Chimes at Midnight

Then I realized that Tybalt hadn’t made a sound since he’d fallen.

“Tybalt?” I was aiming for a whisper. My voice came out in a squeak. Trying to ignore my spinning head, I rolled to my hands and knees and crawled toward him. “Are you okay?”

He still wasn’t moving. I swallowed a cold jet of panic and crawled faster, finally reaching his side. Maybe it was the pain, and maybe it was the cold inevitability of the situation, but I found myself swaddled in a veil of surprising calm. Things had been going too well. Everyone I loved had to die. That was the way my life worked, and had worked since the day I woke up, wet, naked, and alone in the pond that had been my prison. I was a fool to have thought, for even a few seconds, that this time would be different.

I pressed my fingers against the side of Tybalt’s throat, trying to find a pulse, and found nothing. “Come on,” I whispered. “Please, just this once, just this one time, forget you’re a cat, and come when you’re called. Please.”

He didn’t respond. The muscles in his face were completely relaxed. He looked like he was sleeping; like he’d wake up at any moment.

My head was still spinning. I raised my hand to cup his cheek. “Please, don’t do this. Tybalt, you promised. You promised you wouldn’t do this.”

He didn’t move.

I took a deep, ragged breath, reaching up to touch the firefly that was huddled in my hair. I didn’t know whether seeing illusions would extend to hearing things that were normally confined to Faerie, but it was worth a try. The firefly’s wings buzzed against my fingers. I eased my butt down to the stone floor, leaning against Tybalt, and waited for something to happen. Seconds ticked by, each of them seeming to last an eternity.

And in the distance, I heard the sound of wings.

My heart lurched. I opened my eyes and turned to see the first of the night-haunts descending toward us. No—not the first. The flock normally traveled together, a great swarm of shadowy bodies and ragged, fast-beating wings. There were only two this time, both wearing faces I recognized. My old mentor, Devin . . .

. . . and Connor. They landed several feet away, folding their wings behind their Barbie-sized bodies and watching me warily.

Hope bloomed in my chest like a cruel flower. “He’s not dead, is he?” I asked.

“Death is like pregnancy,” said Devin’s haunt. “A little can go a very long way.”

Connor’s haunt gave him a reproachful look, but didn’t say anything.

“It doesn’t work that way,” I countered. “You’re either pregnant or you’re not. You’re either dead . . .”

“Or you’re dying,” said the Connor-haunt. “I’m sorry, Toby, but that’s the way it is. Death isn’t something that has to be helped along. Once it starts, it generally finishes.”

“Then tell me how to save him.” They stared at me. I fought the urge to grab them and bash their diminutive heads together. They’d eat me if I tried. “You’re the night-haunts. You speak death. Tell me how to save him.”

“October—” began Connor’s haunt.

The Devin-haunt grabbed his arm, stopping him. “We do not bargain with the living,” he said. “No matter how much we remember caring for them.”

“Not even when the living can make so many meals for you?” I asked. I wasn’t going to touch the topic of Devin having cared for me. “Please. I’ve fed your flock. I saved May, even if I didn’t know I was doing it. Please, help me save him.” I paused before whispering, “Connor, please.”