Lecture Of A Lifetime

Elochian

I jolt out of sleep and straight into panic.

I sit up, head on a swivel as I survey my bedroom. It’s empty, and early morning light filters through the windows. I tuck an errant lock of hair behind my ear, debating on whether to call out to Michael. His bedroom neighbors mine, a door adjoins them in case of an emergency. It’s the same room Bartholomew used, and I haven’t been in there in years.

I decide not to bother him, since there’s clearly nothing wrong. I dig around the blankets in my nest until I find my phone, hoping that Quentin wrote me back sometime during the night. It’s not odd for him to take long to reply, considering that his phone is dead most of the time. But there’s nothing. Not from him, anyway.

Buried in the emails and texts from those in Clan Adrastus is a message from Arlo.

Arlo (4:53 AM): Gaia agreed to meet with me, but it has to be this morning. Meet me at Thitwhistle’s at eight.

I squint, making sure that I’m seeing the time right. Why the hell was he up so early? It’s only a little after six now, but I’m completely awake. I have a council meeting this afternoon, but if we’re quick I should make it back in time.

Who am I kidding? I’m going to be with Arlo, of course I’ll be late.

I sit in the booth at Thitwhistle’s, wondering why the fuck it’s so busy. Sure, it’s early morning on a Friday, but still. There’s something in the air, like unsettled chaos and an abundance of cinnamon. Small bouquets of dried basil, rosemary, and crocus hang from the support beams, while white and green candles decorate every nook and cranny. There’s more bread than pastries being served this morning, and I indulged in a slice of cinnamon date bread earlier. Ally and Olly are excellent bakers, and the bread was almost as good as Silas’.

Just don't ask me which one is which.

My text message to Quentin is still unread, and I have half a mind to go upstairs and knock on his door. The urge is strong and unsettling, and I have to remind myself that people sleep in sometimes. That doesn’t mean anything is wrong.

When Arlo walks into the main room, the atmosphere quickly shifts, like a collective relaxing of the shoulders and exhalations of long held air. It reminds me how the estate reacts when I come home. He says hello to people as he passes through, kind but clearly on a mission. After the fourth time he says, ‘chag sameach,’ I realize why it’s so busy. It’s Imbolc.

Arlo’s birthday.

I stand, holding onto my apple cider for dear life as he joins me. He’s dressed for business today, all boots and leather. A ring of green encircles his golden irises, signaling that his magick is either primed or in use. “Hey, Loch. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Of course. Thanks for doing this, and on your birthday, no less.” I gesture to the cafe. “It looks good in here. Happy Birthday, you old witch.”

“Thanks.” Arlo smiles, but it doesn’t reach his illuminated eyes. “It’s no problem, but we better get going.” He leads me to the front door, which confuses me. Both Arlo and Quentin’s stones are keyed for travel in and out of the bookshop.

We step outside, and I have to shield my eyes while they adjust. The sunlight is hot and blinding, ricocheting off frozen piles of snow littering the town. It’s almost enough to ward off the bone deep chill the air carries. Michael waits just down the street in the towncar, and I send them a quick text as I walk beside Arlo.

 “Felt like going for a walk?” I ask.

Arlo says nothing for a block. Gaia’s place is at the opposite end of River Street, a jaunt even in the summertime. He casually glances around, quiet as he says, “My wards were compromised last night. No traveling until I get it figured out. I think bending the space like that provides a … window of opportunity.”

My heart picks up the pace, as do my feet. “Someone tried to break in? To the Castle, or Thitwhistle’s? The island?”

“Thitwhistles,” he says, scanning the streetsides.

“Is Quentin alright? Was he home?”

Arlo doesn’t look at me when he says, “He’s fine. But it was a long night, I think he’ll probably be sleeping awhile.”

I stop walking. “Arlo,” I say, commanding his attention. He stops and stares at me. “He’s okay?”

Arlo breathes deep, and the seconds-long pause before he says, “Yes,” is everything. “Yes, he’s okay.”

“Who was it? AWO? Leon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Arlo.”

“Elochian, I really don’t know! All that was left behind was traces of magick. Whoever it was, they’re a witch. That much I do know.”

