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  But it turned out to be neither; a flash of radiant azure light emerged from one corner of the room, and I realized I was staring at a bank vault.

  A very familiar bank vault.

  A man stepped into the middle of the room cradling that chilly blue light, his skin the pale white of freshly fallen snow, lips the color of black ice. His electric, blue eyes scoured the safety deposit boxes on either side as he turned a slow, lazy circle. But I already knew which one he was looking for.

  “Ryan!” I cursed, staring at the pointy-eared bastard who I’d called a friend before he’d begun abducting Chancery members and torturing his own kind in pursuit of vengeance. On the one hand, I supposed it could be considered good news that Ryan had traded in mutilation for bank robbery. On the other hand, however, this was my bank.

  And I had a sinking feeling Ryan knew that.

  “The new Jack Frost,” my mother’s ghost said, studying Ryan. “He’s better looking than the last one,” she noted, dryly.

  I stared at the woman, studying her, trying to decipher her expression. At last, I decided to ask a question that had been lingering in the back of my mind for a long time now, a question I’d left unasked for fear of what it might mean. “Is Ryan me brother?”

  My mother’s ghost raised both eyebrows. “What?”

  I gestured to the open window even as Ryan began probing the boxes with his fingertips, ice spreading in thin tendrils along the many seams. “Ryan O’Rye…” I trailed off, then sighed. “I know me ma had another child, before me. And…I don’t know. Ryan and I always had this odd connection. Like…”

  “Like you were destined to find each other?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not like that, Jesus, just—”

  “No, you’re right.”

  I felt my jaw drop, but my mother’s ghost was already shaking her head in denial. “Not about him being your long, lost brother. That’s ludicrous. But you two were destined to find each other.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, I reached out, gripping her shoulder the way she had mine not so long ago. “And what is that supposed to mean?” I asked the question sweetly but let her feel the strength in my fingers as I dug them deeper into the meat above her clavicle.

  She batted my hand away as though a bug had landed on her shoulder. “It means you will be tested. Not by me,” she added hurriedly. “But by fate. It also means you must make choices. This new Jack Frost, and what you do with him, will be one of many.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Well, isn’t that cryptic as hell.”

  She pointed, ignoring my tone altogether. “Look, this is what you needed to see.”

  I did as she insisted, though under duress, only to find Ryan pilfering through my safety deposit box as if I’d left a note asking him to make as big a mess as possible; he tossed item after item to the ground, clearly searching for something in particular. I winced as each piece hit the ground, the monetary value of each artifact—and that’s precisely what they were—enough to make a tycoon’s eyes boggle. But Ryan wasn’t looking for something as mundane as magic wands or ancient tablets or scrolls that shouldn’t exist. Hell, he casually dismissed the lead box containing Balor’s Eye—the very artifact I’d bargained for when I’d agreed to confront Nate Temple in the first place—tossing it aside like it was yesterday’s newspaper.

  Seconds later, however, he seemed to have found his prize.

  He withdrew the multi-faceted stone with a reverent sigh, cradling it in the palm of his hand, caressing its luminous surface with one finger. I actually thought I could hear him crooning at it like an infant.

  I almost felt embarrassed for him.

  “The devourer,” my mother’s ghost said, tilting her chin towards that tiny, unbelievably powerful stone. “One of the last that remains in this world.”

  “Ye mean Balor’s replacement eye?” I asked, recalling vividly the flashes of brilliant light bursting from the Fomorians’ eye as he wiped out a whole fleet of ships, that radiance ensuring nothing but a brutal, immediate execution.

  “It was given to Balor, taken from its rightful resting place by a man with too much time and too little sense,” my mother’s ghost replied, eyes distant. She shook herself and looked at me appraisingly. “It will be your task to retrieve it and return it to where it belongs, when the time comes.”

  “I—wait, what?” I stammered.

  She indicated I should shut the window, though I wasn’t quite done watching the capricious little thief; I glared at the frostbitten fucker, pissed beyond words that he’d robbed me, but even more so that he’d tossed away my other valuables like garbage.

