We nodded, solemn.
I was beyond fear, firmly into the realm of awe. We called them endless spirits, or sometimes demons, but as I thought about what we were going to do, I realized what they were: gods. We were about to risk pissing off a non-abstract, non - bearded - dude - in - the - sky god. I wasn’t in awe of Barrow. I was in awe of Doomsday, of Vasilis, for that level of courage.
Fortunately, none of the rest of us had to participate in the actual spellcasting. We stood in a semicircle several steps away, outside the line of salt that encircled the table.
Vasilis spoke in Greek, then put his hands on one of Heather’s shoulders.
Doomsday said her part: “We ask you, Barrow, to animate this vessel.” She put her hands on Heather’s other shoulder.
“We open this space as ritual space,” Vasilis said, in English this time, “and hold it so, until such time as we close it.”
Silent, green fire erupted from the salt and encircled our friends.
When I was younger, I used to spread that conventional wisdom that magic, real magic, was subtle, not something you could see. Nope. Turns out that magic, real magic, ain’t subtle for shit.
“We ask you, Barrow, to animate this vessel!” Doomsday’s voice filled every corner of the room, then faded to nothing.
Vasilis released his hands from Heather’s shoulder, then Doomsday did the same.
Then Heather screamed. Then she sat up.
Doomsday and Vasilis stood statue-still. They had no energy to spare on speaking or moving. By their expressions, they were in pain.
Brynn’s turn. “Heather,” she said, as loudly as she could while still trying to calm someone down. “It’s okay, Heather.”
Heather’s scream subsided, and she jumped off the table to her feet. She stumbled for a moment, then caught her balance. She was still inside the circle of flames.
“Is it safe?” she asked.
“You can pass through, yes,” Brynn said.
Heather came through. The ouroboros tattoo still looked fresh on her arm. It still looked like it was healing.
“What happened?” she asked.
“You died,” Brynn said.
“I remember that.”
“Listen,” Brynn said, taking in a deep breath. This was hard on her. “You’re not back for good.”
“How long do I have?”
“Maybe an hour,” Brynn said. She choked up, was barely able to get the words out. “As long as they can withstand the pain, basically.”
“Okay,” Heather said. It clearly wasn’t okay, and tears were forming in Heather’s eyes.
“Sebastian Miller did this. He did all of it. He killed Damien and Loki and Isola, and now Arthur Dawson, and who knows who else. And we’re trapped inside right now, until he drops a barrier of witch’s fire. By choice or by lack of consciousness. And that barrier? Only the dead can pass.”
Vulture stepped forward and gave her a ratty black hoodie. She pulled it over her naked body, and it was long enough to serve as a dress.
Thursday stepped forward and gave her a gun. She took it in her hand, carefully, then dropped the magazine to count bullets before seating it back in.
Brynn had given her knowledge. Doomsday and Vasilis had given her this brief respite from death. Thursday and Vulture had both offered her gifts.
I had nothing. That felt wrong somehow. The whole scene was so goddammed biblical that I felt like I probably should have had something to give to her.
“I’ve got nothing to give you,” I said, feeling a bit silly as I did.
“I’m dead, and nothing’s going to stop that, so basically anything I say right now, I can’t really be held responsible for?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Brynn has a big ole fat crush on you,” she said, then laughed. “She’s falling in love with you. She told me herself.”
“Heather!” Brynn said. It turns out, Brynn is capable of blushing.
“Okay, I’m gonna go kill this fucking guy for you losers.”
* * *
She ran out the front door, gun blazing. I mean, I couldn’t see actual muzzle blasts or whatever in the daylight but she just ran straight for that sedan with the pistol firing, over and over. She wasn’t saving ammo. That wasn’t good.
It flushed him out, though. He must have seen her coming and he ran. Thursday took a shot from the door and hit him in the leg. He dropped like he was a bike with a stick in his spokes and face-planted.
Heather had a wild smile on her face as she dropped the gun and leapt onto his chest. She’d never meant to shoot him.
Her hands went over his throat, choking off his screams.
I put my hand into the barrier over the door, watching the green light flicker over the gray mottled wound, and I tried my hardest to disassociate from the nausea that rose again in the pit of my stomach.
After a short moment, the green light disappeared. I reached farther, cautiously, letting my wrist pass through the threshold. Nothing. My whole arm; nothing.
“Go!” I said, and we ran out the door.
The plan was to get Heather inside for a final good-bye while we packed up the bookmobile for as quick an exit as we could manage. As soon as I got near Heather, she stood up.
Sebastian rolled over and threw up.
He wasn’t dead. He’d just been unconscious.
“Why isn’t he dead?” I asked.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Heather said.
“What’s that?”
“We make him fucking confess to the whole goddammed town. Bring everyone back to his place, let them see his basement.”
“Then he doesn’t die,” I said, surprising myself. I didn’t realize just how deeply invested in the death of that man I’d become. “He’ll just go to jail.”
“Death’s not a punishment,” she said. “So don’t seek it as one.”
You don’t argue what death is like with a dead woman.
Brynn pinned Sebastian, and Vulture, picking up on what was going on, ran inside and came back out with duct tape. We hog-tied the man, there in the street. Brynn searched him for weapons and found a stun grenade—it wasn’t magic he’d used to get away from us behind the graveyard, just
