Kendare Blake - Girl of Nightmares

“Cas, you knew that’s how it might be. She—” Carmel swallows. “She killed a lot of people.”

When I spin on her, Thomas takes half a step in between.

“But she saved us,” he says, and Carmel mutters, “I know.”

“He’s there too. The Obeahman. The bastard that murdered my father. And I’m not going to let him spend eternity feeding on her.” I squeeze the handle of the athame so hard my knuckles crack. “I’m going to walk through a gate. And I’m going to shove this so far down his throat that he chokes on it.”

When I say that, they both take a breath. I look at them, beaten and scuffed up as a pair of old shoes. They’re brave; they’ve been braver than I gave them credit for or had any right to expect. “If I have to do this alone, I understand. But I’m getting her out.” When I’m halfway to the car, the argument starts. I hear “suicide mission” and “doomed quest for closure,” both in Carmel’s voice. Then I’m too far down the drive to hear what they’re saying.

It’s true what they say about answers only leading to more questions. There will always be more to find out, more to learn, more to do. So now I know that Anna’s in Hell. And now I have to find a way to get her out. Sitting at my kitchen table, poking a fork at one of my mom’s mushroom omelets, it feels like I’ve been stuffed into a cannon. There’s so much to do. What the fuck am I doing here prodding a cheesy egg pouch?

“Do you want toast?”

“Not really.”

“What’s the matter with you?” My mom sits down in her bathrobe, looking worn around the edges. Last night I added a few more grays to her head, coming in with a bruised skull. She stayed awake while I slept, and shook me to consciousness every hour and a half, to make sure I didn’t have a concussion and die. Last night she didn’t ask questions. I suppose the relief of seeing me alive was enough. And maybe part of her doesn’t want to know.

“The drum worked,” I say quietly. “I saw Anna. She’s in Hell.”

Her eyes light up and burn out in the space of a blink.

“Hell?” she asks. “Fire and brimstone? Little red guy with a big fork and a pointy tail?”

“Is this funny to you?”

“Of course not,” she replies. “I just never thought it actually existed.” And she doesn’t know what to say either.

“For the record, I didn’t see any pointy tail. But she’s in Hell. Or someplace like it. I guess it doesn’t matter if it’s the Hell or not.”

My mom sighs. “I suppose that decades of murder is a lot to atone for. It doesn’t feel fair to me, but—there’s nothing we can do about it, sweetheart.”

Atonement. The word makes me glare so hard that heat rays might shoot out of my eyeballs.

“As far as I’m concerned,” I say, “it was all one big fuck-up.”

“Cas.”

“And I’m going to get her out.”

Mom’s eyes fall to her plate. “You know that isn’t possible. You know that you can’t.”

“I think I can. My friends and I just opened a window between here and Hell, and I’m willing to bet that we can open a door.”

There’s a long, simmering silence. “It’s an impossible thing to do and just trying it is probably enough to kill you.”

I try to remember that she’s my mother, and it’s her job to talk to me about impossible, so I sort of nod. But she sees through it, and her feathers are up. In one breath she threatens to move my ass out of Thunder Bay, to take me far away from Thomas and his witchy ways. She even says she’s going to take the athame and send it to Gideon.

“Don’t you listen? When Gideon or I tell you something, do you listen?” Her lips form a tight, thin line. “What happened to Anna, I hate it. It’s not fair. It might be the worst case of unfair I’ve ever heard. But you’re not trying this, Cas. You’re absolutely not.”

“Yes, I will,” I growl. “And it’s not just her either. It’s him. The bastard that killed Dad. He’s there too. So I’m going to go after him and I’m going to kill him again. I’m going to kill him a thousand times.” She starts to cry, and I’m dangerously close to it myself. “You didn’t see her, Mom.” She has to get it. I can’t sit at this table and try to eat eggs when I know that she’s trapped over there. There is only one thing I should be doing and I have no idea where to start.

I love her, I almost say. What would you do if it were Dad? I almost say. But I’m wrung out. She’s wiping tears from her cheeks and I know she’s thinking about the cost, how much this has cost us. I can’t think about that anymore. I’m sorry as hell, but I can’t. Not even for her. Not when I have work to do.

My fork clatters down on my plate. Food is out. And school is out too. There are only four days left, and most of them are pep rallies. I took my last test last Thursday, and passed with a B+ average. It’s not like they’re going to expel me.

Black Labs probably shouldn’t eat peanut butter cookies. Maybe they shouldn’t drink milk either. But they sure do like both of those things. Stella’s head is lodged into my lap, and she’s heaved most of her body onto the burgundy cushions of the sofa I’m sitting on. Her seal pup eyes flicker from my face to my glass of milk, so I tip it to the side to let her big pink tongue go to work. When she’s finished, she slurps a thank-you into my palm.

“You’re welcome,” I say, and give her a scratch. I didn’t want to eat anyway. I came to the shop right after my non-breakfast to see Morfran. Apparently he and Thomas sat up most of the night talking over the ritual, because he had this broody, sympathetic expression behind his glasses, and instantly plunked me onto this couch and served me a snack. Why do people keep trying to feed me?

“Here, drink this,” Morfran says, appearing out of nowhere. He stuffs a mug of some foul, herbal blend into my face, and I recoil.

“What is it?”

“Angelica root rejuvenation potion. With a little thistle tossed in. After what that Obeah did to your liver last fall, you’ve got to take care of it.”

I look at it skeptically. It’s hot, and it smells like it was brewed with ditchwater.

“Is it safe?”

“As long as you’re not pregnant,” he snorts. “I called Thomas. He’s on his way. He went in to school this morning, thinking you’d be there. Some psychic, eh?” We sort of smile and say, “It only works some of the time,” together in Thomas’s voice. I sip at the potion tentatively. It tastes worse than it smells, bitter and for some reason almost salty.

“This is disgusting.”

“Well, the milk was supposed to coat your stomach and the cookies would’ve taken the taste out of your mouth. But you gave it all to the dog, you idiot.” He pats Stella’s rear and she lumbers off of the couch. “Listen, kid,” Morfran says, and I stop sipping at his grave tone. “Thomas told me what you’re going to try to do. I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re probably going to get yourself killed.”

I look down into the brown-green liquid. A smart remark is creeping up on my tongue, something about how his potions are going to kill me first, and I swallow hard to keep quiet.

“But,” he sighs. “I’m also not going to tell you that you don’t have a chance. You’ve got the stuff, power rolling off you in waves I’ve never heard before. And they’re not just coming from that backpack.” He jerks a finger toward my bag, next to me on the sofa. Then he sits down, on the arm of the chair opposite, and runs his hand across his beard. Whatever it is he needs to say isn’t easy. “Thomas is going to go with you on this thing,” he says. “I couldn’t stop him if I tried.”