I open my hands, willing my elongated nails to retract. They protest for a moment before obeying. “Okay. I can send you Lurin. And Kellan. They’re both excellent trackers, I can—”

Arlo shakes his head. “No, Loch.”

I stare at him, bewildered. “What? Why?”

“I want to keep this low for now. We don’t need to make ourselves a bigger target than we already are.”

“But—”

“Elochian, I appreciate it, but please. Trust me. Can you do that?”

I glare at him. “Of course I do. But you’re being an idiot.”

“Your ball.”

“What?”

Arlo rolls his eyes, and I’ve never wanted to punch him more. He steps closer to me, lowering his voice. “I want to use your ball as an excuse to get all the witches together. On the one hand it’ll appease the community and show them we’re nothing to be afraid of. On the other hand, all the witches will be together, including me. This person we’re dealing with is a showman, they’re toying with–”

Arlo’s brows pinch, and the pause is nearly imperceptible, but there all the same.

“Me. With us. This is a perfect opportunity for them to make a move. But we’ll be ready, and a part of that is we need them to think they have the advantage. Okay?”

I sigh. “I really want to punch you right now.”

He smiles a little. “Go for it, but it’ll hurt. I’ve had worse gifts.”

Reluctantly, I nod to the street and we continue walking. We avoid the detour that is Market Street and continue down Garren Road. An enclosed trolley goes by, its lights dim beneath the overwhelming sun. I mutter, “A party full of angels, demons, and witches. That’s not a recipe for disaster or anything.”

“Oh come on. You and Quentin have done nothing but give me the unity speech.”

“Yeah, I like giving advice, not taking it.”

Arlo hums. “You’re going to ask him as your date, right?”

“Should I?”

“I swear to the fucking Gods …” Arlo scrubs a hand down his face.

I ignore his exasperation, losing myself to thought as I study the frozen, small lake in Funguy Park as we walk by. People skate upon it, from young to old, human to demon. Families and couples, loners and friends. At the narrow northern tip of the lake, a mass of kids have claimed the area for hockey. An adolescent werewolf swipes at the contested puck with their full force, and it crashes into the net which billows from the impact.

Parents, guardians, and friends cheer from the sidelines. I wonder if Quentin ever dreamed of being there, on the sidelines watching his own child. The thought of that child not being ours slaps me across the face, harder than the icy breeze nipping at my cheeks.

As we near Gowan’s block, I say, “My aunt … made some very good points.”

Arlo stares at me, and the look on his face makes me want to laugh. “Since when did you listen to her?”

I pull my scarf up over my face. “Since she pointed out that Quentin’s a human, and I’m an archdemon. She basically told me I need to stop playing around and find a partner that is part of the clan.”

Arlo studies his feet as he walks. Eventually, he says, “Quentin said something to me last night that I’ve been thinking a lot about.”

“What’s that?”

His face pinches. “That humans aren’t special, and he’s going to die before any of us. I think … I think we haven’t been very considerate. I don’t know.”

“Michael said … Michael said that I need to make the most of Quentin’s life, because of that fact. He thinks I’m wasting time, dithering like I am.”

Arlo chuckles hollowly. “I think he’s the one you should be listening to.”

We let the conversation die, and after a few minutes I ask, “So, what’s Kitt and Cas planning for you? I haven’t heard anything yet.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Dunno. No one’s said anything to me about it either. Everyone’s pretty busy, and I’d rather it not be a big deal anyway. Maybe the boys and I will have a movie night or something. They’re both on an old film kick.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. I’ll have to see if Quentin will want to visit the island later on with me.

Gaia Lichin’s home straddles the land between Garren Road and River Street. When the underwater neighborhood was constructed, my engineers were sought out in regards to keeping the waterway and its inhabitants warm all year round. A low fog hangs over the street, hugging the stilts holding up the structures resting over the still waters. Some homes, like Gaia’s, rest on the edge of water, giving them access to both worlds. The majority of the residents live under the water, however.

It’s easy for people to forget that River Street spills underneath Levena as well, a subterranean and accessible network for amphibious folk to use and live in. Funguy’s pond was left out of the heating system, but Syorini Lake across town is warmed, a fact that the merfolk greatly appreciate.

