39. The Grasp of Hellfire
The Grasp of Hellfire
It’s Peter. Your dad.
The words stop me dead. It’s the last thing I expected to come out of her mouth.
“He’s . . .” I can’t finish the question. Could he be alive? Hope rises in my chest, however timidly, at the thought. Can we have him?
“He’s dead. He can’t come back to us. But his soul has been trapped here, and I can’t leave knowing that I’m leaving him behind. He deserves to move on, and that’s not happening while he’s trapped here. So, if you can’t do this, I’m waiting here until someone can,” she replies.
I admire her determination. I admire the love she has for Dad. I only wish she loved us half as much.
But she’s also right—the horrid witch—I couldn’t possibly take her with the knowledge that he stays put. It’s both or neither. I don’t have anything to connect me to him like Mom’s compact, I don’t even remember what his voice sounds like. But Dad? Dad is worth the risk.
“Fine. But you first, and then I’ll find him.”
She makes an irritated grunt. “Fine. I have him right here, though. He shouldn’t be difficult for you to grab. He’s just less corporeal than I am since he’s only a soul.”
No pressure.
I take a centering breath, focus on the magic coming from my sister and my grandmother—they’re going to shit a brick when they find out—and breathe out any uncertainty. There’s no place for it here.
I envision my body, feel my arms reach out past my little window for my mother. Watch as in my mind’s eye I wrap them around her for the first time since I was a little girl. It isn’t comforting, isn’t the kind of hug I get from Hazel, from Grandma, from Ash. It’s just a means to an end.
I pull against invisible restraints. Against the laws of nature—the laws of Hell—to bring her back to us.
Mom focuses on me. With every pull she becomes more real, less of an apparition and more like the woman I’ve always known.
Her eyes are visible first, the eyes I inherited.
The eyes that stare into me, not breaking the connection.
Slowly, so slowly, she yields. Inch by inch she is freed from the gooey grasp of hellfire.
The stink of sulfur fills my nose, but I keep pulling.
Keep focusing on her eyes until I can actually feel her touch, feel her arms hugging around my waist, and use the magic I’ve spent months honing to push her through my fiery window.
And she’s there.
I know she is. I haven’t broken the connection with Hell, but I know she’s there just as much as I know Grandma and Hazel are there.
Mom’s hands find the open spaces right next to my neck and squeeze. I shudder at her actual touch. “Your father. You have to get him. Go, please. I tricked Draven into leaving to have some time but he won’t be gone long.”
It would be so easy to break the connection. To call it a win, to quit while I’m ahead. But I can’t.
I can’t leave Dad.
I vaguely register yelling. Crying. Emotions from Mom, Grandma, and Hazel that I can’t put my time or energy into or I’ll be sucked back.
I have to keep moving forward.
I allow myself to fall just a little further through my window so I can feel the heat, smell the sulfur, and follow what I hope is the trail to my father.
Mom was right, Dad isn’t corporeal enough to be an easy find. I feel like I’m digging through dirt trying to find him in the space Mom used to occupy. He couldn’t have gotten far in the few moments it took to drag her out.
Could he?
Time means nothing anymore. I have no need for time. I’m merely an entity searching and searching for a voice I wouldn’t recognize. With every moment I push a little deeper, hoping I can see. I can do this.
“Dad?” I call into the void. Into space.
And there. A small light. The smallest little light, but it’s something that doesn’t smell like death, so I focus on it. Beckon it closer.
Hold my hands open for it.
The little ball of light isn’t like Mom. She had a body and a voice—everything that made her who she is. This is warmth, energy, and light.
And love. So much love.
Love that overwhelms as it glows and enters my hands. I’m crying. It’s Dad. It must be.
I’m so focused on him I don’t notice the other lights. I don’t notice that I’m surrounded. That I’ve lost my way out.
That in finding him, I’ve also found countless others. That the lights I was warned of were souls all along, and now they approach like asteroids ready to combust on impact.
Panic consumes me, spurring tears and the knowledge that I’ve gone too far. I’ve delved too deep beyond my little fire mirror, and I don’t know if I can pull myself out. I’m still aware of myself, but for how long?
Suddenly, I’m grabbed by the waist. I lost the touch of my family long ago, but this? This isn’t the souls. It’s not the lights. It’s something else.
I fall limp, using all my energy to keep grasping on to Dad as I’m pulled. Pulled and yanked until everything is too bright.
Too bright. Too real. Sunlight. Birds chirping. Cold, winter air. Yelling. Screaming.
Crying.
Burning.
Burning flesh. It can’t be me. I’m a dragon, I don’t burn.
I crack an eye to see Ash. Ash, my Ash, staring down at me. He’s wrapped around me, his beautiful green eyes full of worry and pain, his hands grasping at me with desperation, and . . . his beard is aflame.
I open my hands to touch him and see the light of my father float toward the sky. Feel his love and appreciation as he escapes from the scene below.
And I lose consciousness.