Niamh

She wasn’t alone, and that made the thing Lyse asked of her much easier. Though she couldn’t really tap into the power in any conscious way—other than to ask for their help—because Niamh was only the vessel. Inside her she carried the energy that had once comprised her twin sister, Laragh—and with her twin came the creature that The Flood had created.

Though she didn’t understand the logistics of how any of it was possible, Niamh’s hunch was that it had something to do with electricity. She’d been holding Laragh when her sister died, and in that breadth of time between life and death, Niamh had felt the electrical energy that was her sister being transferred into her own body. A wave of fire shot through her skin in an electrical burst that felt like she was sticking her finger in a light socket—but the pain had immediately subsided and she’d been left as she was before . . . only with the impression that she was somehow “fuller.” Not physically, but spiritually. Like she was made up of more psychic mass than her frail human body was supposed to contain.

Whether or not her body was capable of supporting two or maybe three or more persons—who knew how many women’s lives had gone into creating The Flood’s creature—she was glad for the extra battery power. She focused her thoughts on taking the four of them away from the dreamlands and toward a woman (whom she did not know) and a hospital room half a world and a dimension away.

She heard a second pop as Lyse’s blue orb physically pulled them out of the dreamlands, and her sense of “up” and “down” shifted as she began to somersault in the air, so fast she could hardly think straight—but then she realized that part of her consciousness recognized that she was still standing firmly on hard-packed earth, holding hands with two of her blood sisters . . . that the disorientation was only in her head.

Daniela. Take me to Daniela.

She thought these words but did not speak them out loud. She wished she knew what Daniela looked like, thought maybe it would make this whole thing way easier. But that was an impossibility, so she decided, instead, to craft a stand-in version of Daniela in her mind. She imagined a woman with icy blond hair and pale blue eyes—but just as the picture began to come into focus, it began to change, the hair morphing from blond to dark brown and finally to purple and pink, the wide face narrowing at the temples and chin.

That’s not me, she thought. I’m not doing that . . .

WE ARE. AND WE WANT YOU TO FIND HER.

There was another voice in her head, a loud one that had nothing to do with her own unconscious. It belonged to The Flood’s creation . . . the monster crafted from the stolen energy of all the broken women inside The Flood’s underground lab. Their energy—which was really the essence of their magic—had come together, morphing into one powerful psychic creature. The Flood had been successful in making a monster, but that had not been their intention. This was obvious because The Flood’s soldiers had been terrified of it, had even fled the lab because of it. The creature was merely a by-product of their efforts to build something else . . . but what?

Niamh had no idea.

The creature’s voice echoed in her head again and the sound was cacophonous—almost as if there were a chorale of women speaking to Niamh.

WE WANT YOU TO SUCCEED.

Next, her sister’s voice spoke to her from inside her head, Laragh’s spirit riding the pulse of electricity that made up Niamh’s life force.

—We want you to succeed. We’ll help you go to Daniela.

Her head began to throb as she felt the creature tapping into her neural pathways, searching through her memories to find different images it could cobble together like it was building a jigsaw puzzle of a human face. It took Jenny Franklin’s chin—Jenny owned the Seafaring Merchant, a junk store two streets over from the house Niamh and Laragh had grown up in. Next, the creature stole her Aunt Estelle’s delicate upper lip. It borrowed Lyse’s dark eyebrows and cadged the ears right off an unnamed trapeze artist Niamh had seen perform when she was eight, the woman sailing gracefully across the orange-and-red-striped fabric of the circus big top.

When the creature was done mixing and matching, Niamh realized that—though she’d never met the woman before—she now possessed a reasonable facsimile of Daniela Altonelli’s face to help guide her to their destination.

Daniela Altonelli, we are coming for you, she thought as the swirling patchwork of images that made up Daniela’s pixie face filled her mind’s eye like a kaleidoscope.

And then Niamh felt someone squeeze her hand.

“We’re here,” Lyse whispered in her ear.

Niamh opened her eyes. She was standing in a pool of sunlight by a window, a hospital bed in front of her that held an achingly frail body tucked inside it like a chrysalis. Daniela was a wraith, so pale you could see the outline of her veins beneath the delicate flesh of her face. She looked almost nothing like the woman in Niamh’s mind.

Maybe if she weren’t so sick, Niamh thought.

But Daniela was sick. Really sick . . . her translucent skin was tinged a shade of purpley-blue, and she had shadowed hollows under her eyes and beneath her cheekbones that were so dark they looked like bruises. Her breathing came in shallow, ragged bursts. A quiet hiss in her throat.

