The Saints of December

The cracks in the ceiling were in all the wrong places. A woman who had given up on sleep pulled open the curtains of the guest room of a run-down mansion in the absolute middle of nowhere. She had come here to help a man—her cousin—who was lost and searching for meaning or solace, she couldn't tell which. "The northern lights," observed the man. "I'm not ready," the woman lamented. "That doesn't much matter, does it?" he replied. "It's Christmas, whether you want it to be or not." The woman pulled her nightgown a little more tightly around her shoulders, warding off a sudden chill. Her foggy breath on the cold and dingy glass did little to mar the splendor outside. Impossibly long ribbons of light, fiery red and electric green, shimmered between the clouds and the stars, lighting the earth below with their pale echoes. It was a curious phenomenon, made curiouser by the fact that it was beyond rare to see the aurora this far south, no matter how cold the winter or how clear the sky. What's more, no glow of earth had ever shone this violently. The truth was spelled across the sky: the war between light and dark would end today. "I warned you this might happen," Elias added. He glanced disapprovingly at Jezebel's belly, swollen to bursting. "Yeah, thanks for that," she replied, rolling her eyes. She wished that Will were here. He'd stayed home with Lucia, uncomfortable with the conditions they might face staying in this ramshackle monstrosity, which Elias had picked up at auction and moved into on a petulant whim, entirely unequipped to make it habitable. She had promised to send for her family if things turned out to be less bad than they'd feared, but she'd been lucky to cobble together enough clean space for herself to sleep. Knowing what she now knew, maybe it was for the best that she was alone, relatively speaking. "There's something else," he said, somewhat warily. "An army of elves appears to have made camp on my front lawn—and an old friend is with them." The dreary look on Elias's face told her not to get her hopes up. It wasn't him. Jezebel closed her eyes and golden eyes stared back at her, wise and dazzling. It couldn't be him. But whoever it was, she had to know. "All right," she said, at last. "I'll meet you down there." The spirit that stood in the parlor was so tall that he dwarfed the ornament-laden spruce tree that Elias had haphazardly set up in a vague attempt to commemorate the season, a long blonde beard trailing from his chin, muscles straining at the seams of his sweater and slacks—a welcome change from the loincloth of old. A horn, bound in bronze and glittering with jewels, hung at his hip, attached to his belt by a leather thong. A sprig of holly, red berries gleaming like rubies, was neatly woven through the lapel of his shawl collar. "Sentinel!" she addressed him, warmly. "Good morning, Jezebel Cooper," he boomed. He gestured to the bay window, outside which the aurora danced. "Do you see? Even the sky gives the light its blessing, hastening the coming of day. It is time to sound the Gjallarhorn." "Isn't it too late for that?" she wondered aloud. "Bertolais struck down the Magician. The war already began." "No," the Sentinel corrected her. "Your spirit's play was successful. He contained that incendiary crime before it could spread throughout our domain. You would have known, child, if the war had raged all this time. You would have known no peace." Not for the first time, Jezebel questioned whether the spirits' conception of peace differed from her own. To be a child of the light was to never know peace. That was her burden and she had carried it—not always well, but as well as she could. Maybe the Sentinel didn't know that, never having fostered a child of the light of his own. She could forgive him his ignorance. "Let me grab my coat," she requested. "You will have time for comforts later," the Sentinel admonished. "Now is the time for the sounding." The spirit moved to the door, bending deeply to pass through its narrow aperture. Elias said nothing, but he followed after. Jezebel followed, too, but she stopped just before she stepped outside. Despite everyone's impatience, she knew the ceremony would wait for her. It must. She placed her hands on the bell of her stomach, feeling the warmth within. "Are you ready, little man?" she whispered. For the span of a caught breath, she could only feel the pounding of her own heart. A flush of embarrassment began to creep up her spine. But then it came: a single reassuring thump from inside her womb. She might have thought she'd imagined it, were it not so familiar and so dear. Thus bearing his approval, she went out into the cold and snow, wearing a smile. The aurora was even more astonishing out in the night air, but clouds had begun to form, hiding its crimson bands behind a haze of ice. Beneath its light, a strange brigade of creatures had gathered on Elias's front lawn, as he had described. Each one of them was thin in stature and composition, seeming as much made of air as flesh, more ethereal than material. Still, their battle garb was unmistakeable, all burnished iron and hardened leather, and they were armed with spears and swords and other wicked implements. "Quickly," called the Sentinel, waving her over. "Already the dark moves against us, meaning to steal our advantage. The Gjallarhorn must sound in the light!" The clouds were already gathering faster and more darkly and the sun would not rise properly for hours. They couldn't afford to miss this window of opportunity. "I'm here," she reassured the spirit. Jezebel took up a spot at his one side, while Elias sidled up against the other. The Sentinel removed the Gjallarhorn from his hip without untying the thong, merely breaking the leather with a forceful tug. It shone through the grip of his broad hand, reflecting the ever-shifting light of the aurora. Gently, if only by contrast, he put it to his lips. The horn's cry was impossibly loud and endlessly deep, truer than any trumpet, clearer than any cornet, like a whole ensemble raising their voices in unison. The whole world was pierced through by that singular sound and the earth and sky came alive, engulfing them all in noise and motion. Around them, the sound of hoofbeats and the sweet smell of warm fur rose up before a herd of broad-antlered, giant stags bounded in from everywhere and from nowhere at all. Many had riders already, but some had reserved themselves for the elves in the yard, who cinched their sword-belts and leapt upon the stags' backs unsaddled. They tarried only to incline their heads to the horn-blower and the child of the light by his side before they rode off into the morning, charging to battle. Above them, the heavens themselves parted, revealing windows into other hours in other lands, looking out on ice-wracked fjords and sun-bleached dunes and monsoon-soaked grasslands in high summer. Against every backdrop, spirits answered the call. Jezebel half-recognized some of them by their strange and striking forms, all gods or heroes or other tickles of the common imagination, while others were too strange to categorize with her meager knowledge of the fables of the world. Regardless of their form, every one of them was of the light. This was without question. And at their sides stood mortals, just like her, children of the light from every shade and walk of the world. She could happily have stared up at them for hours, drinking in their determined faces, the mirror of her own, but a soft shattering sound distracted her attention. The gleaming horn on the Sentinel's lips had turned to no more than dust in the winter wind. As its note faded, so too did the windows in the sky and the surging cavalry below. "All those people," Jezebel breathed. "I'm not the only one?" "Far from it," he said with a laugh. "Children