there’s no metal,” my mother said. “I had to use the hexenring to find you and see what on the scorched earth you thought you were doing, running off like that.”
“What I had to do,” I told her. “I have to find Dean.”
“Well, you’re not going to find him with your little parlor trick,” Nerissa said crisply. “The Deadlands are closed to the living, Fae, human or anything else. Your Weird won’t get you there, and you’re lucky you’re not dead from trying.”
I tried standing, and found it a treacherous endeavor. I staggered over to the statue and sat by the fallen hero’s feet. My skull was echoing, and the gravity of what Conrad had said was starting to sink in, now that I’d failed. “So, what, you came to scold me? I thought you didn’t want me going to the Deadlands, so why come?”
“Because you ran off with that piece of scum Grey Draven, Octavia is beside herself with rage and I told her I’d go make sure you weren’t colluding against the Fae.”
“I’m doing what I have to,” I repeated. “You wouldn’t help me.”
She shook her head, reaching to stroke my cheek, but I pulled away. “I told you it wouldn’t be this simple, Aoife,” she said. “Playing roulette with Death never is.”
“It’s so much worse than that,” I whispered, and felt hot tears of helplessness and panic start to flow. I couldn’t hold them back. I sobbed, and I let Nerissa rub my back and whisper soothing words, because nobody else would, and in that moment I needed it.
I didn’t tell her about the Old Ones. I let her think all my tears were for Dean. I couldn’t handle having yet another person look at me as if I’d set fire to everything they held near and dear.
“Poor girl,” Nerissa whispered. “Everything seems so big and impossible at your age. This boy—surely he can’t be worth killing yourself or melting your brains over?”
“He’s the only person I know worth it,” I snapped, and watched the pain blossom in Nerissa’s eyes. Belatedly, I realized what I’d said.
“I see,” she murmured, before I could backpedal or try to apologize. “If you’re really insistent, then I might know of another way. Even though I think it’s a foolish thing. The dead should stay dead, if you ask me.”
That sounded like the Nerissa I knew—never a mother to coddle or console, even before the madness really sank tooth and claw into her mind. It helped, in an odd way. A mother who wanted to comfort me and have a heart-to-heart? I’d have no idea what to do with that or how to react.
“I didn’t ask you, but I have a feeling you’ll tell me anyway,” I said. I didn’t care that I was being a mouthybrat—not the way I’d care if it were my father across from me. I didn’t feel the connection to Nerissa I did to him. I guessed Conrad was right. Our mother had left us long before she’d been committed.
“You really are a difficult child,” my mother sighed.
“I’m not a child,” I told her. “By this point, I think I’ve earned the right to be treated like an adult.”
“You’re not,” my mother said. “But I can see you aren’t going to give up this ridiculous idea, so I’ll tell you what I know: when I was in the madhouse another patient told me about a man in San Francisco.”
Oh, this was perfect. “Mother,” I said, slow and direct, “your one idea comes from another inmate in a mental institution.”
“I didn’t belong there,” my mother snapped. “Neither did he. He was a Spiritualist, and the Proctors locked him up for heresy. He worked with a doctor who had made a machine that could reach the Deadlands. Horatio Crawford, that was his name. Dr. Horatio Crawford.”
“And?” I prompted. One madman’s tale of a magical device that could peel back the layers of space and time when even my Weird failed was suspect, to say the least.
“You’ll probably scoff, since it’s a Fae tale and not made of math and metal,” my mother said. “But I
“What I had to do,” I told her. “I have to find Dean.”
“Well, you’re not going to find him with your little parlor trick,” Nerissa said crisply. “The Deadlands are closed to the living, Fae, human or anything else. Your Weird won’t get you there, and you’re lucky you’re not dead from trying.”
I tried standing, and found it a treacherous endeavor. I staggered over to the statue and sat by the fallen hero’s feet. My skull was echoing, and the gravity of what Conrad had said was starting to sink in, now that I’d failed. “So, what, you came to scold me? I thought you didn’t want me going to the Deadlands, so why come?”
“Because you ran off with that piece of scum Grey Draven, Octavia is beside herself with rage and I told her I’d go make sure you weren’t colluding against the Fae.”
“I’m doing what I have to,” I repeated. “You wouldn’t help me.”
She shook her head, reaching to stroke my cheek, but I pulled away. “I told you it wouldn’t be this simple, Aoife,” she said. “Playing roulette with Death never is.”
“It’s so much worse than that,” I whispered, and felt hot tears of helplessness and panic start to flow. I couldn’t hold them back. I sobbed, and I let Nerissa rub my back and whisper soothing words, because nobody else would, and in that moment I needed it.
I didn’t tell her about the Old Ones. I let her think all my tears were for Dean. I couldn’t handle having yet another person look at me as if I’d set fire to everything they held near and dear.
“Poor girl,” Nerissa whispered. “Everything seems so big and impossible at your age. This boy—surely he can’t be worth killing yourself or melting your brains over?”
“He’s the only person I know worth it,” I snapped, and watched the pain blossom in Nerissa’s eyes. Belatedly, I realized what I’d said.
“I see,” she murmured, before I could backpedal or try to apologize. “If you’re really insistent, then I might know of another way. Even though I think it’s a foolish thing. The dead should stay dead, if you ask me.”
That sounded like the Nerissa I knew—never a mother to coddle or console, even before the madness really sank tooth and claw into her mind. It helped, in an odd way. A mother who wanted to comfort me and have a heart-to-heart? I’d have no idea what to do with that or how to react.
“I didn’t ask you, but I have a feeling you’ll tell me anyway,” I said. I didn’t care that I was being a mouthybrat—not the way I’d care if it were my father across from me. I didn’t feel the connection to Nerissa I did to him. I guessed Conrad was right. Our mother had left us long before she’d been committed.
“You really are a difficult child,” my mother sighed.
“I’m not a child,” I told her. “By this point, I think I’ve earned the right to be treated like an adult.”
“You’re not,” my mother said. “But I can see you aren’t going to give up this ridiculous idea, so I’ll tell you what I know: when I was in the madhouse another patient told me about a man in San Francisco.”
Oh, this was perfect. “Mother,” I said, slow and direct, “your one idea comes from another inmate in a mental institution.”
“I didn’t belong there,” my mother snapped. “Neither did he. He was a Spiritualist, and the Proctors locked him up for heresy. He worked with a doctor who had made a machine that could reach the Deadlands. Horatio Crawford, that was his name. Dr. Horatio Crawford.”
“And?” I prompted. One madman’s tale of a magical device that could peel back the layers of space and time when even my Weird failed was suspect, to say the least.
“You’ll probably scoff, since it’s a Fae tale and not made of math and metal,” my mother said. “But I
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