It was apparent to anyone who looked at her that Daniela was not long for this world.

“Oh, God,” Lyse said, her hands on the bed railing as she peered down at Daniela’s lifeless body. “How did this happen?”

She hadn’t even seen Lyse move. One moment she was standing beside Niamh, the next she was leaning over the hospital bed.

Arrabelle slipped past Niamh and joined Lyse at Daniela’s side. She put her hand on Lyse’s shoulder, but her face was ashen, too. She looked like she needed as much comforting as Lyse did.

Niamh took a few steps back, moving away from the two women in order to give them some space. She didn’t know Lyse and Arrabelle well, but she understood the deep, familial connection that existed between coven mates.

“She’s going to die,” Niamh whispered to Evan, who nodded in agreement.

“Is that what I looked like?” he asked. “When I was sick.”

Evan had been at death’s door, the same as Daniela, and he hadn’t looked much better.

“Not too far off the mark,” Niamh replied, and heard Evan’s sharp intake of breath.

Back at Daniela’s bedside, Lyse lifted a hand to touch Daniela’s face but then thought better of it. “Daniela?” she murmured.

There was no response.

“Dammit, I hate that I can’t touch her!” Her voice was hard and even Niamh, who was not an empath, could feel the bristling of Lyse’s anger. Lyse turned away from the bed and began to pace, her frustration an electrical current in the room.

“Isn’t there anything you guys can do?” Lyse asked, turning back to face Arrabelle. Lyse was trying not to cry. Niamh could hear the pleading note in the other woman’s voice. “You and Evan. You know magic potions. Can’t you fix her?”

Arrabelle swallowed hard, tears in her dark eyes. She looked back at Evan, too emotional to speak herself, and he answered for her.

“There are things we can do to prolong life, but she’s been so damaged . . . parts of her brain are probably broken beyond repair and it all happened so quickly . . . I don’t think it’s possible,” he said and sighed. “This happens to empaths. Their circuitry just gets blown and there’s nothing you can do to fix it. Nothing herbal, at least. Especially once they’re this far gone. It’s one of the side effects of their kind of magic—and it gets every one of them.”

“Come on,” Lyse said, her voice a growl. “What the hell is magic good for if it can’t save someone you love?”

Niamh had pondered this question more than once in the last twenty-four hours. Her sister had died and magic hadn’t been able to save her. In fact, it was precisely because of Laragh’s magic that her sister had been tortured and killed.

GO TO HER.

It was the creature—it’s voices humming in Niamh’s head.

I can’t, Niamh thought, her words for the creature in her head. She’s an empath. If I touch her, I’ll kill her.

GO TO HER.

The creature was insistent.

No, Niamh thought. I’m not a killer.

—Who said you were? This was Laragh getting in on the action. Niamh wished the others could hear the crazy conversation that was going on inside her head: a psychic creature and her dead twin, both arguing with Niamh about killing a woman whom none of them had ever met.

Well, I will be if I listen to you, Niamh said.

—Nonsense.

Laragh had always been the more dominant twin—she was born first and she’d been given all the gifts: She could bend people to her will, was always getting what she wanted in any situation, and was a clever arguer (as was evidenced in the argument they were having now). She was just the better person overall, and she was the one who should’ve been there in that hospital room helping to fix things. Boy, had the universe made a stupid mistake when it allowed Niamh to live and Laragh to die.

You should be here, Niamh thought. This should be your fight, not mine.

—You were the one who realized what was happening. I didn’t believe you.

Laragh’s voice was earnest, and what she said was true. Niamh had seen the future in her cards, in a tarot spread that predicted a horrific future. She’d gone to their coven master, Yesinia, and Yesinia had believed, but the others—Laragh, Evan, and Honey—didn’t want to live in a world where witches could be killed without recourse for the crime of being what they were.

I didn’t want to be right, Niamh thought. I wish I had been wrong.

—But you weren’t. And now we have to step up and do something about it.

Niamh must’ve nodded because Evan shot her a questioning glance.

“Niamh?” he asked.

“I need to do something,” she said, steeling herself for the argument that was about to ensue when she told them what she, Laragh, and the creature had planned.

“What are you talking about?” Evan asked, his voice quiet, trying to keep the conversation between them.

It didn’t work.

“Niamh?” Lyse asked—and Niamh saw that her hands were clenched into fists. She’d stopped pacing, was standing by the bed again, her shoulders curved inward, her posture protective.