Given Levena’s bitter winters, the entire thing was a challenge to say the least. It was also Bartholomew’s passion project. As a demon of mayim descent, he loved the water. It could be thirty below and he’d be begging me to join him in the water. I’d always say, ‘Yes, the water’s warm, but what about the air? I’ll freeze when I get out.’

And he would say, ‘Come on, Key. That’s part of the fun, you’ve got to enjoy the warmth while it lasts, then run like hell when it’s time to get out.’

I joined him in the water every time. I always froze my ass off afterwards, but he made it worth it.

Arlo stands beside me, breathing like he ran a marathon. The stilted house is nondescript and plain, a stone rectangle with square windows lining the walls every six feet or so. Manufactured comes to mind, but the extra touches wipe that thought away. The back of the house is hard to see, but there’s a … step of sorts, where a good section of the building rests partially underwater. The stilts are thick pillars of stone as opposed to a wooden construction, built to last a lifetime.

Bone chimes rattle softly in the breeze, tapping against the white washed stones marking the front corners of the house. Runes decorate the black door frame, and a bell hangs high above it, too high for most people to reach. When it’s clear Arlo can’t take another step, I close the distance and bring my fist to old wood painted dark green.

A moment later, the necromancer opens the door.

Gaia squints at me, black eyes narrowing as fresh daylight assaults her. “Oh, Mr. Adrastus.” She looks over my shoulder, at Arlo standing in the street. Her face softens, an expression I did not anticipate. “Arlo. Please, come in.”

I bow my head. “Good morning, Miss Lichin. Thank you for meeting with us.”

“Well, it’s about time, isn’t it?” She steps back, gesturing inside with a black tentacle mottled with neon pink and stormy white. “Come on in. Chag sameach to both of you.”

“Blessed Imbolc.” I nod, stepping past her. She is twice my size, both in height and width, larger than the average krakeni. Her home is similar to Julian’s, all smooth polished stone and moss furnishings. Julian is actually a close friend of Gaia’s, but I didn’t feel right asking my DJ to set me up with the necromancer.

I can see three statues of Kiroli from here, another surprise. The Goddess of Fertility is the patron of krakeni, an ironic turn of events in Gaia’s necromantic case. Then again, Kiroli’s lover was the God of the Underworld, so there’s that.

After we both pass over the threshold, Gaia shuts the door. With all the genuine warmth in the world, she says, “Arlo, I’m glad you’re here.”

He tugs at the gauge in his ear, gaze skittering between her and the floor. “You are?”

Gaia smiles, folding her tentacles over her chest. A short pink dress laced with white hangs off one shoulder, and the length of it falls at her knees. Cords of leather laden with shells and teeth hang around her neck. Silver rings inlaid with crystals cover the tips of her tentacles like bracelets. Her nostrils flare, wrinkling her flat nose.

“Oh, yes. You see, we need your help.”

The open foyer is humid and cool, no doubt recently misted, but a flash of hot fear overcomes me at that statement.

“Who—” We begin to say, and are promptly interrupted by new arrivals.

An elf and a golem steps into the northern end of the foyer, where the room spills into a kitchen that reminds me of Arlo’s witch kitchen. Arlo looks as if he might throw up. He swallows, tense and quiet. Absolutely confused, I join his side, providing what comfort I can.

The elf is tall and thick with muscle, their skin darker than the depths of the sea. Their long, black hair has an undershave on the sides, revealing spiraling tattoos on their skull. They wear an obnoxiously green windbreaker, and crystalline wyvern sits on their shoulder, seeming to glare at Arlo like their master does.

The golem was elven in their previous life. Despite the silk cloth tied over their eyes and wild rainbow mohawk, it’s clear they are related to Windbreaker. Their skin is the same shade, albeit dry and brittle, and their face has the same sharp, dangerous edge to it. Congealed, black blood leaks from their right nostril, teasing at their cracked lips.

