Chapter 22 Moab
Moab
The rift snapped shut with a sound that wasn’t sound, more like a nerve cut or a joint popped out of its socket.
For a second, my eyes refused to accept what happened—the blue-white heat burned a negative on my retinas, Toolie’s silhouette and the girl’s haloed in the fire, then gone.
Just gone. The morning mist crashed in after it, silent, as if the world wanted to smooth over what we’d done.
I stood frozen in the after-image, boots sunk in the slick grass.
The spot where the hole in the world had opened was still shivering—a circle of grass flattened and scorched in a radius that looked too round, too deliberate.
My shadow fell into the ring, but there was nothing inside.
No trace of Sully. No Catherine. The only thing left was the stink of burnt air, like the time I cut the cord on a live transformer and all the air in the shop turned electric for a week.
Scarlette was already moving, fingers white-knuckled around the chalk.
She dropped to her knees in the grass and started to redraw the circle, every stroke harder than the last. The chalk dust clotted in the dew, turned to a paste that streaked her hands gray.
I watched her for a second, half-expecting her to stop, maybe to scream, but she just kept drawing, faster and faster.
Mama Celeste hovered at the ring’s edge, both hands full of talismans.
Old teeth, glass beads, a sliver of stained wood I’d seen her use on harder cases.
She talked in a whisper, not to us, but to whatever was left in the space between.
Her eyes were wet, but her face didn’t move; she just clutched the beads so tight the cord bit into her skin.
When Scarlette finished the ring, Celeste dropped to a crouch beside her and started tracing symbols in the mud, the beads ticking off each stroke.
Behind them, Maeve paced—five steps forward, five back, her skirt catching on the tops of the stones.
The cold made her breath come out in little bursts, each one sharper than the last. She looked at the circle, at the sky, at the trees, anywhere but at her own hands, which curled and uncurled like they were trying to tear the air in two.
“Bring them back!” she shouted. The voice bounced off the old marble, came back doubled, echoing all the way to the road. Scarlette didn’t look up.
Nora stood a few feet away, just outside the ring, arms wrapped around herself.
She didn’t make a sound, but the tears came down steady.
She kept rubbing her nose with her wrist, smearing it red, as if she were ashamed to wipe it on her sleeve.
Once or twice she glanced at me, and I tried to nod at her, tried to be some kind of anchor, but I didn’t have anything in me. Not yet.
Scarlette dug into her bag, pulled out a paper packet of salt, and emptied it along the chalk.
She started the chant, voice flat and dry, the words tumbling over each other.
I knew the basics of the spell, had heard it before in a thousand backroom exorcisms, but the cadence was off—too panicked, too desperate.
She tripped over the words, then started again, her voice ratcheting up in volume every time she missed.
After the third try, her hands were shaking so bad she could barely hold the packet.
She grit her teeth, snapped the last of the salt in half, and poured it out.
“Start again,” Maeve said, voice a rasp. “You’re not doing it right.”
Scarlette ignored her, kept chanting, hands pressed flat to the ground.
Celeste added her own layer, a harmony that should have steadied things but instead made the air vibrate, unpleasant, like two notes not meant to play together.
The mist thickened, pressed in, and for a second, I thought maybe they’d pull it off, maybe they’d open the rift again and get Toolie back.
I wanted to believe it so bad my mouth hurt.
But nothing happened. No shimmer. No spark. The grass just sat there, soggy, the chalk starting to break apart under the weight of the dew.
Scarlette swore under her breath. “Fucking hell.” She went at it again, scraping a new line, the tip of the chalk catching in a root and snapping off. She threw the stump at the ground, fumbled for another, and kept going. Her knuckles were scraped raw, blood slicking the side of her pinky.
Mama Celeste’s voice wavered. “The resonance is off,” she said, but the words weren’t for us. “The time is past. The door—”
“No,” Scarlette snapped, “I can do it. I just need—” She slammed the chalk down, started drawing over the old lines, the symbols coming out crooked.
