Granna lay perfectly still, blankets pulled up tidily, hands laid stiffly on either side. There were no visible injuries, nothing to say what the faeries might have done to her or what "elf shot"

  might be. But she wasn't awake, either, and a heavy sensation of slumber or unconsciousness seemed to ooze from the hospital bed.

  I spun to face Mom. Behind her, James hung his head, seeming to analyze Granna's condition faster than I could. "What's wrong with her?"

  Mom's voice was efficient, her emotions still carefully locked away. "She's in a coma. Nobody knows why. She didn't fall. She wasn't sick. She's just in a coma, and they don't know when she's going to come out. They've done a bunch of tests like MRIs and stuff and so far everything's coming back normal. But we're still waiting on some of them. They say she could just sit up at any minute."

  Or lie like this for another hundred years. I looked down at Granna, quiet as the dead. I couldn't seem to feel upset; it was as if I were watching a TV show starring myself and my family, and the real me sat safely outside the television set. I wondered if it would be like the day the cat attacked: emotion would catch me later, when my guard was down.

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  The room faded; twilight. I was outside, staring at muddy clothing in a ditch, all crumpled up in angles that made my gut squeeze, the water of the ditch half-covering them. It took me a moment in the faded light to realize that it was a pile of bodies, limbs twined in a macabre puzzle. A tight white hand pulled on my arm, grasping it firmly below the newly glinting tore. Its owner, a tall young man whose brown hair bore a shocking streak of gold, said, "Come on, Luke. Come on.

  They're dead."

  I just stared at the bodies, feeling cold and mercifully empty. In a way, I was relieved that I had no tears for my brothers; if I cried, I'd be blind. I'd have to spend hours making the drops so I could see Them again. Hours wondering what They did while I was oblivious to Their presence.

  "Luke. There's nothing you can do."

  "If I'd been here--" Here, instead of doing Her bidding--

  "Then you'd be dead, too." The brown-and-gold-haired man pulled harder on my arm. "Come away. We'll make you forget."

  "I'll never forget." Luke closed his eyes, and the broken bodies still burned a painful image behind his eyelids.

  "Deirdre, James is talking to you."

  It took me a moment to separate reality from Luke's memory; to trade the smell of mud and death for the antiseptic smell of the hospital. Embarrassed, I blinked myself free and turned to face James by the door. "What?"

  "I said, 'I'm sorry I can't stay,'" James repeated. "I have a gig this evening with the pipe band. I can't get out of it."

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  Mom's face suddenly clouded. "Deirdre. Gig. The Warshaws' party. That's tonight." "I thought it was Sunday."

  "Today is Sunday. I can't believe I forgot about it." She paced, looking apprehensive for the first time. James raised an eyebrow at me behind her back, bewildered, but I understood Mom's consternation. She always had every aspect of everyone's life planned out and categorized in some invisible mental ledger; for her to forget a detail meant that she really was shaken by Granna's condition--and to admit she was shaken wasn't acceptable.

  "How are you going to get there? Delia's gone to do whatever she's doing--Dad was going to pick me up late tonight after work. I don't have a car here."

  "I'll take her." James' voice interrupted her pacing.

  "No. You have your gig."

  I shook my head, imagining going to a party and barfing while Granna lay in the hospital. "Mom, it's not that important. I'll tell them I can't make it. They can just play CDs on the stereo or something. It's just a dumb party, and Granna's here in the hospital."

  She stopped pacing and stared at me. "The Warshaws have planned this for months. You can't back out. This isn't going to change because you're here." She pointed at Granna, finger shaking slightly. "If only Dad didn't have to work so late--"

  Irritation bubbled up in me at how she clung stupidly to her damn schedule. "If you'd let me get my license, I could

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  drive myself 'places. What a crazy idea, huh? A sixteen-year-old with a driver's license?"

  Mom pursed her lips at me. "Don't be ridiculous, Deirdre. We both know you're not ready to be driving on your own."