I have no idea what kind of familiar stands at their side. The size of a large dog, but with hooves and brown fur, the legs striped black and white. Not to mention the long neck that comes up to the golem’s shoulder, complete with a deer-like head and dual protuberances reminiscent of horns, but not quite.

“I should blow up your liver right now, you fucking asshole,” the elf says.

Arlo winces, looking askance to Gaia. The krakeni smiles at him. “I’m not the only one who wanted an audience with the impossible to reach Hedge Witch.”

“You do realize he owns a shop twenty minutes south of here?” I snap. “It’s not that hard to find him.”

The elf turns their feral gaze on me, and I force myself not to shrink under it. I am an archdemon. I am an archdemon. They say, “Stay out of it, my Lord.”

Arlo scowls. “Hey, don’t talk to him like that. Your problem is with me, not him.”

“Then he shouldn’t be nosing into things he knows nothing of.”

The golem says, “Demi, that’s no way to ask for help. Remember why we’re here.”

Windbreaker huffs, but I don’t miss the way their anger softens. “Fine.”

Gaia smiles, revealing rows of blunt teeth. “Good. Now, let’s have some tea and get down to business.”

I sit at a round table with four witches, feeling anxious and relaxed all at once. Half a dozen candles burn in glass pillars, each one recessed into the table at different depths. The tension between the four is palpable, but warm water laps at my bare feet, distracting me from the drama. It’s been so long since I was in contact with the river. It’s almost like coming home.

Gaia clears her throat, breaking the silence that’s fallen since brief introductions for my sake. She waves a tentacle in Demeter’s direction. “I believe we should begin with you two, as I feel your matter is most pressing. But we’re going to keep this respectful. This is neutral ground, you hear?”

Arlo nods, as does Demeter and aer companion. It irritates me that Gaia deems their matter more important when she has no idea why we’re here, but I say nothing. 

Demeter exhales a long breath, then focuses on Arlo with something akin to barely pieced together apathy. “Dimitri’s ob is coming apart. Ne’s fading more and more each day, and we can’t figure out why. The others say it’s time, but it’s only been …” Demeter’s gaze skitters to the golem at aer side, then back to Arlo. “It’s only been eight years.”

Dimitri raises a hand, giving it a little shake. “I can speak for myself, Demi.”

Demeter glares at Dimitri. “If you call me that one more time.”

Dimitri shakes nems head, jutting a thumb at Demeter. “Aer’s just worried, don’t let aer bitchiness fool you.” Black blood spills from a corner of nems lips. Ne frowns, turning away. Demeter offers nem a napkin from aer jacket pocket, thin brows pulled together. After wiping away the blood, Dimitri says, “Okay, maybe you can do the talking.”

But Demeter doesn’t say anything. Aer looks at Gaia askance, then to Arlo.

Arlo says, “Obs aren’t really my expertise, but I can take a look. But you are right, it’s too early for it to unravel.”

“You’re still able to slip through the Veil then?” Gaia asks, leaning forward. A slick tentacle rises, framing her face.

He blinks. “Yes? Why?”

Gaia and Demeter exchange a look, then the krakeni continues. “I haven’t been able to open a door into the Veil since Samhain. I’ve suspected there is something amiss with the Veil itself, but if you can still access it … maybe not. Maybe it’s me.”

Arlo shrugs. “Well, I haven’t actually stepped into it since … about a week before that, now that I think about it. I’ll take a look now, if that’s alright with you, Dimitri.” Arlo barely looks at Demeter or Dimitri when talking, but especially Dimitri. I’m curious as to what happened between them, but I won’t be finding out right now.

I raise a hand. “I’m not sure what an ob is, but is shifting into the Veil right now a good idea? What if Le—”

“Do not speak his name,” Demeter hisses, and my wings rise at the venom in aer tone.

“What if Leon, what?” Dimitri asks. Demeter shoves out of aer chair, taking to pacing. Dimitri sighs, fidgeting with a loose string on nems sleeve. “A name is a name, Demi. We’re not doing ourselves any favors by being afraid of it.”

“It’s not the name I’m afraid of! It’s like you’ve completely forgotten what he—” Demeter cuts off in an abrupt whine. By the way the others react, what I’m missing has become crystal clear. All four of these witches share something in common.