Maeve stormed up to the edge of the ring. “You said you could bring her back,” she hissed, eyes bright with hate. “You said if we did the blood, if we sat in the damn circle, you could open it again. So do it. Bring them back.”
Scarlette didn’t answer. Her mouth was pinched thin, jaw working like she was chewing on glass.
Nora finally moved. She crossed the ring, not caring about the chalk or the salt, and stood behind Scarlette, close but not touching. “Maybe they’re okay,” she whispered, so soft it barely registered. “Maybe it worked, and they’re together.”
Maeve wheeled around, hands out like claws. “Shut up! You don’t know that. Nobody knows that.” She sank to her knees, fists pounding the grass. The sound was sick, sodden, like she wanted to beat the life out of the earth itself.
Scarlette’s next attempt was a mess. She tried to light a slip of paper, but the lighter was too wet, the spark barely catching. She muttered “goddammit” a few times, then gave up, crumpling the paper in her fist. She started the chant again, voice breaking on the last syllable.
I couldn’t take it. I crouched beside Scarlette, close enough to feel the heat off her body. “It’s over,” I said, low. “You did everything you could. If anyone could’ve pulled it off, it was you.”
She looked at me, eyes ringed with blue from lack of sleep, and for the first time, she looked scared.
“I felt him,” she said, words barely moving her lips.
“I felt the link. And then it was like—like he just disappeared. Like there was nothing on the other side.” Her hand clenched around the chalk until it snapped again, white dust smearing down her palm.
Mama Celeste’s hands dropped to her lap, the beads sliding off her fingers and into the grass. She looked older than I’d ever seen her, the lines in her face deep, eyes sunken. “The window’s closed,” she whispered. “There’s no door to open now.”
Even Maeve went quiet, head bowed, the wet grass soaking through her skirt.
Scarlette started to rock, just a little, like a kid trying to shake off a nightmare. “He’s gone,” she said, not to anyone in particular. “I lost him.”
I sat down hard in the grass, the cold shooting up my spine. I let my hands hang between my knees, stared at the perfect ring of dead grass, the way it made a target out of nothing.
Nora broke first. She dropped next to Maeve and hugged her, both of them sobbing into each other’s hair. Scarlette crawled away from the circle, flopped on her back, and stared up at the blank sky. Her chest hitched every few seconds, but she didn’t make a sound.
Mama Celeste gathered the beads and bones, slipped them into the pouch at her waist, and stood, shoulders slumped. She didn’t look at anyone, just shuffled toward the cemetery gate, every step slower than the last.
I didn’t know what to do. For once, there was no tool I could grab, no enemy to punch, no machine to fix. All I had was the ache in my gut and the memory of Toolie’s last look—pure, uncut need, like he was about to beg me for something and didn’t have the words.
The mist cleared a little. The ring of grass stood out, burned into the ground.
I got up, walked over, and knelt at the edge.
I pressed my hand to the spot where the rift had been, half-expecting to feel a pulse, or a jolt, or even a shock.
There was nothing. Just earth, damp and cold, and the realization that the only way forward was to live with it.
Behind me, Scarlette started to laugh—a short, bitter bark that made my scalp prickle. “He always said he’d die first,” she said, voice raw. “Guess the bastard was right.”
I wanted to say something clever, to make it better, but all that came out was, “He’s not dead, Scar. Not if he made it through. He’s just—”
She sat up, hair a wild halo around her face. “Just what? Gone? Lost in time? Some happy ending in a place we can never reach?”
I shook my head. “Maybe it’s enough that he made it out. That he got to her.”
She spat in the grass. “I hope it was worth it.”
Mama Celeste turned at the gate, eyes glistening, and called back, “You did what you had to. That’s all any of us can do.”
The sun started to rise for real, gold fingers crawling over the stones. The light caught the ring and turned it to silver. I stood, felt the wet chill in my jeans, and realized I’d have to be the one to carry the next part. Whatever that was.
