2. When One Forgets the G-spot #2
“Fine? You’re bleeding from the eyes and still lying to me, oh my god,” she snaps, then scrambles to her feet and walks in a panicked little circle.
Nearly trips straight into Cillian’s coffin but saves herself on the headstone.
“I shouldn’t have agreed to this shit. Why are we still digging through Godwyn’s dirt?
You passed the test four months ago when you killed Gabe.
You’re free; I’m free. Done!” She gestures at the corpse.
“Instead I’m here babysitting your necromantic ass again. ”
“Because my daughter won’t be! You’re free, I’m free, yes, I get that. But she won’t be unshackled from this just because I survived.”
Percy spins around, heavy skirts working against her balance. “ What daughter? You’re risking your life for the ghost of a girl that doesn’t even exist yet?—”
“And when she does exist?” I deadpan, pressing a hand to the ache in my sternum.
“Would you want me to lead her to that chapel on the eve of her tenth birthday? Gran was fine passing this curse to us. Great-Granny Priscilla was fine passing it to the twins. But I’m not going to look at my daughter’s face and tell her that someone’s gonna hunt her until she either kills them or dies.
That shit messed us up; don’t even pretend it didn’t.
I’m not doing that to her, even if I have to dig up every dead man in Sheffolk. ”
She stares at me for a few heartbeats, jaw working like an old woman chewing peanuts.
As though she’s tasting her words before she tests them.
“Okay. Okay, you’re completely right.” More chewing.
“Obviously I remember the chapel. Could never forget it. And I wouldn’t want that for your future zygote either, just for the record.
I’m just scared of losing you to something reckless. ”
The snort I give only aggravates the ache.
I push to shaky knees, allowing Percy to lift me the rest of the way.
“I’m not trying to be reckless, you know.
I just wanna break this damn curse. We should be the last girls to be taken to the chapel and told they’re prey.
This test needs to die. Will you help me? ”
“Of course I’ll help you,” she says, quiet.
Another crow calls out. “I’m not gonna be the aunt chanting, ‘Decem numerus perfectionis est! Decem clausura circuli est!’ to your zygote—fuck no.
” That pulls a laugh from me, and she grins.
“I’m all in. If anyone’s gonna help, it might as well be the only other girl dreaming about that night.
” She kicks the coffin. “What are we doing about this guy, though?”
I look at Cillian again, at how the worms crawl freely over him.
A bug fidgets with a portion of his temple.
It’s disgustingly offensive how a past as haunting as ours, with poison still seeping into the present, can be reduced to a few boxes of fucking bones.
How convenient for them to be nothing but dust. They get to start wars, doom a duchy, murder wives and throw curses all willy-nilly.
Then what? Kick the bucket. And I’m supposed to work with that? Fuck off.
I pull my ruined lace glove back on, flicking some maggots off. “We can’t just leave him here.” Even I can hear the petulance in my tone. “It’ll draw attention.”
“Chess, it took us an hour to get this shit done. There’s dirt and maggots all over my So Kates !” I can only blink at her, and she throws her hands up in frustration. “Alright fine, but I want a reward. A Godwyn embargo. No talk of him for the rest of tonight, nor tomorrow. Consider it penance.”
“Deal.”
We both grunt as we flip the coffin shut, nearly catching my fingers in the process.
A few painfully embarrassing grunts later, and we’ve shoved the box back into the hole.
Percy kicks at the dirt with her red-bottomed shoes whilst I use the shovel to flick loam back onto wood.
I’m comically bent over, whacking at the pile in an attempt to flatten it, when Percy’s lantern from the gala goes out.
Neither of us moves. Something in the trees above us creaks. I look up to see a blanket of black has covered the branches.
A murder of crows keeps watch.
“How many times,” I ask very quietly , “did we say his name?”
Her lips part, suddenly blue in what little light there is. “ Three .”
From about six headstones away, a pale head peeks over stone.
The shadow twists until given form and crawls, long jointed limbs reaching forward like blind hands.
It comes out on all fours. Too tall. Too thin.
Where its face should be is only a yawning black hole for a mouth, skin shining as though oiled.
No eyes, no features except a jaw sagging to show rows of razor-sharp teeth.
