historical reenactment circles. In fact, everyone in the eldritch community kept a low profile. Whatever else may be true of us, none of us are media whores.
Well, in another day and age, Lurine may have been an exception, but times change. There’s a big difference between being immortalized in prose by John Keats and being outed by Gawker.
Anyway.
Once it was apparent that Pemkowet’s dead were staying put, interest waned and the town was left in peace again.
The coven took up a collection to buy Sinclair a ticket to Kingston to lay his grandfather’s spirit to rest. He was gone for four days and quiet upon his return, saying only that it was done and there would be no more trouble from his family, living or dead.
I’ll admit it, there was a part of me that felt a little cheated by the lack of resolution in my own confrontation with Letitia and Emmeline Palmer. Obviously, there wouldn’t have been any point in my going all the way to Jamaica with Sinclair, even if I could have afforded a ticket, which I couldn’t, but it would have been nice to know that they were smarting at their defeat.
But that was just pride talking, and pride was one of the Seven Deadlies. I had to tread carefully there. I reminded myself that it was enough to have kept Pemkowet safe, that I’d made mistakes, that a member of the eldritch community had paid the ultimate price for them.
Speaking of Jojo, after Sinclair returned from laying his grandfather’s spirit to rest, we went together to do the same for the fairy’s remains.
On an overcast November day, we took the limp sprig of joe-pye weed to the meadow where I’d first summoned a gaggle of fairies with cowslip dew last summer. It had been lush and green then, filled with indigenous plants and wildflowers. Now the meadow was brown and desiccated, dry grass and the thin stalks of weeds crunching underfoot. I stood shivering in my leather jacket while Sinclair cleared a patch of earth. He dug a hole in the dirt with his bare hands, laying the ragged bit of joe-pye weed in it and covering it tenderly. Side by side, we gazed at his handiwork.
“Maybe she’s not gone for good,” Sinclair said. “Maybe she’ll return in the spring. Do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I murmured.
He shook his head, beaded dreadlocks rattling. “I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of loyalty.”
“She loved you,” I said simply. “Why not? You’re a pretty awesome guy.”
Sinclair smiled, but there was sorrow in it. “Thanks. You, too, Daisy. An awesome girl, I mean.”
Hands in my pockets, I nudged him with one elbow. “You should say something.”
He took a deep breath. “Jojo . . . thank you. Wherever you are, I hope you’re at peace. I promise, I’ll never forget you.”
Inside my jacket, the silver acorn strung around my neck on a chain tingled against my skin. Overhead, the gray clouds parted to let a single shaft of sunlight angle across the meadow, illuminating the shadows beneath the dense pine trees, pinning a gilded mantle on the tall figure that stood there, crowned with antlers.
It was the Oak King.
Although he didn’t move, the meadow seemed to contract around him, growing smaller. From where we stood, I could see the bottomless wells of grief and knowledge in his deep, deep brown eyes, and I understood that although he was older than history, older than the written word, he still mourned for the least of his subjects.
Across the meadow, the Oak King raised one hand in salute, sunlight streaming between his spread fingers.
I raised mine in acknowledgment.
And then the clouds closed, obscuring the sun. The bright shaft of golden autumn light vanished, and the Oak King vanished with it, fading back into the pine shadows without a single motion.
I let out a long, shuddering breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Beside me, Sinclair did the same.
I reached out to slide my hand into his, entwining our fingers, and squeezed. “Yeah. I know.”
Some things come to an end.
And some things begin, too.
You may have noticed that I haven’t mentioned Hel. Well, that’s deliberate, because I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about what happened the night that she summoned me to Little Niflheim in the aftermath of the Halloween affair.
It’s . . . complicated. As usual.
I don’t mean the visit to Little Niflheim. Although I was