Scarlette climbed to her feet, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and glared at the circle. “Let’s get them out of here,” she said, nodding at the sisters, still tangled together on the grass.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
We packed up. No one said a word about the broken tools or the blood on our hands. Maeve and Nora followed, slow, like they were afraid the ground would open and swallow them, too. We left the ring behind, the circle scarred into the cemetery like a warning or a gravestone.
I didn’t look back. Not until we reached the end of the lane, and the mist started to lift for good. Then I turned, just once, and imagined I could see Toolie and the girl standing in the circle, hand in hand, watching us leave.
Maybe they were. Maybe that’s what love was—wanting someone to make it out, even if you couldn’t follow.
I squared my shoulders, put a hand on Maeve’s back to steady her, and we walked on.
Maeve made it three steps before her knees gave out.
She fell hard, hands digging into the grass, the sound of it small but final.
She didn’t move, just stayed doubled over, face hidden, the breath coming out of her in little shudders.
Then the scream started—long and raw, scraping up from somewhere deep.
It bounced off the stones and the trees, then faded out, leaving nothing but the wet slap of her palms on the ground.
Nora was on her a second later. She wrapped herself around Maeve, cheek pressed to the back of her head, arms tight as bands of wire.
Maeve tried to push her off, at first—just a reflex, the old big-sister violence—but Nora wouldn’t let go.
They knelt there together, a heap of tangled limbs, shaking in sync.
I wanted to turn away, to give them the privacy of their grief, but my boots wouldn’t move. I just stood there, fists clenched, jaw tight enough I thought it might crack. I tried to swallow it all, to stay upright, but the edges of the world kept curling in, blurring at the corners.
Scarlette made herself busy. Mama Celeste stood off to the side.
It was up to me to move things forward. It always was.
I crossed to the sisters, squatted low, and put a hand on each of their backs. I could feel the shudders through my palm—hot, then cold, then just numb. Maeve wouldn’t look at me, but Nora did. Her eyes were red, skin raw, but she nodded, like she understood this was all that kept her upright.
I waited until the noise in Maeve ran out. Then I said, “The Royal Bastards will take care of you both.” My voice came out gravelly, tight. “You have my word.”
Maeve shuddered, sucked in a breath, and finally looked up. The green in her eyes was sharp, alive, full of hate—but it was aimed at the world, not at me.
“I don’t want your word,” she spat, but the fight was gone from it. “I want my sister back.”
I nodded. “Yeah.” Sometimes you just have to agree.
Nora patted Maeve’s arm, like she was soothing a stray dog. “We can go,” she whispered, soft but steady. “We can go now.”
I helped them both to their feet. Maeve was deadweight, but I was used to carrying more than my share. Nora barely came to my chest, but she stuck to my side the whole time, one hand wrapped in the hem of my jacket.
We walked out slow, like a funeral, but without the dignity. Maeve and Nora were a pair of wraiths on either side of me, Scarlette just behind, head down. Mama Celeste brought up the rear, her steps even, never hurrying.
The sun was full up now, the light making the grass look fake, too green to be real.
The ring stood out like a bruise in the middle of it all—a scar in the earth.
I looked back once, caught the glare of it, and felt something twist inside my ribs.
I wanted to rip it out, to leave all the pain there in the dirt, but I knew better.
We hit the gates and paused, the chill of the iron seeping through my shirt. I watched the sky for a minute, half-expecting to see the rift open again, Toolie’s ugly mug laughing down at me. Nothing. Just crows circling, and the city waking up beyond the fence.
I turned to the girls, made sure they were steady. Maeve’s hands were fists, knuckles white, but she stood. Nora leaned into her, letting herself be held. Scarlette kept her eyes fixed on the ground, jaw set.
I looked at Mama Celeste, and she nodded. That was enough.
We stepped through the gate, into whatever came next. I kept a hand on each sister, held them upright. For Toolie, for the girl, for everyone who didn’t make it out.
At the edge of the walk, I paused, let the rest go ahead. I turned to look at the ring of dead grass.
“See you around, brother,” I said. My throat worked, but I didn’t let it break. Not yet. Then I set my jaw, squared my shoulders, and followed the girls into the bright, empty morning.