Trauma at the hands of Leon.

Quietly, Dimitri says, “You don’t have to fight for me, or even with me, nib. But please, stop holding me back. I know damn well what Leonadias did, and I want him to pay for it. But I can’t do that by hiding, or pretending that it didn’t happen.”

Demeter comes to a stop behind Dimitri. Ae rests aer hands on Dimitri’s shoulders, squeezing tight. Dimitri reaches up, holding one of aer hands in nems. Demeter says, “I’m not going anywhere, schlemiel.”

Dimitri grins, revealing blood stained, perfect teeth. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Arlo blurts out. “I know it sounds cheap, and it’s too late, but I truly am. I wish that I could’ve been what you needed, after. I wish that I was there for you.”

Demeter stares at Arlo, and Dimitri smiles a little at him. Demeter says, “It is too late, and we’re not the only ones who needed you. We looked up to you, Rook, those who fought with you.” Ae gestures to Gaia, then places a hand over aer heart. “Those who survived with you. And then you just … disappeared. Do you know what Levena did with us? The survivors?”

Arlo shakes his head, hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“They put us in a cozy, abandoned part of town, and forgot about us. We had nothing. Nowhere to go. Can’t get registered, because it costs a fortune, or our lives were erased by fucking—” Demeter hesitates, cooling down. “By fucking Leon. Dimitri and I, we don’t exist on paper. We’ve been forgotten, by Levena, and by you.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Bullshit, you just didn’t need us anymore. Your happy little band all survived, got married and had kids. Hell, you own half of Levena now! What would you want with—”

“I was dying!” Arlo braces his elbows on the table and hides his face in his hands. I watch him breathe, and reach over to rest my hand in the middle of his back. After a moment, his hands fall from his face to the table, palm down. He says, “Every day I fought, and every day, I lost. I kept losing, and losing, and losing, until finally I was nothing more than a fucked up, toxic mess. And then, I lost the war. I lost the war against myself, and I truly died.

“My—my best friend saved me. If she hadn’t found me, then I wouldn’t be here right now at all. So yes, I forgot about you, but to be fair I forgot about everyone else too, even myself. I could have done better, I should have. But I want to help, and I can now. We don’t have to be friends, you don’t have to like me. But please, let me help.”

I breathe, trying to keep my own heart steady through a sentiment that I relate to so, so much. I rub Arlo’s back, focusing on Gaia’s smile full of fondness and pride, the lines softening around Demeter’s eyes and mouth. Dimitri’s raspy chuckle is the final weight, bringing me back down to normal. Ne says, “Try arguing with that, nib.”

“Fuck you,” Demeter says, and that’s that. Neither of them accept or deny Arlo’s words, but if the broken tension is anything to go by, it’s a step in the right direction.

Gaia says, “Thank you for your honesty, Arlo. Perhaps one day, you can speak to the others. I know Bud misses you, and Eleanor.”

Arlo nods, still not quite meeting her eyes yet. “Okay, yeah. Of course.”

“This is great and all, but we’re getting off track,” Demeter says. “Can you check or not, Rook?”

“Hold on,” Gaia says. “Not to be crass, but why are you here, Elochian?”

Without preamble, I say, “There is a shedim in my clan who claims that he can raise the dead.”

“I haven’t heard of another necromancer rising,” Gaia says, tentacles agitated.

“That’s because he isn’t one. He brought a woman to my office who died long ago, claiming to have raised her using solar batteries. She was completely restored. Not a golem, but not … what she was before, either. I’ve no idea how, only that she was dead, and her family gave consent. Regardless, it’s clear to me that he broke Byinger’s first law, at the very least.

“Who is it?” Gaia asks, sounding like a stereotypical, scary necromancer for the first time. “Have you prosecuted him?”

“No. His team has intercepted every charge I’ve brought against him, and the judge agrees with them. Since her family gave consent, they feel no laws have been broken. And there is no law saying a necromancer has to be the one to return a spirit.”

“That’s bullshit,” Demeter says. “You are the literal king of demons!”

“Even kings answer to someone,” Dimitri says, but it doesn’t feel like a save.