of the light are few among mortals, but there are many, many mortals. All of them have toiled in the first days of this war and all of them will toil again, now that Christmas has come." "They were all accompanied spirits," she remarked. "Where is mine? You are not my guide, Sentinel, are you?" "Indeed, no," he agreed. "I have served my purpose and now I go to join my brethren in the vanguard." The spirit took a knee in the snow, heedless of the damp and the chill, bringing his head level with hers. "Seek the wishing tree, Jezebel Cooper," he commanded. "Your spirit awaits you. You go to search and, in finding, you will decide whether this war ends for the light or for the dark. We go to battle to give you the time you require." "Why me?" she asked—the question she'd never dared ask Escuz. "Why am I so important when there are so many others out there just like me?" "We all have our parts to play," the Sentinel mused with a soft shrug, "especially those you do not know and cannot see. Every one of us has our own task, but this is your story, Jezebel Cooper. We are here because of you. It is your time." With deft hands, he unwound the sprig of holly from his lapel and slipped it into the front pocket of her nightgown. "If you need me," he whispered, low enough that Elias could not hear, "eat the fruit of the holly. I will find you soon after." He stood, resuming his towering height, and clapped her cousin on the shoulder. "Take heart, Jezebel Cooper," he said. "You have stalwart allies on your quest. On today of all days, the light is all around you." She could feel the truth of his words. The threatening clouds had vanished and the aurora lit the world in a glimmering twilight that would only grow brighter with dawn. Though the windows had closed and the riders gone on, she could feel spirits all around her, in the nooks and crannies of her mortal existence, sundering the shadows and illuminating the darkness. With no more words to say, the Sentinel turned to the east and began to walk. Soon enough, he vanished into the bands of light, leaving her and Elias in the light and the snow, together but still apart. "So many children of the light," he reflected. "You'd think they'd have room for one more." Jezebel said nothing. What was there left to say? Elias opened his mouth again, but closed it at the same time that Jezebel saw something dart across the yard at the edge of her vision. Elias's yard, so much as you could call it a yard, was huge, only divided from the surrounding waves of the rolling hills by a low rock wall. That wall was shattered in several places, however, and at one of those breaks in the line there now gathered six or seven persons where before there had been only snow. They could have been plausibly mistaken for neighbors out for an early morning stroll, but Elias didn't have neighbors within a score of miles. Plus, they all wore long-cowled cloaks of dark, rough cloth that hid everything but their menacing posture—not exactly on trend. The leader of their little pack wore no cloak and had the appearance of a young boy, maybe pushing ten years old, in a deep green tunic and breeches. He clutched a double-bitted felling axe over one shoulder and wore a garland of ivy on his brow. Jezebel was certain she had never seen him before, but there was something inky and vile about him that she recognized. "I know you," she declared, her words carrying easily across the snow. "Who are you, this time, and what do you want with us?" The boy in green grinned. "Once, I was an old dog," he said. "Next, I was a bitch in heat. Now, I'm just Jack. Giant-Killer Jack. Spring-heeled Jack. Ripper Jack. Lumber Jack." He hefted the axe from his shoulder, giving it a little twirl. "I'm looking for a tree," he announced. "Have you seen it?" Bile churned in Jezebel's throat and she caught Elias by the arm, checking both him and herself from making any moves to close the gap between them and the spirit of the dark. "No?" the spirit chirped. "No matter. I'm not really here for that, anyway—I'm here to fulfill a promise." He stepped forward and upward, leaping like a grasshopper fifteen feet into the air and landing at their exposed backs. "The thing about having a pocket dimension collapse on your head," he noted, "is that it hurts, even when you know you'll be reborn tomorrow. It hurts so much." Jezebel whirled to face him, but the spirit whirled faster, driving his axe into the back of Elias's knee. He fell, but the spirit caught him by the hair before anything but his blood could touch the snow. "I'll be taking this," said Jack. He leapt again into the sky and into the dark, leaving nothing behind but her cousin's leg from the knee down. Jezebel screamed, a wordless wail, awful and deep. The space around her shook and blurred with the force of it. She hoped with her last coherent thought that Jack's retinue had followed his lead and hadn't stayed behind for her, but she found that she didn't much care either way. She collapsed onto the cold snow and not even golden eyes, nor the orange eyes behind them, could keep her from plunging into darkness. //// Jezebel woke to the sound of a crackling fire in the hearth. Someone had stripped her of her snow-soaked clothing, wrapped her in fresh blankets, and laid her out on the chaise in the living room, which was, at present, cavernously gutted of all other furniture. This treatment had done much to warm her body from what should have been a deadly chill, but her heart remained as heavy and cold as a block of ice. Who could have rescued her? Surely not her spirit—they were a wishing tree, now, whatever that meant. Will wouldn't have come without Lucia and she wouldn't have left her mother's side in this state, so it couldn't be them. She gathered the blankets around her as best she could, more interested in retaining warmth than maintaining modesty, and wandered through the mansion until she reached the kitchen. A girl some fourteen years her junior sat at the counter drinking a cup of coffee. She was clad in torn jeans, a threadbare sweater, and a seasonally-inappropriate leather jacket and seemed to have a permanent scowl etched into her face. This was Rebecca, Elias's baby sister. "Where is my brother?" she demanded before Jezebel could even open her mouth. "Gone," Jezebel answered, curtly. "Taken." "By the dark?" Rebecca prodded. Jezebel eyed the young woman warily. The two of them had never been close, thanks to the quiet schism that had kept her and Elias as more working acquaintances than close family across these past two decades. She'd heard plenty of stories about the girl, of course, the latest being that she'd flunked herself out of college in her junior year and was now exploring other opportunities for a future on the less straight-and-narrow, but second-hand knowledge never matched a face-to-face. From what Jezebel could see, Rebecca mostly just looked sad. "What do you know about the dark?" Jezebel tested. "Everything my brother does," she replied. "Or, at least, everything he put in his notes. I've read them all." That wasn't one of the stories that Elias had told. Jezebel was aware that he'd devoted his life to seeking the artifacts and signs of the long conflict, wedged between and veiled by his so-called legitimate folklore studies, but he'd never seemed interested in sharing the results of his efforts with her, even before the events surrounding the gloaming beasts, after which his marginal role in the annals of the light and the dark became impossible to deny. "Do you know how to find the wishing tree?" Jezebel asked. "The what?" Rebecca stammered. "Why aren't you asking how to find my brother? What the hell does a tree matter when I arrived to find half his leg in the yard!?" Jezebel wrestled with what answer to give her, the hard truth or the soft lie. It didn't take