Chapter 19 Toolie #2
The first musket ball hit a headstone near my ear, sending up a spray of old stone and lichen.
Catherine shrieked, but I yanked her down, hard, shoving us both flat against the slab.
Another shot ripped through the air, tore the edge of my jacket, and left the world ringing.
Nora dropped in a heap, hands over her head. Maeve crouched over her, teeth bared.
“Stay down,” I rasped, but Catherine was already struggling to see over the tomb, eyes frantic for any sign of Declan.
He didn’t hide, of course. The old priest stood tall at the center of the path, robe flapping in the wind, arms outstretched like he was blessing his own execution.
“Hale!” Declan roared, and even the gunfire paused for a beat. “Leave them. Your quarrel is with me.”
Hale didn’t answer. He just lifted a pistol, took his time, and aimed it at Declan’s chest. For a second, I thought maybe Hale would let him talk, let him finish the old speech.
He didn’t. The gun barked, and the ball caught Declan high in the side, a bright bloom of blood immediately soaking the black.
Declan staggered, but didn’t go down—just gripped his own belly, teeth clenched, and managed to shout, “RUN! Complete the ritual!”
Moab didn’t need telling twice. He peeled off from the circle, moving like he was born for this, low and fast, firing a stolen musket as he sprinted for cover. The shot was wild, but it did its job—the line of soldiers dropped, half ducking, and two more shots went high and wide.
Scarlette was in the circle, back arched, hands splayed in front of her like she was playing a piano made of glass.
The air shimmered around her, and the chalk lines glowed a faint, poisonous blue.
Mama Celeste was behind her, head thrown back, voice gone raw with the strain of the chant.
Their words hit the inside of my skull in pulses, louder than the musket fire.
“Get up,” I hissed at Catherine. She looked at me, then at Declan, who’d finally slumped against a crooked headstone, leaving a red streak on the granite.
She reached for him, but I grabbed her, locking both arms around her waist, and dragged her toward the circle. It took everything not to let her go.
Moab made it back to us, face slick with sweat, shirt ripped at the shoulder. He slammed another shot into the musket and peered around the edge of the nearest monument.
“Five left,” he grunted. “Plus Hale.”
I nodded. My own hands were shaking. “They’ll rush us. We have seconds.”
He bared his teeth in something almost like a grin. “Good. Let them try.”
The next volley was all for us. Three shots in rapid succession, two low, one high. The headstone splintered, and a chunk the size of my fist flew off, grazing Catherine’s arm. She gasped, but didn’t make a sound—just clutched at her biceps, blood welling through her sleeve.
“Keep your head down,” I muttered, and pressed my palm over the wound. She glared at me, raw, but didn’t pull away.
Scarlette was calling out, voice sharp as broken glass. “It’s breaking! You have to hold the circle!”
Mama Celeste staggered, caught herself, and spat into the earth. “It’s too soon! We need more time!”
Hale strode up to Declan, who was now slumped at the base of the headstone.
For a second, Hale studied the blood, then leaned in, voice too soft to hear from where I crouched.
Declan didn’t speak, just stared back with hate so pure it lit up his whole wasted face.
Hale nodded, like he understood, and cocked the pistol again.
Catherine sobbed. “No,” she whispered. “We can’t leave him. We can’t—”
“He’s gone,” I said, but even as I did, I knew she wouldn’t hear it. I tried to shift so I blocked her view, but she fought me, wriggling up until she could see over my shoulder.
Moab let off another shot, this one much closer. I heard a scream, then nothing. “Four,” Moab said, dead calm.
Bullets pinged around us. The air filled with smoke and powder, so thick it coated my tongue.
Scarlette worked faster, her hands flying over the jars and bones. The blue light grew, pulsed, then shivered. “If the circle breaks,” she shouted, “we die here. Not later. Now.”
Moab and I traded glances. I nodded at the left flank; he nodded back, then slipped away in the dark, ghosting from stone to stone.
Mama Celeste raised her arms, every muscle trembling. “Just a little longer,” she muttered, “hold it, hold it—”
A shadow fell over us. For a split second, I thought it was the moon, but it was a man—one of the soldiers, running full tilt, bayonet fixed. I braced for the hit, but Moab came from nowhere, musket reversed, and hammered the man in the throat. The soldier dropped with a wet, guttural gasp.
“Three,” Moab panted, not even winded.
The other soldiers were right behind, charging with no finesse, just rage. One tripped over a grave and lost his gun; the other aimed straight for the circle. Scarlette saw him coming, but she didn’t break the chant. She just lowered her head, gritted her teeth, and took the hit.
The soldier crashed into the circle, knocking Scarlette flat.
The blue light flared, brighter than ever, and for a second I saw everything—the bones, the dried petals, the blood smeared everywhere.
The soldier tried to stab Scarlette, but the blade hit the edge of the chalk and stopped, as if it was caught on invisible steel.
Scarlette rolled away, grabbed a fistful of salt, and threw it in the man’s eyes.
He screamed, hands to his face, and fell back over the edge of the circle.
Mama Celeste didn’t miss a beat. She sang louder, her voice breaking, the words cutting through the smoke. The blue shimmer turned violet, then white.
I felt it in my teeth—a pressure, a pull, like my skull was being yanked forward. The grass around the circle flattened, and the headstones rattled in their sockets. The world smelled of ozone and blood and scorched meat.
Hale raised his pistol again, aimed at the circle, at Catherine. I saw it in slow motion—his finger tightening, the hammer falling, the flash.
But there was no shot. Moab hit him from behind, knife deep in his shoulder. Hale spun, lashing out with the pistol, catching Moab on the brow. Moab went down, blood streaming from his face.