“I don’t even know how you would use solar power to create an ob. That doesn’t make any sense …” Gaia says, shifting her attention to Arlo. “Unless … oh, unless.” She laughs, but it’s empty. “He’s not using solar power to create an ob. He’s using it to cut into the Veil and force his way in. But how can he manipulate the threads?” She murmurs, tapping her chin.

“But the living can’t enter the Veil,” Arlo says, subdued and far off.

Gaia looks at me. “He’s not a golem himself?”

“No … I’m sorry, what’s an ob?”

“Elochian, are you familiar with the necromantic process? You mentioned Byinger’s law.”

I raise a hand, tipping it side to side. “A little. You reform a person’s spirit by pulling their soul and bodily energies together, right?”

Gaia nods. “Yes, in a way. I like to think of it as stitching, or weaving, and it must take place in the Veil. The thread I use, and resulting patchwork, we’ll say, is the ob. In more plain terms, it’s the same as a spirit, but in a different state. We call it the spirit of the dead. The ob remains intact for about a hundred and fifty years, and when it’s time for a soul to pass, the body begins to degrade, like Dimitri has.”

I think on that for a moment, wondering if Quentin is familiar with the concept. It’s in his realm of study, after all. I ask, “So, what is the difference between you and Arlo, then?”

“I can only step just inside the Veil, so I have to be in physical proximity to the deceased or passing person. It’s like holding back a rubber band, and if I stay in there too long, it’ll snap. Arlo can travel the Other Side freely, but he cannot weave an ob. He can also interact with souls long since gone, while I can only interact with spirits in the process of passing. The people I help must have a body to return to, while Arlo works … the other way.”

I lean back in my seat. “Interesting. I never knew that.”

Gaia presses her tentacles to her temple. “Indeed.” She studies me a moment longer, then gestures to Arlo. “Okay, go on. But be careful.”

Arlo nods, swallowing. “Are you ready, Dimitri?”

“You’re all acting as if going to croak,” Dimitri says, leaning back against Demeter.

“Your dead guy jokes will never be funny,” Demeter mutters.

Arlo stands, water sloshing around his ankles. Demeter holds Dimitri tight to aer stomach, closing aer eyes. Oh, we’re doing this right here, right now. I place my hands on the table, unsure what to do with myself. I look over at Gaia, but she only has eyes for Arlo.

The Hedge Witch reaches up, brushing his fingers along the tattoos on his neck. The lines alight a bright green, casting light onto the smooth stone walls of Gaia’s watery den. He raises his hands before him, moving them in that strange way that he does when he’s doing Big Magick. His lips silently move, and a temporary moment of stillness overcomes him.

Arlo brings his palms together before moving them forward, like he’s parting water, or a curtain. He inhales sharply, and the candles sputter. His hands tremble, then shake. When his entire body begins to convulse, frozen in place, I stand in a rush.

Gaia takes my arm, tentacles wrapping around my wrist. “Don’t. Something’s wrong,” she says. “Dimitri, can you feel him?”

Dimitri shakes nems head. “No.”

A flashbang overtakes the room, exploding outwards from Arlo’s collapsing figure. I rush forward and catch him before he smashes his head and drowns. His weight nearly crushes me, but Demeter is there seconds later. Together, we haul an unconscious Arlo into the dry den and lay him on what may be a loveseat for Gaia, but for Arlo it’s a full length couch.

“What happened?” I ask breathlessly, staring down at Arlo now damp from sweat and water. He’s breathing, so that’s a good thing.

Gaia shakes her head. “Nicen is blocking us from the Veil. We’ve angered him.”

I give her a weary look. “I hate to be that person, but I don’t think the Gods care what you two are up to.” I pause. “But you might be right. Wrong, but right.”

“What the gehenna are you talking about, your lordship?” Demeter asks.

“We haven’t angered Nicen, but Daniel might have. The problem demon. Could his dealings be connected with this … block?”

“That’s a possibility,” Gaia murmurs.

Arlo stirs on the couch, eyes moving beneath his lids and fingers twitching. I kneel beside him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Arlo, you alright?”