  James didn't need to be psychic to sense the shit that was about to go down. He edged toward the corner of the room.

  "That's crap," I told her. "I can parallel park better than you can! You just want to control every piece of my life. Of course you don't want me to drive! How'd you be able to monitor my every fricking waking move?" I was terrified that I'd gone too far, but I couldn't seem to stop. Why was I doing this now? Shut up, Dee, shut up. But I didn't listen to myself. "I'm tired of doing everything your way. I'm tired of everything being planned out for me."

  Mom's face hardened. "I can't believe how ungrateful you are. Can't you see how lucky you are to have parents who care about your future? I care enough about you to make sure that you do something with your life."

  "Because you didn't," I snapped back. "Because Delia did everything you wanted to do." Oh God, I didn't just say that.

  Her face stayed exactly the same. "Do we need to have this conversation right now?"

  "We never talk, Mom. You never ask how I feel about anything. You just push me all the time, and it's stupid. We should've had this friggin' conversation a long time ago."

  "So, what do you want me to say? Delia stole my life? Delia gets everything? You could be everything I couldn't be--I push you too hard--I'm an overbearing mother--

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  there, you happy?" She half-turned away from me and began to dig in her purse. "I'll call Delia.

  Maybe she'll come back and take you."

  I was still shaking from standing up to her, and shocked at my outburst. I didn't know what was wrong with me, yelling at my Mom over Granna's body. Her fingers hesitated on the cell phone--I think she was as excited about calling Delia as I was about riding in Delia's car.

  "No. I'll call Luke. He can probably give me a ride." I took out my phone and punched in his number, willing him to pick up, needing him to pick up. I just wanted out of this room and away from my family. Even away from James, who was standing in the doorway trying to look as if he hadn't noticed our argument. I wanted away from everything that was my life right now.

  "Hello?" The effect of Luke's voice was slightly distilled by the distortion of the phone, but it still made me ache to be near him.

  "Luke?"

  At Luke's name, James looked away.

  But Luke's voice pulled me away from the image. "I've been thinking about you."

  I thought about the dead bodies in the ditch. "Me too." I couldn't say much more in front of my unsympathetic audience. "Um. I'm at the hospital. Can I ask a favor?"

  Luke agreed immediately and promised to see me soon. James mumbled some sort of goodbye and escaped from the room before I could think of what to say to him. And Mom just stood there, arms crossed, studying me.

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  I braced myself. "Okay, what, Mom?"

  "Wear your blue cardigan set."

  ***

  I had been standing by the hospital entrance for twenty minutes when I saw Bucephalus cut through the pouring rain, a dark mass in a gray, formless world. I shivered, part nerves, part anticipation, part sheer relief, and watched the old Audi pull up under the concrete overhang, dripping water onto the slick-dark asphalt.

  As I ran to the car, lightning flashed, brilliant and overwhelming, and a second later, thunder beat the air, momentarily deafening me. I slid in and slammed the door on the storm.

  As the car started to move, a curious feeling of release overcame me, like a release from pain that I hadn't known I'd had. I couldn't help but let out a huge sigh.

  "Sorry it took me so long."

  The moment I heard his voice, right there with me, I didn't care how wrong he was for me. I was just so glad to be in the car with him that it was hard to imagine anything else mattered. I knew it was selfish, but I didn't care.

  I turned my face toward him. He looked back at me, unsmiling, with dark circles beneath his eyes--his battle scars from the night before. "Hi, pretty girl."

  I told the truth. "I'm really glad to see you."

  "You don't know how much I needed to hear that." He sighed deep enough to match mine.

  "Where to?"

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  "Home for my harp first. And my friggin' blue cardigan set.

  "Brought you a present," Luke said. Without looking away from the road, he reached into his pocket and dropped Granna's ring into my hand.

  "You got it out of the sink?!" I slid it back onto my finger; now that I knew how useful it was, it wasn't nearly as ugly. Still running my finger absently along its edge, I looked out at the rain.

