Storm Gods

by G. Bailey

  Chapter 14

  It feels like the world has shrunk to a point in front of me. Sound seems to ebb and flow, and in spite of the fact that my brother is lying dead in the corner of our living room, all I can seem to do is stare down at my hands. The vine tattoos seem to stare up at me like they’re issuing a challenge, and I’m helpless to do anything other than give in. The tears are coming before I even realise it, pricking at my eyes before spilling over and rolling down my cheeks like a waterfall. And then I’m sobbing, my shoulders shaking with the force of my grief as I slowly sink onto the floor, still unable to do anything other than look down at myself in horror. The room blurs with tears, and the sounds of the others around me make me feel like I’m underwater. Vaguely, I’m aware of my mother sobbing, and the sound of my dad’s broken voice as he does his best to comfort her, but it’s clear even without looking that he’s struggling to hold it together. This is my fault, I think, and the tears come even harder. I did this. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t said no to him, if I had just given him what he wanted…

  I nearly jump out of my skin when a hand drops to my shoulder, and I look up to see Killian staring down at me, his face a grimace of sympathy and despair. Storm is watching us from the corner, his arms crossed over his chest, and it’s clear that he doesn’t know what to do. Seth, too, seems out of his element as he swallows hard, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. I can’t blame him; the guys didn’t know Hugo the way they know me, but that doesn’t make it any harder to witness. Realising that I’m shaking, I lean into Killian’s touch without meaning to, reaching up to grip his hand like a vise as I do my best to compose myself. “Here,” he murmurs, covering my hand with his own, “let me help you.”

  I can’t even bring myself to resist, instead letting him pull me gently to my feet and envelop me in his strong arms. I bury my face in his chest like a child as he strokes my hair gently, treating me as delicately as if I were made of porcelain, and as haughty as I can be, I don’t even object. Right now, I feel like the smallest touch could shatter me. I continue to cry, aware that I’m staining his shirt with tears but unable to help it. “Shh,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the crown of my head. “It’s okay. Let it out.” That only seems to bring on more tears, and my grip on him tightens almost instinctively.

  Hugo is dead. Hugo is dead. Hugo is dead. It doesn’t seem real. At any minute, I’m going to wake up safe and sound in my bed and sigh with relief when I realise this was all just a bad dream. Hugo is dead and it’s my fault. Hugo is dead and it’s my fault. Hugo is dead and it’s my—

  “That bastard,” comes Peyton’s voice, sounding broken and ragged, drawing my attention and forcing me to look away from Killian. “That conniving, selfish son of a bitch.”

  “He doesn’t care about anyone or anything,” Mads concurs, and I see that she’s rubbing his back, doing her best to soothe him. “That much is clear.”

  “My poor baby,” mum wails, dropping her head as her shoulders heave with sobs. Dad does his best to pull her away from Hugo’s body, but she’s not having any of it, flinging his hands off herself without so much as a second glance as she allows her grief to take her over. Damien is standing in the far corner of the room, tears silently streaming down his face, and I see that his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. His face is a mask of pain. He and Hugo were always close, closer to each other than I was to either of them. Their relationship always reminded me a little of my own relationship with Peyton, and my heart goes out to him even as it breaks. He had a life. He had a partner. He had people who loved him. And now he’s been snatched away because I was too stubborn to realise when I was outmatched.

  Before I’m even aware I’m doing it, I’m turning to look at Hugo’s body, and an instant later I’m regretting it. The hole in his chest where the lightning struck is still smouldering, the noxious smell of death and scorched skin permeating the entire house. His muscles are already going rigid, and his eyes are wide and staring, glossing over right in front of us. His face is frozen in an expression of panic and surprise, his mouth twisted in a half-grimace that hurts me more the longer I look at it. “Close his eyes,” I say, my voice shaking. I’m not even sure who I’m talking to. “Please, just…close them.”