Arrabelle was looking at her, too.

“What do you need to do, Niamh?” Arrabelle asked, happy to focus on anything but Lyse’s anger and what was happening to Daniela in that hospital bed.

TELL THEM.

Niamh swallowed hard, nervous. She’d let the creature and Laragh push her into this, and now she was going to have to own it.

“I need to touch her.”

Arrabelle immediately stepped between Niamh and the bed.

“No way. You’ll kill her—”

“Arrabelle—” Evan was trying to calm her down, but Arrabelle was fierce and immovable, her expression that of a mama bear protecting her cubs.

“If you come anywhere near this bed—” Arrabelle continued, her voice rising.

“Stop!”

The word rang in the air with the clarity of a silver bell, the sound cutting through the chaos and bringing silence in its wake. Everyone turned to look at Lyse, who had shut them all up with one word. She, in turn, looked at each of them, establishing her leadership with a fierce glare.

She saved Niamh for last.

“You want to touch her,” Lyse said, “because you think you can save her?”

YES.

The creature spoke in Niamh’s mind, but from the funny expression on Lyse’s face, Niamh was pretty sure Lyse had heard it, too.

WE CAN SAVE HER. LET US TRY. THIS IS WHY WE ARE HERE.

Niamh saw Lyse blink, the passion in the creature’s words washing over them both. Lyse swallowed hard, fixing her attention on Niamh. Though she was physically speaking to Niamh, Niamh knew that Lyse’s words were meant for the creature.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I trust you. All of you. Do it.”

Niamh nodded—this was all the go-ahead she was going to get—and started to move closer to the bed, but Arrabelle blocked her path.

“If you kill her, or hurt her any more than she already is,” Arrabelle said, her voice as low and dangerous as a leopard’s growl. “I’ll kill you.”

The look Arrabelle gave Niamh was deadly. Niamh believed Arrabelle would do exactly as she said.

“Bell,” Evan said, drawing Arrabelle’s gaze away from Niamh. “Come stand by me.”

With a final look at Niamh, Arrabelle stepped out of her way.

“You better fix her, dammit,” Arrabelle murmured as she passed Niamh, the emotion in her voice palpable. She might have just threatened her life, but Niamh knew Arrabelle wanted this to work, too.

As she neared Daniela’s hospital bed, she felt like one of those old-time faith healers that practiced the laying on of hands. She wasn’t sure where she was supposed to touch Daniela—the head, the shoulders, the arm—so she decided to just go for it and let the voices in her head direct her if she guessed wrong.

The head, she thought. That’s where the damage is and that’s where I should go.

She raised her hands, her fingers trembling, and kept walking until she hit the metal guardrail with her hip. Daniela’s eyelashes fluttered as Niamh’s body connected with the bed, but they didn’t open.

“Daniela, my name is Niamh,” Niamh said, feeling silly talking to someone who appeared comatose. “I’m gonna work on making you better. So try not to worry too much and we’ll get you all fixed up, if we can.”

She didn’t know why she was saying all this, trying to reassure a person who couldn’t hear her. Maybe all the babbling was just her nervousness coming out. It was a trial by fire—and she hoped she didn’t fail.

“Okay, I’m gonna touch your head now. Don’t be scared.”

She placed her hands on Daniela’s temples, and, at first, she felt nothing.

It’s not working, she thought.

WE ARE HERE.

Niamh realized this was the creature’s way of reassuring her. She wondered if—

And then she lost control of her thoughts as it began . . .

•   •   •

. . . a rectangular prism of polished crystal dipped into Niamh’s field of view, dangling as if it were hanging on a piece of invisible filament. It began to spin, moving slowly . . . slowly . . . slowly . . . making lazy circles that caught the light from an open window—she didn’t know where this window was, or if she was only imagining that the window existed and the light was actually coming from some artificial place. Heck, she didn’t know where she was, or even if she was . . . she felt weightless, bodiless, cut loose from the bindings of corporeal reality—maybe she was even a freewheeling spirit now.

But then the prism drew her attention again, filling every corner of her vision with halos of concentrated rainbow-hued light. She was fascinated by the richness of the colors: the drenched-in-blood-reds, the newborn-springtime-violets, the salty-ocean-blues, the sunburst-summer-yellows. It was a kaleidoscope of beauty so powerful and full of life that Niamh ached with want as she experienced it. Every molecule that existed—and didn’t exist—thrummed with the need to create. It was being as close to God as Niamh could imagine . . .