He groans. “Oh, sure. Fuckin’ dandy.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s swearing, so that’s a good sign.”

“It’s him,” Arlo says, slowly opening his eyes. He stares past me, unseeing, and it chills me to my bones. “There’s nothing but ghosts and lost souls over there, all Leon’s. He’s claimed the Veil as his. It’s … it’s only a matter of time before he breaks through. I don’t know why he hasn’t yet.”

Thick, horrid silence follows his words. Oh. Not Daniel, then. Dimitri takes Demeter’s hand, skin cracking as ne squeezes tight. Gaia covers her face, exhaling long and slow. My fists open and close, and I think; Quentin. I need to keep him safe. I need to keep him close.

 I need him.

Arlo says, “I—I need to leave. I need my boys.” He tries to sit up, but his eyes roll and a moan punches out of his gut. I rest a hand on his shoulder, using my other to dig out my phone and text Michael.

“Easy, take it easy. You’re no good to them passed out.”

“Arlo?” Dimitri asks, and it’s quiet, unsure. We both look at nem, watching as nems throat fractures along the surface. “I don’t blame you for what happened to me. You did the best that you could, and you brought me home to my nib. But we can’t let it happen again. We can’t let anyone else get hurt like we did.”

Demeter quietly says, “Nem’s right.”

Arlo’s eyes close, and his throat clicks. “I don’t know if I can do it again,” he whispers.

“Hey.” I shake Arlo’s shoulder. He blinks at me, confused and tired. His eyes are wet with the threat of tears. “Alone? No. I don’t think that you could. But you’re not alone, okay? No one wants you to be a martyr, but a leader? We could use one of those.”

Arlo laughs, then covers his eyes and breaks down.

I hold his hand as he cries, and our newfound companions form a semi-circle of sorts around us, standing guard. I think about Thatch, wondering if he can hear Arlo from wherever he is.

We leave with the promise of Gaia, Demeter, and Dimitri’s assistance. All three were extended invitations to Witch House, and the ball. I told them to invite any and all witches that were interested. Arlo is silent the entire car ride to the castle, and I wait in the car with Michael while he makes the trek down the castle’s driveway.

“What happened?” Michael asks the moment Arlo steps out of the car.

I tell them, sparing no details. It only hinders their job, not knowing everything they possibly can. His hands tighten around the steering wheel as the tale takes a turn, and their form changes from human to shedim as I finish.

“I find it awfully funny that Leon has claimed the Veil, so to speak, and our dear Daniel is able to cut into it without consequence,” Michael says, low and deadly.

“There’s definitely something there, but what? Is Daniel a liaison of his? A solider, a spy? Is he turning the dead for Leon’s benefit?”

“Where is Leon buried?”

“I think Arlo cremated him, that’s why he hasn’t materialized yet, he needs a corporeal body.”

“Which requires a contract,” Michael says.

I nod, wondering how they know this.

Michael doesn’t relax, and I don’t either. Obviously Leon doesn’t need a body to fuck everything up, but it would be infinitely worse if he did. Michael glances at the castle, then back to me. Hesitantly, they say, “I finally found something on Quentin.”

“What?”

Michael hums, pulling their phone out of their breast pocket. They offer it to me. “Unlock it. It’s all there. Be warned, it is … graphic.”

I do as he says, full of trepidation. Waiting on the other side of a dim screen is a series of photos, each one depicting someone in critical condition, unrecognizable. “What … what am I looking at? Who is this?” Silence follows my question, and when I look up I find Michael staring straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles blanch. Again, I ask, “Michael. Who is this?”

Rage and terror races down my spine, because deep down, I know.

But I have to be sure.

Michael clears his throat, but he doesn’t release the wheel. “I wasn’t able to find anything old on Quentin, he was a ghost before moving to Levena. I wasn’t sure if he danced in Levena, or somewhere else, but I figured that was my best lead, short of having a chat with Mr. Diaz. I visited three different studios, and the last ballet master finally knew who I was talking about. But … they knew him as someone else. The name he went by then is the same one he was admitted under. It was widely accepted as an accident, but the ballet master felt differently.”