Catherine screamed, and I reached for her.
Hale ignored Moab, eyes locked on Catherine. He wrenched the knife free and started after her, murder in every line of his face.
I followed, lungs burning, ribs on fire. The edge of the circle shimmered, and as I crossed it, I felt the world tilt—like jumping off a cliff, that half-second of weightlessness before the crash.
Inside, the air was thick. Scarlette and Mama Celeste knelt together, hands joined, the blood on their arms slick and bright in the unnatural light. Catherine stood in the center, shaking, tears streaming down her face.
I grabbed her, held her close, and turned to face Hale.
He stepped to the edge, pistol up, bleeding from his arm and shoulder, but moving as if none of it mattered. He glared at us, then at the blue-white fire that now pulsed from the ground beneath us. “End it,” he hissed.
Scarlette spoke, voice just for Catherine and me. “Now. Both of you. Hands together, and don’t let go.”
We locked fingers, and for the first time, Catherine squeezed back. She was shaking, but her grip was iron.
Mama Celeste chanted, “Veil is open. Choose your path.”
When the world came apart, it did not shatter all at once.
First, time stalled: the bullets hung in the air like seeds caught in a summer breeze, the soldiers' shouts stretched out and warped, Moab's wild charge a freeze-frame of rage and blood.
The blue-white light from the circle grew teeth, gnawed at the edges of reality, until the stones, the grass, even the air itself peeled back in ribbons.
In the middle, Catherine clung to me as if her bones were hollow and needed my body to keep them from folding in.
Scarlette and Mama Celeste knelt at her feet, one chanting, the other half-conscious, mouth pulled into a line so tight it looked drawn with ink.
My own skin hummed, alive with the memory of every wound I’d ever taken, every pain the world had ever offered.
But none of it mattered, not here, not with the old world dissolving under my knees.
Catherine tried to speak, but the words got caught in the crush of her ribs.
Her face was a map of fear and wonder, every line etched deeper by the light.
She looked at me, lips trembling, and for a second, I saw the woman I’d first loved—a girl with mud under her fingernails and a mind set like stone.
I dropped to my knees in front of her, hands shaking worse than they ever did in a fight.
"Listen," I said, but my voice was ragged, ruined.
"I crossed time itself for you. I burned my life to the ground for a shot at another day with you. I don’t care about anything else.
Not the club, not the future, not the damn world. Just you."
Her eyes went wide, round as a child’s. She opened her mouth, but nothing came.
I risked a glance back. Hale was there, just outside the ring of fire, blood running down his face, lips twisted in pure hate. He raised his pistol and aimed right at Catherine, but the air in the circle boiled, bent the bullet's path before it could reach us.
Nora and Maeve huddled together, both pale as milk, but Maeve’s glare was gone—replaced by something closer to awe. I turned back to Catherine, willing her to see me, really see me, one last time.
"If you want to stay here," I said, voice breaking, "if you want this—" I waved at the ruin of the graveyard, the sisters, the bleeding priest at the edge of the world, "I’ll stay. I’ll die here if you need. But if you want to come with me, to whatever waits on the other side, we go now. Together."
The light flared, swallowing everything, but inside the circle it was calm—like the eye of a storm, quiet and infinite.
Mama Celeste spoke, words tumbling out between gasps. "Ritual’s almost done. Choose, Catherine. Choose now!"
At the edge of the circle, Declan propped himself up, one hand clamped to the hole in his side, blood gushing between his fingers. He fixed his eyes on Catherine and said, "Go! All of you! There's nothing left here for the living!"
Hale screamed then, a raw, wordless thing, and hurled himself against the circle. The blue-white fire caught him, lifted him, and burned the flesh from his hand in a single, perfect moment. He staggered back, stunned, and the rage in his eyes curdled to terror.
Scarlette’s voice cut through everything, clear and brittle. "Time's up, Cat. You stay, you die. You go, you never come back."
Nora started to cry, low and hopeless. Maeve did not move, did not even blink.
Catherine looked at me, then at her sisters, then at the world dissolving behind us. Her whole body shook. "I can't," she whispered.
“ All this, it’s for you, for them—so none of you have to be alone again,” I said.
She sobbed, and it broke something in me I didn’t know was there.
"Please," I said, "just tell me what you want. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything."
She reached up, cupped my face with both hands, and kissed me. It was soft, wet with tears, but it was real—more real than the world crumbling around us.
In the corner of my eye, the portal shimmered, a hole torn in the fabric of the world. It glowed, beckoning, alive with the promise of something beyond pain.
Mama Celeste’s hands fell away. Scarlette slumped to the ground, exhausted. The circle began to fade.
Hale screamed again, but this time he sounded lost, like a man realizing he’s already dead.
Catherine drew back from the kiss and met my eyes, green and wild and shining. "We go together," she said. "Or not at all."
I nodded. "Always."
She turned, took Nora’s hand, then Maeve’s. The sisters gripped each other tight. I reached for Scarlette, pulled her in. Moab, battered and bloody, crawled to the edge, eyes fixed on the portal like it was the only thing that ever mattered.
Together, we crawled, bled, and dragged each other into the light.
For one last moment, I looked back.
Declan smiled at me, blood on his lips, eyes gentle.
"You did good, Sullivan O’Toole," he said.
Then the world snapped.
We fell, all of us, through the blue-white singularity, into a place with no time, no pain, nothing but the hope that maybe, on the other side, love would be enough.
The last thing I saw was Catherine’s face, backlit by the promise of tomorrow.