•   •   •

Arrabelle’s dulcet tones were the first thing she heard.

“She’s coming around.”

Niamh opened her eyes and found industrial-grade ceiling tile staring back at her. Lots of big, square acoustical tiles with a smattering of little brown holes in them . . . holes to fixate on and count and see imaginary animals in when you looked at them. She felt woozy, felt the room spinning around her, but she just stayed focused on those holes and they kept her anchored to reality.

“I’m okay,” she heard herself saying, though she couldn’t feel her lips moving. “I’m all right.”

“Don’t let her sit up yet,” she heard Evan say. “She still looks green around the gills.”

Niamh had never understood what people meant when they said they felt close to God. She’d just assumed they were being melodramatic. Now she knew that wasn’t true. She’d felt it, knew it, wanted it again.

Was that being dead? she thought, and waited for an answer from the creature or Laragh.

She got no response.

Hello?

Still no answer, not even from her sister. She started to panic. Where was Laragh? She’d lost her once before and she couldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . . lose her again.

Laragh? Are you there?

But there was nothing—and for the first time in her life, Niamh felt alone. The panic grew inside her; the fear that she was now and forever on her own was becoming a reality. She was terrified that she’d never talk to her twin again.

“Laragh . . . ? Laragh, don’t go . . . Laragh . . .” Her sister’s name died on her lips and she covered her face with her hands.

“What happened, Niamh?”

She lowered her hands from her eyes and found Lyse kneeling on the ground beside her, a worried expression on her face.

“She’s gone. I thought she would stay, but she left me . . .”

All the panic and fear streamed out of her in a flood of words, and with the wound lanced, she began to weep. Lyse helped her sit up, then wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. She could smell Lyse’s spicy perfume, the warmth of the other woman’s body, and it made her cry harder, the missing of her twin even more urgent when she was so close to another living person.

“They’re not inside you anymore, are they?” Lyse asked, her voice a respectful whisper.

Niamh shook her head.

“They were the ones who wanted you to help Daniela.”

It was a statement, not a question. Once again, Niamh nodded.

“Do you want to see what you did?”

From the tone of Lyse’s voice, Niamh couldn’t tell what she was going to see when she looked in that hospital bed, but she knew she couldn’t sit on the cold white floor forever. She reached for Lyse’s hand and Lyse, immediately understanding what she wanted, helped Niamh to her feet.

“Look,” Lyse said, guiding her over to the bed and placing Niamh’s hands on the metal so she could lean her weight against it.

Niamh didn’t think Lyse would force her to look at something terrible. She didn’t think Lyse was capable of something so cruel. If the laying on of her hands had not healed Daniela, had, in fact, done the opposite, someone would have told her. This knowledge gave her the courage to do as Lyse commanded: to look.

She let her eyes trail up the heavy cotton blanket, past the light cream sheets—where Daniela’s hands were balled into fists at her sides—to the deep hollow at Daniela’s throat just above the V-neck of her thin hospital gown, and, finally, to her sunken cheeks and eyes . . . only to Niamh’s surprise this was no longer the case. Daniela’s face had plumped since she’d last seen her; the dark shadows were lighter and the color had returned to her skin. Daniela was breathing easier; the shallow hissing sound that had preceded every inhalation had gone.

Niamh’s body began to shake and she felt her knees buckle, but Evan and Lyse were there to hold her up.

“She’s better,” Niamh murmured.

“Whatever you did,” Arrabelle said. “Whatever your sister and that poor trapped creature did . . . all of you saved Daniela.”

Niamh nodded, thinking of the sacrifice her sister had made. Then another thought danced through her mind, and suddenly Niamh didn’t feel so heartbroken. If she was inside my brain, Niamh thought, then she could be there with Daniela, too.

The thought was enough to give Niamh hope. Maybe she wouldn’t be alone, after all. She had something to look forward to now. She would wait and when Daniela woke up—as Niamh knew she would—then they would see. They would see just how much of the creature and of Laragh had fused itself with Daniela’s brain in order to save the empath.

“What are you thinking?” Lyse asked, confused by the abrupt change in Niamh’s demeanor—and the secret smile that played across her lips. “It’s like a light just went on inside your brain.”

“It’s nothing,” Niamh said. “Just something I realized. It’s not important.”

But that was a lie.

To Niamh, it was the most important thing in the entire world, and, for now, it was her secret—and her secret alone—to pin her hopes on.