Clay and Savy backed away as the flames grew hotter. The two damaged bodies were mere shadows among the firelight, entangled and going up. And even if Karney’s throat had melted to the bone, Clay still heard Boyle’s words: “…of our damaged souls…”
Silence after that. Silence save the crackling of dead wood.
Savy doubled over and turned her face from Clay.
“Beautiful,” a voice called behind them.
Clay froze. That voice. He knew it as well as Boyle’s now. As well as his own.
Savy did not know it though. Her dealings had been with Priest entirely. She didn’t spin around nearly as fast as Clay.
The Hailmaker was standing under the busted light, in the moon shadow of the largest orange tree. His figure tall in a trenchcoat and wide-brimmed black hat. Clay couldn’t see the face, but had little doubt it was different from Payton Alexander’s or the Queen Bitch’s or The Man’s. If there was anything under the brim at all.
“Who…” Savy’s voice was uncertain. “Is that…?”
Clay made a concerted effort to look where the eyes should have been, to stare back into that darkness and choke down his fear. “Get out of here.”
“You’ve made your choice, Clay Harper. She, on the other hand”—the Hailmaker lifted an inhumanly long finger—“signed. She belongs to me.”
“So you’re him,” Savy said, sounding brave—but also like someone had smashed her in the gut.
The Hailmaker tipped his hat like a proper gentleman.
And Clay told him, “You’re going to let her out of that contract.”
“No,” Savy whispered.
“You’re going to let her out—because then I’ll sign whatever you want.”
“No, Clay!”
The figure was quiet, as composed as ever, letting them have their little soap opera.
“You sold out to save your family,” Clay said. “Now I’m going to save you.”
“I could have said no to Priest. I had the will, but not the want. What I want is for my life to be different, Clay—even if I have to trade everything for it.” Savy shook her head. She seemed to be growing very pale. “I gave up too quickly. I failed you. I stole your songs.”
“I don’t care about any of that. I’m not letting him take you away.”
“He would only use me to ruin you. Then all I’d be is another succubus.”
Clay reached out for her, pulled Savy to him. He was starting to feel desperate, like she was dangling over some infinite abyss, his strength to hold her running out. “You’re still here. You’re standing right here with me. Nothing’s over.”
Savy swallowed. She was petrified; trying not to show it. “I’m sorry”—she turned to the figure in the shadows—“that I interfered. I love him and I couldn’t stay out of it.”
“Yes. Love makes us weak, Savannah Marquez,” the Hailmaker told her, and now his voice skewed feminine: “But you’ll learn. I’ll show you how never to feel heartache again. Come. Band practice in the morning. A tour to follow. We must begin to heal the wounds this foolish boy has inflicted.”
Savy took an obedient step in the figure’s direction.
“I said, take me instead!”
The unseen face tilted toward Clay. “I don’t want you anymore. Your curse is to live a long life in a ruined world that’s moving closer and closer to the end.”
“Come into the light and talk.”
The figure didn’t move.
“No?” Clay spat. “Who the hell are you to demand anything genuine? You're a liar. You lied about my mother and you’re lying now. You’re no Master of Puppets—you’re a pervert with a sock! At fucking best!”
Now the figure did move. But only to beckon for Savy.
“Come closer, you fucking coward. Fight fair!”
Savannah turned slowly back toward Clay. “I’m sorry,” she was whispering. “I’m sorry.”
“Sav, stop saying that, there’s always a—”
Her fist came from nowhere to hammer his thigh. The nerves screamed up and down Clay’s leg. He grunted and she struck him again, harder, in the same place.
Clay wobbled, took a knee in the grass. “You—dead-legged me?” he groaned, honestly surprised.
“I’m so sorry.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead. Lips trembling. “But don’t chase me. I’ll only run faster.”
Clay grabbed for her, but Savy moved out of reach. A choked sound escaped her as she sprinted for the dark of the orange grove, where the Hailmaker received her under one impossibly long arm.
Clay watched them walk off together, Savy half-collapsed, as if drunk or overwhelmed, against the devilish form that was darker than the dark itself. And for a while, nothing existed to Clay but the pain; the deep ache in his leg that made its way to his chest, that ballooned there until he felt like he was going to fucking explode. He might have been slamming his fists into the ground because the pain was in his hands as well. And he was certainly screaming into the night, frightening the coyotes with his wordless howls.
It was the fire that finally brought him out of it; that, and the idea that he had to get his father—who’d been there for him in the end—to a doctor. If he didn’t get moving, the fire was going to catch in the trees and carry, taking the house, and the neighborhood, with it.
Clay fought to his feet and limped to the summer kitchen, where an extinguisher stood beside the grill. It took all the foam inside the canister, but Clay succeeded in dousing every last lick of flame. There was nothing left of the bodies that Boyle and Deidre had so recently inhabited, nothing but ashy bone and a new column of roiling smoke.
And for a moment, Clay was tempted to step inside that column and breathe as deeply as he could, for as long as he could. Escape his torment with an endless slumber.
Yet, despite his pain, despite his failure, Clay Harper did not want death. Not now.