her long to make up her mind, though. She'd been doing this too long to question her own motivations. "My duty is to the greater cause of the light," she said, soft and slow. "I want to find Ellie—truly, I do—but I can't put his personal squabble with one spirit of the dark above the fate of every mortal being. If the dark finds the tree first, we all lose, him included." It was always a race. Why was it always a race? Rebecca said nothing as she set down her cup of coffee. Then she tried to take a swing at Jezebel, but her fist swung wide. Jezebel, laden though she was with extra human cargo, spent most of her days contending with a rambunctious four-year-old. Dodging stray hands was part of her daily routine. When Rebecca came back around for a second attempt, however, Jezebel lost what little patience she had left. She batted away the young woman's flailing arm and tapped her sternum, palm-first—not as hard as she could, but hard enough to send her tumbling backwards, tripping over her own legs and ending in a heap onto the moldy floorboards. "Ow," coughed Rebecca, once she caught her breath. Then she began to sob. The baby kicked in what felt hauntingly like disapproval and Jezebel's heart began to thaw, if only a little. She thought of Elias, so many years ago, now, but in what might as well have been yesterday—just like the spirits saw it—crying on the concrete over how little he mattered to the bigger picture of their strange double world. Without Rebecca, Jezebel would truly be alone. Her son didn't count. Nor did the spirits behind her eyes. Not for this. She needed to find the wishing tree and she didn't have a clue where to start and none of them would be any help. "If we work quickly, we can find them both," she suggested. "But to do that, I need to know what you do. If there's even a hint of how to find the wishing tree in Ellie's notes, that could make the difference. Please, Rebecca." Those last two words stemmed the tide of her tears, or so it seemed. She pulled herself into a huddle, though she didn't pick herself off the floor. At last, she looked up. "Okay," she relented. "I'll go get his notes, but will you please put some clothes on?" In the heat of the preceding moments, Jezebel hadn't noticed that her blanket wrap hadn't survived their tussle. Somehow, standing naked in front of her little cousin felt less vulnerable than the reality of facing Christmas without a spirit at her side, but she could tell that it made Rebecca uncomfortable, so she allowed herself a brief, apologetic smile. "Deal," she agreed. They reconvened in the living room, in front of the roaring hearth. Rebecca had dragged in a moth-eaten area rug, giving herself at least a little comfort as she spread out stacks of notebooks and papers on the floor. Jezebel had made good on her promise, taking a hot shower and putting on a warm but flowing dress over sensible—and stretchy—trousers, making herself ready for whatever excursions the day might hold. Jezebel had made a point to go through the pile of her previously-frozen, now sopping night clothes in the hamper and extract the little sprig of holly that the Sentinel had left in her care. She slipped it down the front of her bra, keeping it close to her heart. "I can't find anything on the wishing tree," grumbled Rebecca. "They're in the common lore, certainly, but nothing with clear ties to the light or the dark—nothing that my brother made note of, anyway. Then again, they're so common that it would be hard to find an outlier." "Like Jack," said Jezebel. Rebecca looked up from the book on her lap, confused. "The spirit of the dark," Jezebel explained. "The same one that was Laelaps and Bertolais. He's back again and this time he's Jack—every Jack, as far as I can guess. He's the one who took Ellie." "Why?" asked Rebecca. "You called it a squabble. How can that be?" "The Green Lady offered your brother a place in service to the dark," said Jezebel. "When he rejected her, she swore he would regret it. Jack is making sure that he does." By the look on Rebecca's face, this was as much news to her as Rebecca's involvement with her brother's affairs had been to Jezebel. "What will happen to him, now?" Rebecca asked. "Can they turn him into one of them against his will?" "Not exactly," Jezebel replied. "If Jack has trapped him in their domain, as I imagine he has, assuming he survives the shock and the blood loss and the passage through the void, there's only one outcome: he will become a gloaming beast, neither light nor dark, neither mortal nor spirit. What happens after that, I don't know, but he won't be your brother anymore, so I'm not sure it matters." Rebecca turned back to her book and only spoke again after a few minutes had passed. "You should eat something," she suggested. "I'm not hungry," Jezebel protested. "What about him?" asked Rebecca, pointing her finger at Jezebel's stomach. "You're eating for two. Go eat something. Give me time and space to read. I'll find something." Jezebel thought about arguing further, but Rebecca wasn't wrong. She might be a child of the light, but she was a mother, too. Her own child needed care, even if she was uneasy caring for herself. With a wave and a nod, she went back to the kitchen. Jack was waiting for her, there. She curbed her urge to scream—whether to warn or to ask for help, it didn't matter. If their past encounters were anything to go by, the spirit was much more of a danger to Rebecca than he was to her. Better to keep her out of it. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "I heard my name," he said with a smirk. "Did you miss me, already?" Jezebel moved around to the refrigerator, keeping a healthy distance from Jack, who sat on the edge of the kitchen island. Slowly and deliberately, she went about making herself a sandwich while they spoke. "Where's your crew?" she asked. "Oh, I thought about asking the goblins to come along," he said, "but they were having much too much fun with your cousin and I didn't want to ruin their playtime." She layered bread and mayonnaise and meat and cheese. A poor breakfast, but a hearty meal. Enough to keep her going through the rest of the morning, at least. Carefully and without sudden movements, she cut the sandwich in two with a butter knife, which she discarded in the sink. "Really, now," she said. "I know you didn't just come to watch me eat." "No, indeed not," he agreed. "As delicious a sight as that may be, especially when one is eating for two, as your cousin said." The spirit's eyes dipped from Jezebel's face and down along her torso. If Jezebel still had the knife, she'd have thrown it at him, dull edge or not. Anything could pierce flesh if you were mad enough when you threw it. "Speak, spirit," she commanded. "Or leave me be." "Ah," he said, practically giggling, "but that's exactly why I've come. I have an offer for you, Jezebel Cooper. Do as I ask and I will let your cousin return home, unharmed. Or, rather, no more harmed than he is at this present moment." She took a bite of the sandwich. If it tasted like anything, she didn't notice. "What do you ask?" she inquired, after taking a few more bites. "Very little," he suggested. "In fact, nothing at all. I ask that you stay here. Do not leave. Do not seek the wishing tree. Save yourself. Save your cousin. Save your child." "Damn the world," she finished for him. Jack frowned at her, an exaggerated gesture on his small face. He had to have known that she wouldn't go for this, so why had he tried—and why did he look surprised at her less-than-charitable response? "I had thought you were the sensible one," Jack pouted. "After all, you're no mere mortal. You are a child of the light!" Jezebel closed her eyes. Golden eyes steeled her resolve. The orange eyes behind them stoked her inner fire. "Get out," she growled. "Darken this home no