  It always pissed me off when people refused to appreciate nice things.

  I reached out and flicked the lever, letting the window close, wishing I could step through and strangle the bastard. Too late, I realized I’d missed my opportunity. “Wait, can we,” I pointed at the window, “can we go through these?”

  “Absolutely not. And don’t you ever try it,” she chastised.

  I sighed. Of course not; that would have been too easy. “Alright, well, what was it ye were sayin’ before? Ye want me to steal back me stone?”

  “The devourer. Yes. But that’s only a small piece of it. Let’s sit, I’m growing tired.” She waved and two chairs materialized out of thin air, seeming to float as they settled on an invisible floor, casting no shadows. She settled on one with a huff, clearly drained. I took a seat as well, trying not to dwell too hard on the bizarre physics of this place; I’d done that before and knew it would only make me nauseous. Instead, I turned to her, expectantly.

  “What do you know of the Four Jewels of the Tuatha de Danann?” my mother’s ghost asked, catching my look.

  I reached up and unbound my hair as I considered that, recalling tales of the legendary items associated with my mother’s people—tales I’d unearthed while researching the various myths associated with my extended family. “They’re apocalypse memorabilia,” I said, at last, slipping the hair tie around my wrist and running a hand through the tangled mess.

  “They—what?”

  I shrugged. “That’s what I call anythin’ so powerful it could destroy the world if used improperly. Or used at all, in some cases. There’s a bunch of ‘em out there accordin’ to the myths, but few have been recovered. Thank God.”

  My mother’s ghost gave me a considering look before nodding. “Apocalypse memorabilia. I see…because they’re all that will be left behind when the world ends?”

  I gave her a thumbs up with my free hand.

  “Do you know their names? The Four Treasures, I mean.”

  I thought about that. “Aye, though some have different names dependin’ on the story. There’s Nuada’s sword. The Stone of Destiny. The Dagda’s Cauldron. And—”

  “Lugh’s Spear,” she finished for me, nodding. “Very good.”

  I mimed brushing my shoulder off. “It’s not me profession for nothin’,” I replied.

  “No, no it isn’t.” She gave me a look I couldn’t decipher, though her tone suggested there was something more to her words than what was on the surface. “Anyway,” she continued, “that devourer, the one Balor used, the one Jack Frost stole, is part of Lugh’s Spear. An integral part. Without it, the weapon is practically useless. Harmless, even, by comparison. With it, the wielder would be impossible to defeat, able to cut down any foe…” she trailed off meaningfully.

  “Are ye sayin’ Ryan took me stone to power up that spear?” I frowned, considering the possibility that Ryan was still gunning for Nate Temple—still trying to avenge his father’s murder, though I had reason to believe there was more to that story. “Does Ryan have it, then?” I asked, the implications making me shift nervously in my seat.

  “No. Long ago, when we put Lugh to rest, we entrusted the spear to a man, a wizard we thought we could trust.” She shook her head. “But, since the devourer was clearly taken, and I don’t know what became of its guardian, I can only assume the spear is unprot
ected, although still far out of reach for most.”

  I snorted. “Are ye bein’ vague on purpose? Or is it just hard for ye to use proper nouns?”

  “Atlantis,” she replied, eyes narrowed.

  My eyebrows shot up all on their own. “Seriously? And the guardian?”

  “Merlin. Your father.”

  I cursed, sensing the strings of fate tugging at me from every which way and wishing the woman across from me didn’t look so frail, so I could deck her. “I see, so ye expect me to go runnin’ off after Ryan to freakin’ Atlantis, and—what—check in on dear ol’ da while I’m there?”