  Dad swallows hard and nods to me before squatting down and smoothing his palm over Hugo’s eyes, gently urging them closed. It helps, but only a little; it feels like my guilt has taken on human form and is now staring lifelessly up at me, coaxing more and more tears out of me. “I…,” I say, my voice sounding foreign even to my own ears. “I can’t… He’s…” But nothing coherent seems to form, and even doing something as simple as remaining standing suddenly feels like too much. For a moment I sway on my feet, and Killian, who was in the process of going to help them move the body, turns back around. Storm gets to me first, though, putting his muscular arm around my waist and allowing me to sag against him, my legs now feeling like jelly.

  “Karma,” the weather god murmurs in my ear, his voice gentle but firm, “you need to lie down.”

  The suggestion rubs me the wrong way, and I find myself lashing out without meaning to. “No, I don’t,” I snap, trying desperately to free myself of his grip. “Get off me! I need Hugo! I need my brother! I need…” But Storm’s grip holds fast, and he gently fends off my flailing arms, taking hold of my wrists and pulling me into his arms. I begin to sob again, the fight going out of me, and this time when Storm pulls me away, I don’t resist. Moving slowly, he puts an arm beneath my legs and lifts me up, carrying me like a child as he takes a few steps back.

  “I’m going to take her upstairs,” he announces. “She’s in shock, I think.”

  Mum doesn’t even seem to hear him, but dad manages to look up through his tears and give Storm a curt nod. Neither of the justice twins objects as the storm god carries me upstairs, away from the sounds of grief, and takes me to my room. Even after he closes the door, I can still hear my mother’s wailing downstairs, and the sound just makes me cry harder. For all the pain I’m in, hers must be worse; no mother deserves to watch her own child die in front of her.

  Gingerly, Storm deposits me on my bed, the sheets still rumpled from our hasty departure when the attack happened. It already feels like a lifetime ago, even though it’s only been a few minutes. He moves to sit beside me on the comforter, helping me to prop my head up against a pillow before brushing the tear-stained red curls out of my face. “It’s okay, Karma,” he murmurs, his tone calm and soothing. “I’m here. We’re all here. Just breathe.”

  “You’re not all here,” I protest, my voice cracking even as I say it. “Hugo’s dead. He’s dead because of me.”

  Storm’s violet eyes go steely at that, his lips pressing together. “Hey, stop. Look at me, little one,” he says, taking my chin in his hand and turning my head so that I meet his gaze. “This wasn’t your fault,” he says, but even the conviction in his tone isn’t enough to convince me, and I can only shake my head numbly.

  “This doesn’t feel real,” I mutter, staring down at the bedspread like it might burst into flames at any minute. It would be no less than what I deserve, I think bitterly.

  “I know,” he says, using his thumbs to wipe the tears off my cheeks. “It never does, I think.” I just stare at him for a moment, not comprehending, and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. For someone I know is immortal, he looks more tired right now than he ever has before. “Back at the prison,” he says slowly, “I saw a great deal of death. More than my fair share. It was part of living in a place where people spent their whole lives.”

  “This is different,” I insist. “Those prisoners didn’t die because of your mistake.”

  “You were trying to do the right thing,” Storm replies, still rubbing tender circles over my cheekbones. His touch feels like the only thing keeping me grounded in reality. “You were trying to prevent more death. After what happened to San Francisco…” He seems to realise his mistake, his eyes going wi
de as a fresh bout of sobbing takes me over. “That wasn’t your fault, either,” he insists, pulling me into his embrace once more.

  “You keep saying that,” I mutter.

  “That’s because it’s true. None of this—none of what’s happened to us—has been your fault, Karma. And I’m going to keep reminding you of that until you believe it.”

  Sniffling, I pull back to look him in the eyes. “All the people who died in San Francisco, and this still hits harder.”

  “He was your brother,” Storm replies simply. It’s all that needs to be said. I bury my face in my hands. “He was your brother, and he loved you.”

  “I loved him, too,” I murmur.

  For a while, neither of us speaks, and then Storm clears his throat. “We will need to have a funeral,” he says. “It’s the least we can do, to honour him.”

  I nod. “I don’t… I mean, I’ve never…”

  “Don’t worry about that, little one,” Storm tells me. “Killian, Seth, and I will help. You and your family deserve time to grieve.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, reaching out to touch his cheek. “I mean it.”