longer. It does not belong to you, nor does its owner, nor will I, not for any threat of suffering or sorrow. I will find the wishing tree and I will end this war, even if it kills me." "And your child?" he quipped. She didn't say the words out loud. She didn't need to. He was gone, anyway. Jezebel returned to the living room once she had finished her sandwich, choking down every bite, even though it was no more than ash on her tongue. She hoped that Rebecca hadn't heard any of that—and that she couldn't see the new fear and anger that clouded her mind. There was already enough of those to go around. "I think I found something," said Rebecca. "Although I can't say for sure. It might be a dead end." "Any lead is better than no lead," said Jezebel. "I'll take whatever you've got." "I ran out of my brother's notes," she explained, "so I started looking through his calendar. There's one name that keeps popping up: Sluch. It looks like he was going to see this Sluch every month or two and had been for at least a year. Look at this—it's the earliest entry." The square in Elias's calendar was marked Sluch, as she had said, and underneath it was scribbled the instruction: The Old Crow, 34 Second Street, Back Stair. "I knew he had a new source, but he wouldn't tell me more than that," said Rebecca. "That was weird. He never hid anything from me before this. Or at least I didn't think he had. But now I'm thinking that Sluch must be that source, whoever or whatever they are." Rebecca fished a mangled cigarette out of the pocket of her leather jacket and put it between her lips. She followed this with a tarnished brass lighter, promptly flicking it open and bringing the open flame towards her mouth. "What are you doing?" challenged Jezebel. "What does it look like I'm doing?" scoffed Rebecca. "Don't do that," Jezebel admonished. "I'm pregnant, Rebecca." Rebecca flushed and flicked the lighter closed, although she didn't let go of the cigarette. "Right," she muttered. "Sorry." "I thought you quit," said Jezebel. "I did," spat Rebecca. "But then I found my brother's leg in the front yard." "And what would he think of you smoking in his house?" Jezebel fumed. "What would he think?" Rebecca asked with a wry chuckle. "He's the one who gave me this lighter. You don't know what it was like, do you? Who do you think put him back together after the last time? Whose shoulder did he cry on after you told him he wasn't a child of the light? It wasn't Yasin's. That prick—good riddance—never even realized something was wrong. I was barely older than my brother was when you first roped him into all this nonsense and there I was, stuck carrying the weight of a broken man." Rebecca didn't cry as she spoke, not quite, but her eyes were ringed with unspent tears. She let the unlit cigarette finally fall from its perch, crumpled it in her hand, and shoved it back in her jacket pocket, the lighter alongside it. "We'd better find him, Jezebel," she warned. "Or I'll rain hell down on you." Jezebel sighed patiently. That was one of the many reasons she'd wished that Elias would've been as open with his husband as she was with hers. He hadn't been able to handle it alone—he never could have. And poor little Rebecca picked up the slack. But then, if she had known, would she have intervened? She had enough on her own plate without handling Elias's baggage, too. He'd been given an out and he'd chosen not to take it. The rest was on him, wasn't it? She didn't know. Some part of all this felt absolutely like it was her own fault, but she couldn't dwell on that now. "If I don't find the wishing tree," said Jezebel, "you'll have to get in line. //// They parked on the street, a few blocks down from the Old Crow. Just about every major burg in the area had a Second Street, but they'd gotten lucky and found the establishment in question—a particularly seedy dive bar—on only their third attempt. On Rebecca's insistence, they'd taken her beaten-up old sedan, but that suited Jezebel fine. She had to admit that it drew less attention than her own brightly-colored pickup truck, and it allowed her to navigate instead of the younger woman, who didn't seem to know her way around a map. It was strange to be out among people. Most of the shops and restaurants were closed, but not all of them, and those whose windows were lit saw flocks of comers and goers pass through their doors. None of them knew there was a war on. All of them had more earthly concerns, and Jezebel envied them for it. The thrill of the chase had been wonderful when she was young, but now she'd have given anything to be home with her family. The Old Crow had no lights in its windows, but it did seem to be open, if unwelcoming. Their destination wasn't through the front door, however, so they skirted around through a side alley until they found the back stair that Elias had described. It descended below the street, down into some pit of some basement or another, its bottom steps hidden entirely in darkness. There was a certain feeling to the space that Jezebel recognized. "This is a passage," she declared. "What does that mean?" Rebecca asked. The young woman crouched at the lip of the stair, peering down to see if she could get a better view of the door at the bottom. "It means Sluch is in their domain," said Jezebel. "It means you can't come with me." "What?" Rebecca stammered, rounding on her. "I'm in this with you—you have to let me come." "It's not a matter of let," said Jezebel. "Without a payment for the passage, mortals can't make it through to the spirit realm unless accompanied by a spirit. I can go through because I'm a child of the light, but that's it." "What about my brother?" she protested. "How was he going through?" That was a very good question. "I don't know," Jezebel admitted. "When we escaped from the Magician's realm without Escuz, we had the marble, but it turned to dust afterwards. Maybe he found something, some other remnant of the spirits left behind in our world? Maybe several somethings, if he made as many trips as you say. Or maybe just the one and he made some kind of deal for passage." "A deal?" said Rebecca. "With whom? No, he wouldn't." Jezebel watched the emotions play across Rebecca's face, reading her worries as easily as if she'd expressed them out loud. How many secrets had Elias kept from her, after all? How many secrets had he kept from all of them? "You should go back to the car and wait for me there," instructed Jezebel. "I don't know how long I'll be, but I'll return just as soon as I can." Rebecca nodded, suddenly numb. Jezebel went down the steps alone. The moment she became entirely enshrouded in darkness, she found herself swimming instead through a boundless sea of light. Jezebel had never forgotten the feeling of this place, this void between domains. It hadn't changed—but she had. A new light shone from within her, so brilliantly bright that it ought to burn, the nascent life within her womb crying out in waves like the sun emerging from behind a storm cloud. For a terrifying moment, she thought she had, in her hubris, made an unforgivable mistake. The passage had nearly killed Elias—what would it do to an unborn mortal? But, no. Her child was screaming not in pain, but with overwhelming delight. He seemed to be no longer within her, but beside her, temporarily made manifest and whole. The endless ocean embraced them both, equally. She reached out to take his hand and he put his small hand in hers and she wept. Cold and clammy darkness wrapped itself around Jezebel again, tearing away from ecstasy and into something far more frightening. She stood in a dingy, brickwork corridor, half-lit by a smoky torch. Somewhere nearby, an unsteady stream of water trickled through from above, spilling itself upon the stone below in a sickly, incessant splash. The way forward was blocked