“I know, dude, seriously,” Paul said. “But you know, I think that it used to be that the fey—whoops, I mean Them”—he corrected himself as some onlookers looked up at us—“I think They used to be afraid of the dead. So in the old days, you know, the ’70s, it was a protection against Them.”
There was another shout, across campus, as another bonfire was lit. Nuala narrowed her eyes.
“This is Patrick Sullivan, one of your friendly teachers and resident advisors!” Sullivan had availed himself of a microphone and was using the massive speakers for a public service announcement. “I’d like to interrupt the music to urge everyone to stay on campus grounds! Halloween is not a good time to wander off for a make-out session in the hills, boys and girls! Remember the horror movies? Something bad always happens to the couple making out! Stay within view of the bonfires and have a nice evening!”
Paul and I exchanged glances.
“What I want to know, dude,” Paul said thoughtfully, “is what They’re trying to hide. Don’t you? They’re keeping all the staff and students that know anything about anything running around making sure nobody gets pixy-led by all of Them that are here dancing with us.”
“It’s something about the ritual,” Nuala insisted. “Something about linking the dead to Them.”
“But you can’t just go out into a bunch of dead spirits with the munchies to try to find out what’s going on,” I said. My stomach twisted, sick with the idea of Nuala burning, sick with the idea of Dee with the faeries, sick with the premonition of loss.
And then I heard the first strains of Cernunnos’ song.
Paul winced. “Here he comes.”
And he wasn’t alone.
Nuala
When the end comes, dark and hungry
I’ll be alone, love
When the end comes, black and starving
I’ll say good-bye, love.
—from Golden Tongue: The Poems of Steven Slaughter
I heard the rush of wings first. Flapping and whispering and shimmering overhead, they wheeled away from the light of the bonfire, back into the growing night. I squinted into the darkness. It was moving, shifting, reflecting the moonlight in places.
James whispered in my ear, “And to think I ever thought you were scary.”
I couldn’t say anything back; my words were stuck in my throat. The thorn king’s song cried out grow rise follow and his horrors fled before him and dragged themselves behind him. As terrifying as the unhallowed dead were, faintly visible beyond the light of the bonfire, what was worse was the cold knot of certainty that was growing in my gut. The bonfires were all lit. The dead were walking. My knees were locked to keep my weak legs from trembling. I was running out of time.
“Paul!” Sullivan shouted from near us. “Paul, I need you to tell me who’s on the list tonight! Has it changed? Come here! Hurry up!”
Paul, who’d seemed frozen by Cernunnos’ song, jerked to life. He exchanged a look with James and pushed past a group of green-clad dancers (too tall and willowy to be students) to get to Sullivan.
My legs wanted to buckle so bad; I felt light-headed. I hated to tell James that it was time. Saying it would make it real.
“Izzy,” James said, and he grabbed me clumsily under my armpits before I even realized I was falling. He lowered me to the ground with a bit more gentleness.
I’d been an idiot. I should’ve gone sooner. I was just a coward, after all. My eyes felt so heavy; I had to tilt my head back to look at James. “I love that you call me that.”
James half-closed his eyes in pain. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now. The only way I’m making it through this right now is because you’re so bad ass.”
“Grow a set,” I suggested, and he laughed weakly. “Help me up.”
He hauled on my arms, but my legs just gave out again. Nobody seemed to notice us; they were all dazzled and glamored by the faeries dancing in their midst. That was okay. I couldn’t afford to get pulled out of the fire by some well-meaning bystander.
“You’ll really need those balls,” I said, “because I think you’re going to have to carry me.”
I watched his throat move as he swallowed wordlessly and awkwardly picked me up, arms under my knees and looped around my back and armpit. I held on and resisted the temptation to bury my face into his sweater. It would’ve been nice to take his smell, pipes and leather and soap, with me, but he only stank of Cernunnos right now anyway. I was going to have to go it alone.
James silently carried me around the back of the bonfire. It was huge now, shooting forty or fifty feet into the air with toxic-looking flames from whatever upholstery was currently fueling it. On this side, the farthest away from the buildings, we were alone. Just us and the yawning darkness of the hills beyond the firelight.
Even twenty feet away from the fire, the heat of it seared my face. James didn’t so much kneel as crumple to the ground with me, and suddenly he hugged me, hard.
“Nuala,” he said. “I have the most awful feeling about this.”
My chest was bursting with the effort of keeping my heart beating. “There’s no other way,” I whispered. “Help me stand.”
“You can’t stand.”
It was desperately important that I walk into the fire under my own power. I didn’t know if it was a real reason, or just one of principle, but I just felt like I had to do it myself. “Get me close, then help me up.”
He carried me a few steps closer to the fire and halted.
“Now say my name back to me,” I whispered. “So I know you won’t screw it up and I won’t forget you.”
James said it into my ear. Perfectly. Then he lowered me to my feet, and I stood.