  But she was already shaking her head vehemently. “It won’t be that simple. As for your father, I believe his absence will be explained in time. According to your mother’s memories, he was as bad as the Temple’s when it came to plotting. In fact, it would be fair to say he had as much a hand in their schemes as anyone—especially after he gave them that godsforsaken Round Table. A present for his godson, indeed,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

  I blinked rapidly, trying to process what I was hearing. Merlin, my father, had given Nate Temple’s parents the fucking Round Table? And he was Nate Temple’s godfather? I felt jealousy stir, my skin prickling with it. “That’s it,” I hissed. “I’m done here.” I stood to leave, too emotionally drained to handle even one more revelation—but my mother’s ghost snatched my wrist.

  “Sit down,” she commanded, “we aren’t done.”

  “The hell we aren’t,” I snarled, reeling back from her tone, prying my wrist from her weakened fingers. “Ye t’ink I’m goin’ to just run off and do what ye want? After all this?” I waved at the windows absently, cheeks flushed with anger. “I’m not some playthin’ for ye to order about! I deserve the truth. All of it, not just crumbs ye toss out whenever ye feel like sharin’.”

  “You’re right.”

  I folded my arms over my stomach, scowling, biting off my next tirade. “What was that?”

  “I said you’re right. You’ve been patient. Ask your questions. But hurry.”

  I took a long, deep, calming breath. I tried to sort through all the questions I had, most of which had cropped up in the last hour but decided all that could wait; I felt compelled to stick to my original questions out of sheer obstinance. “Blair,” I began, the mere mention of her name enough to make my stomach lurch. “What happened to her?”

  “The woman your Other self fell in love with?” My mother’s ghost cocked her head as if listening to something in the distance. “She’s been returned to her people.”

  I felt something inside me shift uncomfortably. “Have they buried her, then?”

  “You misunderstand. She’s been returned—alive. Blair was never truly in exile. She was sent back and revived as all Otherworlders eventually are—even now she searches for you, though she knows deep down you’ve departed from their realm.” Her eyes flicked over my shoulder, and I turned to find a window framed in foliage, the leaves long and frond-like.

  I took a step towards the window but felt a hand brush mine. I glanced down and saw the woman’s chiding expression, her smoldering eyes imploring me to stay put. “Now isn’t the time. Ask your questions.”

  I bit my lip but nodded. “The Otherworlders…the Blighted Lands…why?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Why, what?”

  “Why d’ye leave ‘em like that?” I shuddered, recalling the horrors of the Blighted Lands, not to mention the prolonged, seemingly meaningless existence of the Otherworlders. “How could their gods let t’ings end up so…wrong?”

  My mother’s ghost made a considering sound in her throat. “I see. And what would you have us do? To fix things.”

  I shook my head; I had given that a great deal of thought over the last few weeks. “Confront the leaders,” I said. “Tell ‘em to let their people live their lives in peace.”

  “And the Blighted Lands?”

  “Heal ‘em. Let the people there redeem themselves, somehow.”

  She nodded. “Suggestions the Tuatha de Danann considered in the past. And yet, what is life without uncertainty? And how do you expect selflessness to survive without repercussions?” She turned away, studying the cosmos. “You see, if their gods tell them what to do, we take away their ability to decide for themselves. To feel as though they have a say in their own lives. And, if we abolish their prison, we force the good to host the bad.” The heartfelt sigh she let out seemed genuine. “And so their gods left them to their own devices, giving them very few rules.”

  “But why are they there at all?” I challenged, recalling Amergin’s request that I question the validity of the Otherworld’s intended purpose.

  “They will be needed,” she replied, as if that explained everything. “And so will you.”

  I held out a hand. “Enough of that nonsense, alright?”

  “But it’s true, Quinn MacKenna. Quinn Light-Eater, Morrigan’s daughter.” She turned those flickering eyes to me and smiled, though it was a sad, paltry attempt. “Ask your last question. We may only have time for one more.”

  I clenched my fists, deciding not to rise to the bait, not to ask her what my role was supposed to be in all this, to discover what plans fate had in store for little old me. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Maybe I was getting smarter with age, after all.

  “My sibling,” I said, at last. “Who is it?”