by a sturdy iron door, featureless save a rusted sliding grate, now closed. Jezebel knocked on the door, three hard raps. The grate scraped open, revealing nothing but a milky darkness in the space beyond. "Sluch," Jezebel called through the grate. "I am a child of the light, seeking information in our time of need. Let me in." "I know who you are, Jezebel Cooper," a sultry voice cawed from within. "But you do not command me, for I am of the dark. Return the way you came, scurry back to your battle." Jezebel's heart did a somersault. Elias had been meeting with a spirit of the dark? How desperate for information—for relevancy—had he become? If he was willing to take a risk like that, there must have been promise of a sufficient reward. "I know that the wealth of your knowledge is unsurpassed among both the light and the dark," said Jezebel, making a guess. "Information takes no sides in a war. All that matters is those who have it and those who don't. I wish to be the former." The door's hidden bolt turned over with a loud thunk and the whole of it swung noiselessly inward at no one's touch. Jezebel stepped through into the simulacrum of a curio shop, stuffed with junk and wonders. Jewels as big as fists, glistening winged creatures trapped in jars, and what appeared to be a beating heart were among the countless objects of curiosity that posed on shelves between books of every shape and size and color, all of it looking very old and drenched with dust. It was warm and damp among the stacks and Jezebel felt compelled to unbutton her winter coat. The spirit perched on a low stool in the darkest, furthest corner, behind a raised basin of black metal that was filled with equally black coals. The shelves full of knick-knacks and treasures parted here, creating an informal gate. On either side of the lattermost shelves hung small braziers, each issuing tendrils of sweet-smelling smoke. It was hard to make out much clearly in the dim space, but Jezebel could see that the spirit had the face of a handsome woman, but a long, barely-translucent robe obscured the rest of its bulbous body, which vaguely resembled an upside-down pear. "You are Sluch," said Jezebel. "As close as your tongue can master it," muttered the spirit. "Yes, I am Sluch." It said its own name like it was swallowing a mouthful of decadent treacle. "Come further in and light the coals," the spirit instructed. "Gossip tastes the sweetest when it is shared by firelight." A ladle hung from the edge of the coal-filled basin. Jezebel took it and scooped out a hot chunk of resin from the right-hand brazier, trying not to inhale its smoke as she drew near. The coals sprung to life the moment she dropped the resin onto them, stirring up menacing gouts of green and purple flames. Illuminated by fire, the form of her host was made plain, though it was anything but. The spirit's robe, as she had considered it, was not made of cloth, but rather of feathers. Everything beneath her pale neck was that of a giant, glossy-black bird. Sluch cawed and crowed, spreading her wings and beating life into the fire, sending sparks spiraling towards the ceiling and forcing Jezebel to shield her face from their fall. "A child of the light in my house," Sluch called across the inferno. "I have not had the pleasure in many days—what you would call centuries. I have high hopes for you, Jezebel Cooper. Make your presence worth my while." "You have done business with my cousin, I suspect," said Jezebel. "Yes, indeed," the spirit agreed. "Such a pretty thing, so willing to part with himself in the name of chasing after you. Always following, following. Never leading. Never belonging." "One of your cohort kidnapped him, this morning," she continued. "I assume he is being kept in your domain. Where is the passage that will take me to him?" The spirit clucked, a sound no fleshy throat ought to make. "You are rare, are you not," the spirit said. "So few of the light are willing to present half-truths. I know your cousin's prison, yes. I know also the passage there. But that is not the knowledge for which you came here to bargain. That isn't what you really want to know. Why dissemble when you have so little time left?" "Why would you tell me the location of the wishing tree if finding it means I end the war in favor of the light?" Jezebel countered. "All things end," said Sluch. "I care not how." If this was what it took, then this was what it took. "Name your price, spirit," she commanded. "Not so fast, child," Sluch laughed. "You do not trust me and I would not have you think I drive an unfair bargain. Tell me, what do you know of the dark and the light and what truly divides them? Why do you stand so firmly entrenched on your side of the war?" "I've never thought to ask," said Jezebel, truthfully. "The light has always felt right and the dark has always felt wrong. Maybe I'd feel the same way if the dark came calling first, but it didn't." The spirit clucked again, but this time there was mirth in it, which made it even more unsettling. "No," said Sluch. "You are where you ought to be. You would be ill-suited to the dark. Let me tell you the difference between the light and the dark, gratis, so that you may go to your end armed with more knowledge than when you began." "If you're going to tell me it's about the sunny side of the mountain," Jezebel quipped, "then I don't want to hear it." "No, not as such," the spirit replied, "though there is the dark's bitter truth in that. The difference between the light and the dark is you. Mortals. The dark fears you and hoards its power, knowing truly that mortal power will burn away the dark. The dark does not want to burn. It protects itself and, in doing so, protects you." "And the light?" asked Jezebel. "The light does not need to fear you, or mortal power," said Sluch. "The light does not care if it burns—or if you mortals burn themselves along with it. It offers no protection, only duty for some and freedom for the rest. Mortals that believe in the light are those that give freely of themselves, without reserve or fear or need of reward. The light believes in you." Some quiet part of Jezebel wanted to argue, to defend herself against this claim, but she couldn't. Elias's sacrifice was unnecessary. That was why it angered her. There had been no need for him to suffer, not nine years ago—or nineteen—and not today. And now, because of his willful ignorance, all of them were suffering more. Things didn't have to be this hard. She was the only one who needed to give up her life. Not him. Not her family. Just her. "Name your price," Jezebel repeated. The spirit of the dark looked her up and down. It gazed first upon her face. “I would like to take your eyes,” said Sluch, “but I see that you have spares." It gazed next upon her belly. “I would like to take your child,” said Sluch, "but I see that it is already spoken for." It gazed last upon her chest. "Ah, there it is," said Sluch, "I name my price and it is regret." Jezebel said nothing. She didn't know what the spirit meant by this, but she was certain that it would explain—and knew with just as much certainty that it would take from her what it promised. That was fine. She could live with more regrets. "Behind you now, there are two doors," the spirit explained. "The right-hand door will lead you into your cousin's prison. I have no doubt that you will be able to overpower his captors, set him free, and return him to your domain. The left-hand door will lead you back the way you came. If you take the left-hand door, you will know how to find the wishing tree. The knowledge will spring into your mind as you return, from my lips to your thoughts." "What if I reject your offer?" Jezebel inquired. "There is no rejecting me, child," cackled the spirit. "The bargain is already struck. All you have left is to follow through