  “I know you do, Karma,” Storm murmurs. “Now get some rest.”

  “I don’t know if I can sleep,” I confess. Truthfully, I’m exhausted, but I’m afraid of what dreams might come in the aftermath of what’s happened.

  “I’ll stay here with you,” the storm god offers. “If you want, of course.”

  “Yes,” I say, nodding. “Yeah, I… please.” The bright white agony is giving way to numbness, shock, and disbelief. The only other death I’ve witnessed was Jade’s, and I only knew her for a few days before being swept off into Xur’s dominion. Somehow, the idea of having time to process this makes the whole thing even more painful.

  Moving slowly, like he doesn’t want to cause me undue stress, Storm helps me under the covers before climbing in beside me and wrapping his arm around my shoulders. To his credit, he doesn’t mumble platitudes or make half-hearted reassurances that it’s all going to be okay. He’s seen enough death in his four hundred years to know without asking that the world is coming down around me right now. Instead, he just runs his hands through my hair in the same simple, soothing movement, and in spite of my fear, I can feel the fatigue hitting me like a freight train. The world dims around me, and when sleep finally comes, it’s a mercy.

  I’ve always hated funerals. Granted, until this period in my life, I’ve been fortunate not to have very much experience with death in general, but what little I had before doesn’t make me feel any better. I remember the time we went to the funeral of my dad’s mother, back when I was in primary school, and it was one of the most miserable occasions of my life. I had never seen so many people so broken up by something, so utterly devastated, and I think that was when, in my young girl’s mind, I finally realised that death was permanent. There’s no getting away from it, no fixing it with magic; it’s the one thing that being a supernatural being won’t let you escape. And watching a slew of grieving relatives taking turns making speeches, half-delirious from the sadness and the exhaustion, was a grim reminder that some things are permanent, no matter how cruel or unjust.

  I find myself thinking back to that moment now as we file into the small chapel on the outskirts of town, a horrible sinking feeling settling in my stomach. This is the day we lay Hugo to rest, and I don’t know if I can bear it. I’m trailing behind the others, and I find myself stopping dead in my tracks before I climb the steps, my breath hitching in my chest. You would think I would be all cried out by now, but you would be wrong; I’m starting to think grief is just going to become my default state sooner or later.

  As if sensing my apprehension, Seth comes to a stop next to me, reaching out tentatively and putting his hand on the small of my back. “Hey,” he murmurs. “It’s all right. I’m here. We’re here.”

  I sniffle and look up at him with a half-hearted smile, nodding once. I can see Storm and Killian lingering by the entrance to the chapel; they’re all dressed in suits, although I don’t remember them ever going to pick them out. That said, I don’t remember much of the last few days. It’s been like one long nightmare, a hazy reel of blurry, grief-stricken memories with me in the middle. I have to give the guys credit, though; Storm was true to his word, and they took charge of the funeral planning. If the situation weren’t so tragic, it might even have been endearing watching them looking at venues and trying to figure out what goes into this kind of a service. They eventually settled on a small, nondenominational chapel far enough from the downtown area that it shouldn’t make us a target. In spite of Neritous’s assurance that he didn’t need anything more from me, I can’t help but wonder if that was just another lie. For all we know, they could be waiting for us around the next corner, ready to destroy us all with their green magic, and, as melodramatic as it might sound, I don’t think that would be more than I deserve. At least then I would be able to stop hating myself for the role I played in Hugo’s death. Killian and Storm repaired the front door and windows, while Seth went back out to track down more protection charms, just in case, which I appreciate; the only thing worse than what’s already happened would be for another one of my family members to get hurt because of me.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Seth assures me, his hand warm and steady on my back. “Now you can finally have closure.”

  Closure. Right. I’m beginning to think I won’t ever have closure until Neritous is dead, and maybe not even then, but I don’t have the energy to try to explain that now. Instead, all I can do is nod and allow Seth to take my hand and lead me inside the chapel. It’s well-lit, nothing too sombre, which I appreciate. Hugo would have wanted something like this, considering how lighthearted he was. I know he wouldn’t have wanted to see me destroying myself the way I am, but I can’t help it. I haven’t eaten in days, and even with the guys around to give me support, nothing can chase away the demons in my mind right now. All I can do is hope that this sendoff will put my weary mind at ease, at least for a little while.