A huskin. Godwyn’s slaves, spirits of Sheffolk he’s cursed into obedience.
I choke back bile as it creeps closer. Slowly but surely, five more appear in the distance.
“Fuck,” Percy hisses, realising her shoes are the least of our problems right now. “What happened to calling him G-spot ? We had a system and everything?—”
“I forgot , okay!”
My gloved hand creeps towards where our abandoned Mariposa backpack lay.
The zipper’s half-broken, one strap is completely detached, but inside lay the only allies we’ve got.
I wrench a fat vial from the bottom and thumb the cork free before tipping the salt and hearth-ash mixture into my palm.
Percy’s breathing heavily as we wait for one to reach us.
I remain motionless until I can feel the coldness of its skin and how it sniffs without a nose, head tilted like a dog. Then I fling the ash-salt straight at its chest. As the grain sticks to leathery flesh, freezing the creature in place, I spit through the gap between my ring and middle fingers.
Once the saliva connects, blistering across its chest, I speak, “ Per foculum qui hunc cinerem peperit, Domus Sheffolk te abnegat; per salem maris immensi et indomiti, caro nostra te abicit; per sigillum viventium, pereas. ”? 1
The mixture sizzles, burning through skin and bone, and the huskin arches. Hearth-ash chases the shadow as the salt tears it open. It lets out a shrill cry, scaring off the crows before the darkness of itself loses shape.
Percy watches the spot where it once stood, and I note she’s pulled a handful of maiden nails against her chest. “Honestly, fuck this night.”
I could almost laugh. “This’ll last us to the car at least, if we book it.”
We backtrack together, never taking our gaze away from the group that is gradually forming.
Something clicks their teeth on stone; from behind another headstone pops an eyeless face.
One slides parallel to me, and Percy tosses a nail without a second thought.
Iron sings; the huskin recoils. Cillian’s mound grows blurry the further back we step.
Four mouths still yawn towards us, but the second my heel hits the lane, we turn and sprint.
Percy trips over her skirt, and a cackle rips from my chest as we run as though the devil himself is on our tail.
My ankles are one wrong step away from becoming nonexistent whilst Percy hops over heavy material like a frightened gazelle.
The huskins give chase, but we’re already sliding into my cousin’s screaming tangerine Porsche.
She hops right over the door and starts the engine before I’m even inside.
Behind us, the graveyard exhales, and I blow what’s left of the ash-salt into the wind, cursing any spirit that dares follow.
And the night lets us pass—right into the jaws of an even scarier creature.
We’re only ten minutes into our drive home when both our eyes flick to the time. 12:45 blinks back mockingly.
We’re late for Gran’s Stitching.
“ Fuck ,” Percy hisses, nearly snapping a heel when she steps onto the gas pedal.
Late for the second goddamn week in a row, and I’m expecting Percy to blame me for the graveyard jaunt, but she’s too focused on getting us back to the castle.
She’s driving faster than when there were literal cursed spirits chasing us.
A twenty-minute drive turns into fifteen, and soon the grand gates are swinging open.
Our cloaks are the only ones still dangling from the wall when we reach the antechamber door of the old library.
Shit . We grab them and assist each other with the small golden clasp stitched into the front of the fabric.
Percy hides the blood stains on my dress, and I wipe any dirt that remains on her face.
While she kicks off her heels, I search through my purse for the two ouroboros rings at the bottom.
Once they’re slipped onto our left index fingers, Percy shoves through the doors.
Inside, the air is dense with candle wax and whatever perfume Moira keeps drowning herself in.
Five chairs filled, two empty.
The table is already set, and the Stitching has started.
Gran sits with a long black cloth, bone needle in hand, as she drags cotton through fabric.
She doesn’t look up when we enter, just mumbles names beneath her breath, and we take that as an opportunity to slip into the two seats next to the fireplace.
“That fucking cult has a voice now,” Philip is saying, fidgeting with the serpent ring on his own hand.
He’s a large, muscular man, and in situations like this, it’s difficult to associate him with the chauffeur persona he portrays in public.
“And that voice is Victoria James. She’s got a podcast now, and she’s claiming this House is a dynasty of the damned.
They’re quoting her on the demonic lineage bit, and they’ve mangled the crest on their flyers to look like a demon’s crown. ”