with the choice that I know you have already made." Jezebel swallowed a curse. Bitterly as ever, the spirit spoke the truth. She turned her back on it and found two iron doors where before there had been one, each a perfect copy of the other, as alike in aspect as in age. The door did not resist her pull. It took nothing at all to pass through. "Go swiftly, Jezebel Cooper," the spirit goaded, "and do not fail." Jezebel held her child, wrapping her arms around him, begging him for the forgiveness that she knew he could not offer and that she knew she did not deserve. There was no other way to go. There never had been. //// Rebecca sat uncomfortably at the top of the basement steps. She hadn't followed Jezebel's instructions, or maybe she had gone and come back. There was a glow to the sky above that was awfully reminiscent of late afternoon. With no spirit to preserve her time, she had lost more of it than she could afford. "There you are!" Rebecca yelped. "What happened? Where is my brother?" "In their domain," Jezebel confirmed. "Beyond that, I do not know. But I know the location of the wishing tree." The moment she said it, she knew it to be true. A map stretched out within her mind, more a feeling than a clear direction, but enough to navigate by. It was not far. They could make it before sundown if they left now. "You devil," Rebecca snarled. "You sold him out to win your war." She buried her face in her hands, shoulders collapsing under the weight of her sorrow, but Jezebel did not hear her cry. Rebecca offered no resistance as Jezebel stepped around her and into the alley, the better to orient herself to her destination. Somewhere in the distance, far from the alleyways of the city but near enough to reach them here, a dog howled. Its call was answered by countless others. The hounds were hunting, once again, one last time. If there had been any doubt left in Jezebel that the three spirits of the dark were one and the same, that doubt was dispelled. Jack had called in reinforcements. "Let's go," said Jezebel. "You drive, I'll navigate." Rebecca didn't move. "I tried to go after you," she said, instead. "Round about the second hour. I walked down the back stair, into the darkness. But where you disappeared, I kept going. There's nothing down there except a door. It's locked. I went into the bar and asked, but the barkeep says they don't even use it anymore. They haven't for years—all their deliveries come in through the front door." The noise of the hounds was growing ever closer. "I don't think I ever wanted to admit it," said Rebecca, "but you really are special, aren't you? You're different from the rest of us, not just in the normal way that everyone is different, but different different. You're something else." Jezebel didn't know what to say. She hadn't ever considered what it might be like to be anyone but herself. It wasn't in her nature. Maybe that was what her daughter meant. She'd be sitting there on Jezebel's lap and she'd ask: "Mama, where are you?" Jezebel never knew what to say to that, either, so she'd simply reply: "I'm here." But was she? Was she ever really there whenever she closed her eyes? And if she wasn't there when her eyes were closed, what about when they were open? "Okay," said Rebecca, interrupting and terminating Jezebel's self-reflection. "I'll drive." And just like that, they were on their way. They might not have made it by sundown, but Rebecca drove like a demon, racing down back roads and unbeaten tracks, following the trail with as much ferocity as the hounds at their backs. Jezebel couldn't help but think of that night out in the hills, Elias at the reins, a sword in her hand. The thing she carried now was so much more precious and she was all the stronger for it. Let Jack come, let him learn the difference between a child's fury and a mother's wrath. "There," pointed Jezebel, "take us as far into the forest as you can, but we'll have to go the rest of the way on foot." Jezebel hadn't seen the clouds gather or the sun go dim, but somewhere along the way it had begun to snow. The ground around them was covered in a canvas of soft, fresh white and the air amongst the bare-branched trees sparkled with swirls of falling ice. It dampened the sound of the natural world, such that when they turned off the engine and got out of the car, they found themselves wrapped in heavy silence, save the soft patter of snow on snow. “Thank you for lighting the way,” said Jack. “You lot just can’t help yourselves. So intent on winning that you forget you’re playing a game.” He emerged from the cleft of a thunderstruck tree, looking much too small to cast such a large shadow. His axe hadn't changed from its first appearance—two half-moon blades on a straight haft of hickory, sharpened and polished to a mirror gleam—but here, in the forest, it had more presence. It seemed to drink in the hope from the wood around it, leaving their whole world a little colder and darker, all for the crime of daring to live when its purpose was to kill. “How many times now have you squandered the opportunity to save your cousin?” the spirit inquired. “No matter. Let's make it three. He is suffering, now, I can tell you that. Turn from this place and go home and I will see to it that he's waiting for you there, no more harmed than he is at this present moment." “Don’t you dare,” snapped Rebecca, before Jezebel could react. “We’ve come too far. Do the job you came here to do. Let the humans take care of ourselves.” "Ah, well," sighed Jack. "You can't say I didn't try to resolve this amicably." Jezebel could say many things and that was absolutely one of them, but she gritted her teeth and kept her mouth shut. "How about this," the spirit continued. "I'll go left, you'll go right, for old time's sake. We'll see who gets to the tree first, yeah? Sound good, Jezebel Cooper? Oh—but I remember how that ended for me last time. So I'm going to leave some friends of mine behind to slow you down. Think of it as a kindness: if they're here hurting you, they're not there hurting him." The spirit snapped his fingers and half a dozen goblins bounded from the trees, each one more rotten than the last. Without their cloaks to hide their forms, they were revealed as scabby, scaly-skinned things with knobby noses and forked tongues. The name goblin fit, but the gross weight of their reality divided them from their storybook counterparts. As the goblins gathered, Jack bent his knees and leapt leftward, making good on his offer and racing ahead of Jezebel with no more than a wink and a bitter smile. Rebecca reached into the inner pockets of her leather jacket and drew out a pair of well-used brass knuckles, slipping them over her fingers. Then, she took off the jacket, leaving her arms bare against the snow and the cold, and held it out for Jezebel to take. Jezebel hadn't seen her little cousin without the jacket on. Her arms weren't just muscled, they were also battered and scarred. Those arms hinted at so many stories that Elias hadn't told, stories that Jezebel wished she had time to hear. Two thing were immediately clear: first, that she was a hard fighter, in the truest sense of the word; and second, that Jezebel had gotten lucky this morning—Rebecca had been made stupid and clumsy with grief. The goblins would not find her such an easy target to fell. "There's no guarantee they'll take you back with them," Jezebel suggested, intuiting Rebecca's plan. "They may just kill you." "Either I find my brother," said Rebecca, "or I go down swinging. It was never going to be any other way." Jezebel took the jacket and hung it over her arm. She'd hold on to it for Rebecca. That was the least she could do. No, it wasn't. There was one more thing she had to offer. She reached into her shirt and pulled out the sprig of holly, stripping the berries from the