  “It?”

  “He, she, whatever,” I replied, waving my hands about.

  “She,” my mother’s ghost said, “was. Not is. Your sister died before you were born. It was a tragedy your mother never entirely recovered from, though she did manage to find a human shoulder to cry on, if memory serves. Desdemona Jones.”

  The sound of my aunt Dez’s full name spoken aloud made my insides clench. I looked away, quietly mourning a sibling I’d never even known existed until recently, that grief melding with the complicated emotions talk of Dez always brought up. After a prolonged silence, I finally asked the only other question I could think of. “What’s next?”

  My mother’s ghost sighed, rising slowly to her feet to brush absentmindedly at her dress—a remarkably human gesture. “Well, I think it’s time I died.”

  43

  I turned away, less than eager to watch my last tenuous link to my mother fade away like a mirage, never to be seen or heard from again. But it seemed she wasn’t going to make it easy on me; the woman wrapped her arms around me from behind, pressing her face against my shoulder. “If you leave this place as you are, you’ll die,” she whispered, breath cool against my skin, sending shivers up my spine.

  It took me a minute to realize what she was talking about. The wound. I realized I’d forgotten all about it, what with all the revelations and stimuli. This place seemed to be sustaining me, for now, but I sensed she was telling me the truth; I’d been so very close to falling asleep for good back in the tunnel with Cathal. “Wait, is Cathal safe?” I asked, concerned for the fate of my guide.

  “The Hound of Ulster has returned to the place of his birth. He mourns his brothers and sisters, fixating on death. He, too, needs a purpose.”

  I tried to turn in her arms to look at the woman, wondering what had gotten into her all the sudden. Why was she talking like that? Was she just trying to prove a point, to provoke me for some reason? But that hug got tighter, making it nearly impossible to move. “What’s happenin’?” I rasped. “Let me go.”

  “Long ago,” she said, ignoring me, “your father blessed you with a power too great to be let loose on the world. And so your mother bound you with her own lifeforce, containing your ability to move through time until you could use it responsibly.” She paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath I could feel against my spine. “But she also removed a piece of herself from you, the piece you were meant to inherit as the child of a goddess, a power all your own. And she made of that power a specter, a ghost formed from her memories, to guide you. To warn you.”

  I felt hot te
ars spill down my back and stiffened with surprise. “What are ye sayin’?” I whispered.

  “Your new guardian watched over you, doing her best to fulfill her duties and give you advice. To be what you needed. Once, there may have been time to explain the purpose of this power and how to use it, but that time has passed. For the specter is fading, and your power—the power of a goddess—must return to its rightful place.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You asked once,” she interrupted, “about your mother’s power. The ability to see, yes…but that’s not all. As Badb embodied the tempest, and Macha the air, so too was your mother blessed. Blessed with power over the darkness, for the dark has always been associated with the unknown. This was to be your legacy. And now, it is my duty to return what was taken…with my love.”

  “Wait, I—” But that was as far as I got before the power hit me. Although, to be fair, hit might have been the wrong word. Ravaged, I decided. The power was ravaging me, tearing at me like a wild animal trying to climb its way inside, burrowing into my bones like vultures hunting for marrow, pulling my ligaments apart like taffy, splitting open my muscles as though they were overripe melons bursting beneath the summer sun. My skin burned, then ached, then burned again, nerves wailing as wave after wave of mind-melting agony crashed into me.

  Or maybe I was the one wailing.

  And then, as suddenly as the pain had come, pleasure followed. I felt it tingle in my fingertips, on my tongue. It caressed my brain with the touch of a lover and slid across my lips like honey. I almost went limp with it, trapped in that pure, glorious afterglow. It was like sex, but more somehow, more than caffeine or nicotine or opiates. It was like waking from a euphoric dream, huddled beneath warm covers with all the time in the world to simply lay there and languish in the knowledge that the world wasn’t this fucked up, awful place. Not today. Not for me.