels. Today, I was glad to see his face. “Yes, your creepy habit no longer goes unnoticed.” Even my sarcasm had lost its edge. Only when I took his arm did he seem in the least bit unsure of himself. “Walk me to the water?”
He looked down at me, his dark eyes the promise of a well-needed respite, his strong arm a promise of shelter. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”
I found myself leaning on his arm for support, taking more comfort, no, more pleasure from his strong and solid body than a married woman—for I still felt married—should. People would talk if they saw us. People would talk if they still even remembered Peter, that is. His Fae mother implied that as Peter reintegrated into his rightful world, he would be disentangled from our reality, every memory of his existence eventually erased from this world. How would it work, this forgetting? Would it roll back like the reverse of a pebble dropping into a pond, his memory receding first from those who knew him least, working its way back to the center, to those who loved him most? Would I be the last person on earth who remembered Peter Tierney had ever existed? Had Peter already forgotten me?
“We will work together to preserve his memory. For the boy.”
I jolted to a stop. Emmet might just end up catching an earful today anyway.
“Too intrusive?” he asked.
I realized from his tone this was an actual question, not sarcasm. “Yes. Way too.”
“I’m sorry.” He began walking again, pulling me along. I didn’t resist.
“How could you read me so easily?”
This time it was his turn to stop dead. He looked at me with wide eyes and an open mouth. “You don’t realize you are broadcasting your thoughts?” He looked me up and down. “Your emotions are wafting off you. Even the stray dogs are crossing the street to stay out of your path.”
“Shut up and walk.”
He did as he was told, for about four and a half steps, then he started talking again. “Colin will know of his father. He will be proud of who Peter was. We will tell him Peter loved the two of you very much, but the pull of his natural world was too strong. We—”
“I’m not sure what all this ‘we’ is about, Emmet. There is no ‘we.’ ”
He looked down at me, and this time his face betrayed an absolute conviction. “I, of course, will raise the child as my own. I will be a father to Colin.”
“I don’t remember asking you.” I didn’t know how to react, how to feel. I was touched by his devotion, angered by his sense of proprietorship, annoyed by his poor timing, shamed by how badly I wanted to throw myself into his arms, frustrated by having to choke back the urge to slap him cross-eyed.
He stopped again. I realized I was not going to be seeing the river today. “It wasn’t necessary for you to ask me. I already love the child as my own, and you know I love you.”
“Emmet,” I sai
d, his name carrying the sound of my exasperation, “I am not ready to even consider moving on from Peter. You have to remember, it isn’t like I’ve lived years as a widow. I’ve only just lost my husband.”
“I’m well aware of that,” he said, and I was surprised to hear my vexation matched by his own. “But you have to remember I have waited for you my entire life.” I started to speak, but he held his finger up to my lips. “You don’t have to love me. I don’t expect you to lie with me. I just want you to allow me to act as your support. To fill the void that has been created in your and Colin’s life. I’ll make an excellent father.” He tapped his forehead with his finger. “I’ve got the experience of eight men and one Jewish mother filed away in here.” He was referring, of course, to the nine witches, including Rivkah, who had created the golem from driveway dirt. When the line’s power struck him and turned him into a real boy, he retained the memories of their life experiences.
I had come across the first stirrings as he rose from the earth. The sight of him had terrified me. Now he frightened me in a different way. I knew he was right. Colin couldn’t hope for a better father, other than his own, that is. But I wasn’t at all ready to entertain his plans. I pushed Emmet’s hand away. “I know you care. I do. But you can’t replace Peter.”
“I don’t want to replace Peter. I want to dedicate my life to preserving his memory. To raising his son. To cherishing the woman he too loved . . .”
“He’s forgotten me.” I began crying, and Emmet pulled me into his strong embrace. I let him. I let myself take comfort from him.
“He didn’t forget you.” Emmet stroked my hair. “Peter could never have forgotten you. His feelings, his memory, his history—everything was unwound. Peter not only lost you and Colin. He lost himself.” Emmet placed a gentle kiss on the top of my head. “Don’t blame him. Don’t resent him. I know he would never have left you if he had even the slightest choice in the matter.”
I drew in a breath, then sighed it out. I let his words soothe me, and I relaxed in his arms. I knew I could let myself go limp, but still I wouldn’t fall, because Emmet held me. “Peter would kill you if he saw you holding me like this.”
