Ziggy puts himself together, molten lava moving across the carpet like metal shavings being pulled by a magnet. The smaller, albeit shining golden sphere hovers back to bed, seemingly lackluster after having to protect her again.
“Okay, sheesh.” Rachel climbs under the covers, and pulls them high up to her neck, before Mercia closes the door. Ziggy settles on her pillow. “There’s no way I’m going to fall asleep,” she whispers.
Two dim blinks, as if saying she should heed Mercia’s advice.
Nineteen
Right in the Sternum
The next morning, after she’s finished her morning rituals, Rachel heads downstairs, toward the kitchen where Mercia is feeding her mother grits. She studies the two at the table, surprised to see her mother’s hair brushed and her clothing changed.
“You took care of her?” Rachel is unable to keep the emotions from her voice.
Mercia shrugs.
“Thank you,” she says.
“I figured out how to handle her after you went to bed,” Mercia says. She makes choo-choo noises as she brings the spoon of grits closer to Jenny’s mouth. Her mother laughs and parts her lips wide. “There’s breakfast for you on the stove.”
Rachel moves to the stove, opens the pot of grits, and finds a bowl on the drying rack. She spoons enough breakfast in for herself, before adding some butter, sugar, and milk, and draws up a chair.
“My mom called this morning,” Mercia says, still feeding Jenny. “Hawthorne is still under lockdown. Apparently the patients, and even some of the staff, have lost their minds. The handful who haven’t been affected are holed up in some office. That’s not important, though.”
Rachel looks up, bracing for bad news.
“They found ten different little bone sculptures in one of the rooms at Hawthorne, each one more heinous than the other, and they all depict a patient,” Mercia says. “Two of those—I guess, one would call them omens—came true, according to my mom.”
“That’s not good,” Rachel says.
“I told my mom the same thing.”
“Phalanges,” Jenny says. She raises her hands and wiggles her fingers, giggling. “Ten phalanges.”
“Jenny, here comes the plane.” Mercia whooshes as she makes the spoon fly.
Rachel takes another bite of her grits.
“Rachel, are ye home?” Dougal’s voice comes from the front door. “By the Wee Man—What happened here? Rachel?”
“We’re in the kitchen,” Mercia calls.
Dougal rushes in, wearing the previous day’s clothes. His hair is disheveled, bags are visible under his eyes, and his skin tone is paler than usual.
“Ye look like hell,” he says to Rachel. His gaze moves across the scene before he fixes his stare on Jenny. “Yer ma looks worse.”
Rachel shakes her head, shoulders already curving forward in defeat. The day hasn’t even begun properly and she can easily go back to bed.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Mercia mumbles. “Food’s on the stove. Help yourself.”
“I don’t know where ye come off actin’ like it’s yer house, but don’t mind if I do.” Dougal walks to the stove. “Nan said I should come check on ye. Good thin’ I did.”
“How is she?” Rachel asks.
“Better. The doc said she’s recoverin’ fine. He doesn’t care for the way they handled her at the hospital here.”
“Ten phalanges,” Jenny barks out, her eyes darkening. “Ten metacarpalssss.”
“What’s yer ma on about?” Dougal asks.
“Bones,” Rachel says in a weak voice. “She probably knows there are more accidents about to occur.”
Jenny bursts out laughing.
Mercia sighs loudly. “Why can’t this Fae take a break?”
Dougal walks over and takes the last seat at the table. He glances at the wound on Mercia’s head, which is already scabbed over, and asks, “What happened to yer head?”
“Greg,” she says.
Dougal raises an eyebrow as he takes a bite. “I hope ye kicked him in the baws.”
“The what?” Mercia asks.
“Ye know. He’s family jewels.”
“Balls,” Rachel offers.
“Oh. Um, no, but I got a few good kicks in,” Mercia says, shrugging.
Mercia’s voice grows distant until it’s non-existent. Rachel glances up, sees her mouth moving, watches as Dougal responds. Her mother meets her eyes, a crease forming on her brow. Meanwhile, the birds quieten outside, the world becomes voiceless.
“I need to find Orion,” Rachel says the words, but can’t hear herself speak. “I need ... to—” She stands, blinking rapidly as the world spins. She moves a hand to her neck, but the pendant she’s so used to sitting there is gone. She exhales through her nose, feeling something rummaging around in her head. Searching. Searching. Wanting to know everything she knows, but there’s a specific something it wants—no, needs.
The world shatters like a mirror being smashed. The shards drop around her, every tinkle a reminder that she is no longer in control of her own body. And then she’s floating somewhere within herself. Hovering. It almost feels like she’s outside of her body, but not quite.
There’s someone inside her mind, an evil lurking just outside her reach. Drilling into her thoughts, deeper and deeper, the wanting growing desperate, the needing becoming unbearable.
Get out!
There’s no response.
The unworldly violation continues as it sorts through her memories. She sees herself meeting Orion for the first time, remembers his apprehension to let her into his apartment. Rachel is transported back to her sophomore year, when Mrs. Crenshaw was the one cheering her on at a track meet and not her mother. Another memory comes out, this one of Rachel standing by her father’s grave a few years after his death.
Liam Donovan Cleary
Beloved husband and father
August 20, 1979 – February 10, 2011
The memory shifts as the regression picks up speed. Emotions resurface. There’s the immense heartache as she watches her mother’s despondence turn to apathy. Before that, though, her father is alive, but still sickly. Then, the illness reverses, showing Liam Cleary as he looked before anyone even suspected he was sick. The memories stop at an unfamiliar scene. She remembers the pure joy of spending the Fourth of July with her parents, watching the fireworks brighten up the sky, but parts are obscured. How old was