stem. Rebecca gasped when Jezebel reached out and pulled her into a tight hug, but she didn't resist the sudden sign of affection. Then, Jezebel put one hand to her mouth, pressing the berries past her lips. "Hide these in your cheek," Jezebel whispered. "If you make it to the other side, chew and swallow. Help will come." Rebecca pulled away. She nodded, spun, squared her shoulders, raising her fists towards the goblins, who had drawn so near that Jezebel could smell their awful musk. "Get going," she said. Jezebel had no cause to argue. She set off at as much of a run as her pregnant body would allow, heading rightward into the thicket, doing her best to ignore the sounds of crunching and scraping that bloomed in the heart of the forest behind her. She'd seen the goblin's knives. She couldn't bear to see what new scars they'd leave Rebecca with, if they left anything of her at all. Jack had conjured memories of the Labyrinth, but this was nothing like that. She knew which direction to go, if not how far. There were no twisting, turning corridors, only the endless markers of the passing woods. The snowy ground beneath her feet did not impede her footfalls, not like the roots had, come up through the stone. It was anything but silent, here, between the crunch of the snow and the baying of the hounds, and—most importantly—there were no spiders, save those natural denizens of the forest who were much too small to see. She was stronger, too. It may have come early, but she had prepared herself for Christmas just the same. She was with child, yes, but he was her second and not nearly so heavy as her first. Jezebel had little doubt that she could run as long as she needed to, as fast as her legs would carry her. Only a little after that thought passed through her mind, she entered into a vast clearing. The cacophony of hounds fell silent, either snuffed out by the sunset that broke impossibly through the forest, or in deference to the stark majesty of this place. It was as wide across as a football field, almost perfectly round, and tufts of green grass sprouted up through patchwork snow. At its center, there was a tree. The wishing tree was vast, reaching at least three hundred feet into the sky and no less than half that from edge to edge, boughs flush with pure white leaves that seemed not so much to reflect the sunset as to produce their own warm light. It was covered all over with orange, yellow, and blue flowers, all blossoming before her eyes as if spring had come a season too soon. Strips of scarlet cloth were bound to every branch. Sometimes there was one, sometimes there were a dozen, but all of them were tied on with simple knots, left by hopeful hands to flutter in the wind. "Welcome, Jezebel Cooper," said a voice from within the tree. "You're the first to arrive." For just long enough for her heart to leap into her throat, Jezebel thought that her spirit's voice would not be lost, after all, but then she caught sight of the speaker. This spirit sat in a low branch, only five or six times as high up as Jezebel could reach, his bare feet dangling over the ground below. He wore a long tunic, belted at the waist and richly embroidered in every color and combination of thread she could imagine—and a few she hadn't considered before. His hair fell in wild, dark waves, pooling around his shoulders like a waterfall, shading his features from the sunset, but it could not hide his playful smile. "Who are you?" Jezebel called out, cautiously approaching the tree. "That is one of many questions you must have," the spirit called back, "but it is the least interesting by far. We only have a few minutes before Jack gets here. Ask another." Jezebel couldn't tell whether it was terror or relief that calmed her nerves, but she fought her urge to bristle or bite back at this rebuke. "Fine, then," she muttered. "What was the point of it all? Why have I spent the better part of the last two decades running, whether away from monsters or towards salvation? Why do I keep getting forced into games with horrors and heroes? If this is my story, what is its moral?" The spirit clapped softly. "That's much better," he said, approving, "but I need to answer your other other question first. Ask that one, now." Jezebel frowned. She did have another question, but she hadn't intended to ask it. It didn't seem appropriate. "Okay," sighed Jezebel. "Is it true what Sluch said about the difference between the light and the dark?" "Truth, wielded without compassion, is often a weapon," said the spirit. "I'm certain that she did speak the truth, in a manner of speaking, but if you lack for context, it might as well have been a lie." "What is the context?" Jezebel pressed. The spirit pushed himself off the branch, floating slowly down until his feet touched the ground. Where he stood, the snow melted and made way to fresh and rapid growth of spring flowers, which entwined themselves amongst his toes. He was so close to her now that she could reach out and touch him, but something stayed her hand. Perhaps it was the fact that, although he was a spirit and she a mortal, he seemed to be nearly the same age as her, maybe even a few years younger. Or perhaps it was the fact that his eyes seemed just as haunted as she knew her own to be. "All of us concern ourselves with power," he said, "but it is mortals who hold the greatest power of all: the power to change. It is your nature. We may change by taking many forms—some of us, anyway—remolding ourselves to fit the needs of the role we are set to play, but all is as it was meant to be. She who was Thusia is he who was Escuz is they who are the wishing tree, but they did not choose to be any of those things. They were and are because they are and will be." "I don't feel like I've changed at all," Jezebel lamented. "Maybe I am just like Elias, except while he was following me, I was always just following after them. Both of us have spent our lives being led by the nose." "Not so," the spirit countered. "You are not who you were when this all began for you. You have changed with every step forward along your life's journey. There is an old song, a mortal song. Perhaps you know it. It goes..." WHEN WE MAKE SHAPES, WE LEAVE OUR MARKS, SO WE CHANGE FORMS, TO MEND OUR HEARTS "...and that is you, Jezebel Cooper," he concluded. "Whatever kind of person you have been or will become, you are a perfect mortal. Your heart has broken so many times, but you have never let it rust. You have put yourself back together with love, with hope, with hard work, and then you have done it all over again and again and again." She wasn't sure that any of that made her feel any better. Perhaps her single-mindedness of purpose was just a flaw of her character, not a squandering of her mortal power. She certainly didn't feel like she was the same person she'd been as a girl, but she didn't feel like she could make any more sense of her life now than she could then, either. Wasn't she supposed to grow wise as she grew old? "I still don't get it," she admitted. "What does our capacity for change have to do with the war between the light and the dark?" "We of the light are agents of change," said the spirit, "while those of the dark resist it. If not for them, you would not need us, but that will never be. There will always be those who reject transformation, preferring the status quo that favors them, and so there will always be those who rise against them, fighting the stagnant, the complacent, and the insidious. That is the essence of our battle: we who go forward versus those who try to hold us back." Jezebel looked up at the wishing tree, its brilliant branches spreading overhead like a second sky. Having been reluctant to abandon it in the wilderness, she still held onto Rebecca's leather jacket, but it suddenly felt heavy in her grip. She reached