  Wind buffeted the car. Light filled it, brief and brilliant, and I cringed a second before the thunder boomed. "Great night for a party."

  Luke glanced in the rearview mirror, though there was nothing behind us but a wall of gray. "It'll be over in time for the party. All this lightning, though." His face darkened. "Puts a lot of energy in the atmosphere."

  I guessed what he was thinking. "Like the sort Eleanor could use to pull another vanishing act?"

  "It's not the vanishing I'm worried about," he said ruefully. "It's the appearing."

  Was that why he kept glancing in the rearview mirror? The thought kept me glancing in the passenger-door mirror the entire way to the house, though there was nothing to see but the spray from the tires.

  We pulled into the driveway. "Do you want to wait out here while I get the harp and change?"

  Luke peered over my shoulder at the empty house, barely visible through the sheet of rain. "I don't want you to be by yourself. I'll come with."

  We jumped out of the car and ran to the back door,

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  where I fumbled with keys, rain pouring over my fingers, and got us inside as quickly as possible. Sliding into the kitchen, I looked over at Luke and groaned.

  He looked down at his soaked shirt and said, his voice mild, "Well, you did take three years to unlock the door, so what did you expect? Where's the dryer? I'll throw it in while you get changed."

  The idea of him shirtless stuck my tongue to the bottom of my mouth, so I just pointed toward the laundry room and retreated to my room, where I rejected the frumpy blue cardigan Mom would have worn in favor of a fitted white button-down and a khaki skirt. I liked to think it was an outfit that said professional but sexy. As opposed to Mom's blue cardigan set, which said something more like frigid puritan music geek.

  I returned downstairs, picking my way carefully in the rain-gray darkness. It was weird to be home without the rest of my family. Without the hum of the TV, or Delia's loud voice, or the constant whir of Mom's standing mixer, the house seemed very still and empty; the only sound of life was the slow, rhythmic pulsing of the dryer in the kitchen. I thought of Luke standing down there, waiting for me, and the same thrill of nerves I got before playing in public trembled down my arms.

  I didn't trust myself with him.

  I moved into the dim kitchen and picked out Luke's pale form. He was leaning his hands on the counter, looking out the window. Without his shirt, I could see how his body truly was--how every inch was muscle, a perfectly

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  tuned, deadly machine. Shallow scars traced a mysterious map across his shoulders, leading my eye to the enigmatic gleam of the gold band around his biceps. I knew he heard me come in by the subtle tilt of his head, but he stared out into the rain for a few seconds longer before turning.

  "That was fast." When he turned, I saw the largest scar of them all; a huge, white, amorphous shape near his heart. I didn't bother to disguise my curiosity and closed the space between us; my eyes narrowed when I saw just how large the wound must have originally been.

  "What's that from?"

  He didn't reply, but his eyes wore the same dead expression they'd had after I'd read his mind. I reached out with careful fingers and touched the raised, uneven scar tissue, felt the shiny skin. As I did, I fell into a memory.

  It was one I'd seen before, back in the tomb. But this time I got a longer look. His back to an old wooden building, Luke held his wicked dagger point against the skin on his shoulder, lightly tracing a careful line down to the tore, as if trying its strength. Beads of blood raised up in its wake and I shuddered at the expression in his eyes--like there was nothing behind them. The next cut was stronger but still unflinching, slicing into his skin and skipping over the tore. And the next was stronger still. But of course it was madness. If he was trying to rid himself of the tore, it was a fool's errand; the tore itself wasn't affected by the knife. It stayed solidly around his biceps as he tore his arm to ribbons, a viscous blanket of red obscuring each new slash and covering the gold of the armband.

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  Finally, Luke lowered the knife, hand trembling, and I sighed with relief. But too soon. Fast as a viper strike, he dug the blade into his own chest, twisting it viciously. His hands slid from the grip at last, and his head fell back against the building, his body twisting and arching.

  I gasped, pulling myself free of the memory with effort and blinking my wet eyes. "You tried to kill yourself." Saying it out loud made the memory real. I stared at him, repeating, "You tried to kill yourself?"