  Mum, dad, Damien, and Peyton are sitting in the front pew, while Mads, Killian, and Storm have taken seats a respectable distance behind them. Seth gives my hand a final squeeze before he goes to join them, leaving me to make my slow, shaky way to the front, where I slide in next to Peyton. He has his head bowed, his brow furrowed, and for a moment I’m not sure what he’s doing…until I realise that he’s praying. A god himself, and he’s actually praying. I can’t blame him.

  There was some discussion about whether we should invite Hugo’s girlfriend. She needed to know, that much was obvious. Even back in Scotland, she always kept in regular touch with Hugo, and the last thing any of us wanted was to cause her undue worry. Mum was insistent near the beginning that she be allowed to attend the funeral, but the rest of us knew that was a bad idea. Just because she knows about the existence of gods doesn’t mean she’s ready for the truth about what happened, and it would be even worse for another innocent to get wrapped up in Neritous’s schemes. He’s victimised too many people already. In the end, we settled on telling her that there would be no service, and although she was devastated, she understood; Hugo was never very much of a traditionalist.

  Other than us, there is nobody else at the funeral. It breaks my heart to see the chapel practically empty, but I also know that involving any of his many friends and acquaintances would only put them in danger, too, so I force myself not to get choked up as dad goes to the podium to address the nearly-empty room. “Thank you, all of you,” he says, his voice cracking, and I can see the dark circles under his eyes. “This can’t have been an easy thing to put together on such short notice, but it brings me some relief to know that we can send…” He struggles for a moment, raising a hand as he tries to compose himself, before continuing. “It brings me some relief to know that we can put Hugo to rest today.”

  I glance over at the coffin behind dad, which is closed; the magic rendered his corpse almost unrecogn
isable, and I think we would all rather remember him the way he was in life.

  Dad clears his throat. “I’ll keep this brief, since time is, unfortunately, of the essence. Hugo was my son, and I loved him. I remember the day he was born. He cried blue murder and scared the living daylights out of us all.” He nods in mum’s direction, and she gives him a sad smile of acknowledgement. “But I couldn’t have asked for a better son. Even as a child, he was always full of life and joy. No joke was ever unfunny to him, and he had this…way of looking at the world like it could be good even when it’s dark. I think that’s what I’ll remember most about him, and…” He swallows, clearly getting choked up. “And I think that’s what we should all remember: what a bright, optimistic, and kind man he was. I hope, wherever he is now, he can continue to share that love and joy.” Bowing his head, he murmurs, “Thank you,” and then backs away from the podium.

  I can already feel my throat getting thick again, my eyes prickling with unshed tears as I watch mum slowly get to her feet, hobbling up to the podium on unsteady legs. She’s been utterly inconsolable for the past few days, going back and forth between spending all day in bed and working herself to death in the garden. Michael was in the dark about what happened for a while, an unfortunate casualty of our distraction, and when mum finally let him know that Hugo was gone, he spent the next day lying by the tree, his head on the ground and his eyes downcast. It’s a shame that he can’t be here today, but a goat in a church would draw raised eyebrows, and the last thing we need right now is attention.

  Mum stumbles through her eulogy, going back and forth between memories of Hugo as a baby and times that made an impression on her when he was older. She doesn’t bother to hide her tears, soldiering bravely through the speech like the fighter that she’s always been. I wish I could be more like her, sometimes. Letting her emotions out does seem to make her feel marginally better, and when she returns to her seat, her head is held high. Damien goes next and, like I predicted, does his best to bring some levity to the ceremony, discussing some of the antics he and Hugo got up to over the years, and the lessons he learned from having an older brother. After him comes Peyton, who is decidedly more serious, railing against the injustice of it all with a barely-contained rage that seems out of place in someone like him. By the time he comes back to the bench, his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and I can see that he’s trembling from the intensity of the emotion.