I haven’t moved past the pictures. I sit there, quiet and motionless as I stare at the parts of Quentin’s swollen, bruised face not captured by bandages. What the hell kind of accident would cause this?

“His name—”

I practically throw Michael’s phone back at him. “No. Don’t. I—I shouldn’t have done this. I don’t want to know.”

Michael nods once, and silence chokes us both out.

Only when Arlo comes back into view, clearly pissed off and without the boys, do I quietly ask, “Do you think it was? An accident?”

Michael turns in his seat, staring at me dead on. “No.”

Arlo opens the door and slides into the seat beside me with a great huff. That must be the fire breathing that Michael was talking about. “Silas left early, apparently. He is home, so there’s that. I’m traveling back to deliver the lecture of a lifetime, but I wanted to check in with you. Can you come to the house tonight?”

“What a day to play hooky,” I mutter, rubbing at my temple. “I suppose so. Why?”

Arlo braces his hands on his knees, staring at them resolutely. A travel stone rests between his palm and knee, one I haven’t seen before. “I’ve been waiting, hoping that it wouldn’t come to this. But I can see now how stupid I’ve been. It’s time to get everyone on the same page. I— I have a plan. Or the beginning of one. But I need your help.” He looks at me then, lips latching onto a grim smile. “Please.”

Unintentionally, my professional mask falls into place. “I will be there. Text me, let me know what you need. I have a few visits I need to make first.”

Arlo nods, face drawn and tired. “Thank you.”

In a rush of cold wind and a flash of green, Arlo disappears from the towncar.

Michael says, “I was not aware of any plans this afternoon, Sir.”

“I’d like to visit him, if you don’t mind.”

“I see.” Michael dips his chin. “As you wish, Sir.”

Michael won’t let me out of his sight now, but I can’t blame him. He stands a respectable distance away, but his presence here is undeniable. It feels like as much of a betrayal as the sentiment I’m about to spill onto the snow veiling Bartholomew’s grave. I haven’t been back here since the Game, a fact that has been gnawing away at me. I like to visit every month.

My knees are numb, so I bury my palms in the snow to regain that feeling of seeping, glacial pain. It’s the least I can do.

“I have so much to say, and I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know if you can hear me, but I like to think that you can. Arlo says it’s possible, and he hasn’t led me astray. Alright, look, I’m just going to say it. I’m seeing someone.”

Tears splash onto the snow. I wince, burrowing my nails deeper into the cold blanket covering my love. “The thing is, the more my heart opens to him, the more I feel you. But at the same time, I feel like I’m forgetting you. Your voice—” I choke on a sob, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

“I know that it was big and loud, full of light, but I can’t remember the cadence to it, or what my name sounded like on your lips. And I—I like the way Quentin says my name. Lochian. I like the way he fiddles with his glasses when he’s nervous, or the way his eyes light up when he goes on a tangent about something he loves. But most of all, I love the way he treats me like I matter because I simply exist, not because of who I am to others.

“So I guess what I’m trying to say is … I need to let you go, and I think that I might be ready. You will always live within my heart, and when my time comes, I will search for you. I pray that perhaps by then, I will have found forgiveness in myself, and you.”

I pull my hands out of the snow and try to steal a great gasp of air. I become entranced by the rolling blankets of gray above us, wasn’t the sky clear before? The naked branches of the trees embracing the cemetery scratch at the clouds, trembling and swaying in the vengeful gusts. I find myself swaying too, back and forth, back and forth.

My heart claws at my ribs, and a moan escapes me at the intense, nauseating dizziness following closely on the heels of panic.

And then, I see him.

A hawk watches me from the lower limb of an old oak. The size of it is near impossible, its yellow feet could easily crush my skull. Its plumage is mostly brown and white, except for its tail. Each pink feather is complete with black bands near the tips. The bird tilts his head, watching me with big, amber eyes.

“I love you,” I whisper.

The hawk spreads its wings and takes to the sky, crying out into the wind as it passes overhead. Tears spill down my face, unwilling to be restrained this time. Silently, Michael takes a knee beside me long enough to pull me into his arms. He carries me back to the towncar, then sits in the back and holds me until the storm passes.