  Luke swallowed, still as a statue beneath my fingers.

  Trying to put this piece into his puzzle, I traced the pale lines that coursed over his tore. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

  "You saw." He looked into my eyes, unflinching. "Why wouldn't I?"

  Sixteen years of Catholic church filled my mouth with answers, but they all tasted like paste and I was silent. Suddenly it occurred to me that I didn't have to have an answer-- that I didn't want to speak. Instead, I hugged him, throwing my arms around his lean frame and pressing my cheek against the scar on his shoulder where he'd first traced the blade.

  Luke lay his head on top of mine, his breaths counting the minutes, my heartbeat slowing to fall in step with his. Then I felt his mouth, his breath hot on my cool skin, push against my neck, at once tender and insistent. Part of me urged me to stop him while I still had my senses, but the better part of me wanted it too badly--wanted to feel him lay a path of kisses up my neck, under my ear, along my jaw, until his mouth found mine and stole my breath. I 190

  couldn't think, with the musky smell of his skin pressed so close to me and the feel of his fingers tangled in my pony-tail. My brain screamed too far! but my body moved on its own accord, pressing closer to him.

  A sudden, stabbing pain in my heart forced a gasp out of me, and I felt Luke's body stiffen. He pushed away, his hand moving up to his chest, his fingers against his skin, his eyes darkening.

  As the pain flamed through my chest again, Luke shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut.

  "What's happening?" I whispered. But the finger of fire dragged across my heart again, and this time, Luke's body spasmed and he crashed against the counter, sending a pot lid clattering to the floor. He reached a shaking hand toward the counter before collapsing down next to the pot lid on the tile. The tore glowed white hot on his arm, illuminated by some sort of fearsome magic.

  It was only then I figured it out. This wasn't my pain--it was his. What I was feeling was only a shadow, some sort of sympathetic pain caused by the weird magic I'd performed on us in the graveyard. I dropped down next to him as he shivered in time with the waves of fire that rolled through my chest.

  "Luke." I touched his face, and he focused his eyes on me, biting his lip. "What's happening to you?"

  It was worse than I could have imagined, feeling his body shaking underneath my hand and seeing him work so hard not to cry out. His voice was tight. "I'm--being-- punished."

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  I jerked my head up, looking at the windows, trying to see what could have been watching us.

  Luke, seeing my gesture, forced out, "For--what I told--Eleanor." He groaned, and curled his body tightly around his clenched fists.

  I remembered Eleanor's face then, the puzzlement on her face when she asked Luke why he couldn't kill me, just a girl. Faerie bitch! I wasn't just a girl. I was a girl with freakdom off the charts. I reached into the tangle of limbs and pressed my hand against Luke's chest, feeling the thump of his heart, slow and labored, each lethargic beat slamming against his ribs.

  I closed my eyes, trying to think about the feeling I got when I was moving clovers across tables.

  In my head, I saw the fire in Luke's chest, burning brightly across the wings of a frantic dove.

  The flames, reflected orange and white in the dove's black eye, ate one feather after another, curling them black and useless.

  "Go out," I whispered. But the fire kept burning, and the dove opened its beak and stared at the sky, eyes frozen and empty with the pain. I had to concentrate, to focus on the problem. What made fire go out? Lack of oxygen, right? I imagined the air sucking away from the flames, fleeing from the heat, leaving nothing but emptiness for the fire to feed on.

  The fire flickered and diminished on one of the wings, and the ache in my own heart flickered in response.

  "No," gasped Luke, and I opened my eyes to see him shaking his head. "No, don't do it. Just leave me alone."

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  "Why?"

  "She'll know." Beneath my hand, his heartbeat crashed convulsively. "She'll--know what you can do. She's--only --guessing--now."

  I could see the pain written on every muscle in his body. "I can't just watch you like this."

  "I--lied to her. Told her you--weren't--a threat." He turned his face away, bitten lip bleeding.