into its lowest pocket and drew out an old and battered lighter. It was cold against her palm, but something about it—the living power of fire, sealed in a brass coffin—gave her a sudden notion about what she was here to do. "Let me hold that for you," offered Joshua, reaching out for the jacket. She let it go, half-minding, but only half. "There can be no change without cost," the spirit observed. "We are just as bound by the laws of thermodynamics as you are, but sometimes we need a helping hand. A forest fire brings new growth, but someone has to spark the blaze." She crossed to the base of the wishing tree, laying her hand upon its bark. It was so warm beneath her touch that she drew even closer and rested her cheek upon it. Even without closing her eyes, she could feel the life of the spirits within, and she thought again of flames dancing along fox fur beneath a harvest moon. "I am at peace, spirit," she whispered. "I remember and I understand. All things die, or all things would not live. You are our sacrifice, as you are our shield, as you will be our fertile soil. A crimson pyre at the end of day, that we might all be saved." Jezebel returned to the smiling spirit's side, knowing that it was not yet time, not quite. "I have a present for you," the spirit remarked. "It is Christmas, after all. But you will not understand it for many more years. Until then, it will feel like no act of grace, but yet another unfair burden laid upon your shoulders." "I'm used to that," she muttered. "What is it?" "Be patient with Elias," said the spirit. "Do not lose hope. There is still time for his riven heart to be rejoined. He need not be lost forever." He lived, then. That knowledge was a gift, of a kind. The rest she heard and put away in the back of her mind, giving them no further thought. It wasn't a problem she would solve today. "I thought you were going to tell me who you were," Jezebel grumbled. "No," laughed the spirit, "but he will, if you pay attention." She looked towards the perimeter of the clearing, where Jack tumbled out from between the trees. He looked worse for wear, his tunic in green ribbons, his breeches stained with ugly red. Only the blade of his axe was pristine, as though he'd sharpened it a moment before. "You can't," Jack grunted. "She can," insisted the spirit at her side. "She will." "Shut up, Joshua," hissed Jack, limping towards them. "I thought you quit after the last time around." "I would never," scoffed the spirit. "I let go of my burdens, confident that my banner would pass into more capable hands." "You abandoned the mortals and let them clean up the mess you left behind," said Jack. "Have you looked at the world, lately? They've done a terrible job of it." "She is standing here, is she not?" asked the spirit of the light. "She is a fool," spat the spirit of the dark, "too stubborn to know what's good for her." He had come close enough now that he could probably hit her with the axe if he gave it a good hurl, but it didn't matter. What was the point of more violence, here at the end of all things? "Don't you see, Jezebel Cooper?" he bellowed, rounding on her. "Their victory is your loss. They will take everything from you and tell you it's for your own good. Hold on to everything you have, because anyone else will throw you to the dogs." "Let the dogs have me," said Jezebel. "They'll have to catch me, first." Jack planted his axe-head in the snow and leaned on it like a cane. For the first time in all their encounters, he sounded tired—tired of the chase, tired of the games, tired of the war. She'd never empathized with him more, but it wouldn't stay her hand. "You burn the tree and we all burn," he said. "All of us. And all those we hold in our grasp." "I know," said Jezebel. "I'm sorry." She flicked open the lighter, thumbed the flint-wheel, and tossed it back over her shoulder. The wishing tree ignited all at once, every strip of tied-on cloth turned to a blazing wick, every glowing leaf suddenly a sheet of flash-paper. The spirits began to glow, bright and then brighter, until all that remained of them were colorful afterimages, vague silhouettes at the edges of her sight. The aroma of burning timber filled her nose as dangerous warmth and blinding light engulfed her, her passages through the void made manifest in the mortal world. "I am sorry, to you most of all," she whispered, placing both hands on her belly. "I've made this choice for you and I expect no forgiveness for that. If we die here, know that I loved you, even so." Her son beat against her womb like it was a drum, like he was dancing for joy. If that had been the end, it would have been enough. Jezebel's eyes, heavy with smoke and heat, fell shut. It seemed the eyes within her had caught fire, too, for they now shone a divine and searing white. But no, these were the eyes of the wishing tree, because the eyes that lay behind and within them were just as dazzling a gold as they'd always been and the eyes a layer deeper still were the most gleaming orange she'd ever known. They were all with her, now. They would always be. "Mama!" shrieked the voice of a little girl. "Mama, you're back!" Something soft and bony crashed into her knees. She knew that voice. Jezebel opened her eyes and swept her daughter up into her arms, hugging her as close to her breast as their bodies would allow. Will was there, too, only a few steps away. He didn't rush in after their daughter, but he didn't need to. His mere presence was enough to soothe her body, if not her thoughts. "Rebecca called while you were on the other side," he explained, seeing the lingering worry on her face. "I might've broken some traffic laws, but I got us here as quick as I could. Turns out it was just in time. We'd only been here a few minutes—just long enough to check in with the two of them—before you appeared." She searched her surroundings for the pair in question. Rebecca stood on the porch of the busted old mansion. She was cut and bruised all over and a particularly nasty gash over one eye would likely leave a disfiguring scar, but on the whole she seemed intact. Her brother stood beside her, leaning heavily against her to keep himself upright. He looked old. His hair and beard grown unnaturally long and ragged, as if time had been his cruelest captor. The leg was still gone from the knee down, but the stump was scarred over and scrubbed clean, appearing to be long at peace with its own condition. "I'm sorry about your jacket," Jezebel called across the yard. "I think it burned up with the tree." "Was Jack there?" Rebecca asked. "Did he burn, too?" Jezebel nodded. "I can get another jacket," said Rebecca. There was something final about the way that she said the words. True to that notion, she turned and went into the house, taking her brother with her. He didn't say a word, either in greeting or in parting. If Jezebel hadn't known him as well as she did, she would think he was a stranger. Maybe he was, now. "Do you want to go inside?" asked Will. "No," said Jezebel. "I want to sleep in my own bed, tonight." "Are you sure?" he questioned. "Ellie has Rebecca," she confirmed. "Let's go home." Lucia, hearing this last statement, practically leapt out of Jezebel's arms and ran back to the car. She hadn't looked particularly enthused at her father's suggestion of going into the big, scary house, and Jezebel couldn't blame her. With an apologetic wince, Will ran after his daughter, ready to help her buckle in for the long ride. That left Jezebel alone—as alone as she could be with four passengers on board. Soon it would only be three. She couldn't tell if that felt crowded or far too empty, but at least she'd be able to hold her son's hand again. The clouds had parted and the stars were out, a billion little points of light in the darkness. "I'm not ready," she said, to no one at all.