Nothing could make a death more real than the moment the casket is lowered into the ground. The same way we organise our lives, we organise our deceased: we pack them into fancy boxes and tip them into an allocated lot in the ground, where they will stay until we have forgotten about them. That person has reached an expiration date, just like so many more of our things that we part with—and their moment of expiration says little about their death. It says everything about their life. I had a red scarf once; something of my mother’s. When I was finally forced to give it up, it was unravelling and faded: expiring with the dignity of something used and loved to death. Weston had looked perfect before the lid of his coffin was sealed. There hadn’t been a single unravelling thread in his suit, or wrinkle on his face. His funeral only served to prove that he inspired even less love than he offered. It reminded me so much of Gerald’s funeral that I became cold inside—hardened to the reality of it all.
It was just another broken man.
Another broken man sent into the ground.
There was another priest, droning on in the same way as Gerald’s priest had droned, promising eternal life and forgiveness. There was another woman crying, too.
Yas.
She sobbed at one end of the grave, away from the rest of us. Jayden stood at the other end, his hands folded behind his back, his face stoic. I still hadn’t confronted him. I would, eventually, but he wasn’t an immediate danger. He hadn’t heightened my abilities, but he hadn’t taken them away either—and that was a big statement. His motive was nothing more than what I had always assumed it to be: he was on his own side; he would do what was best for himself. I was okay with that, for now.
None of the Klovoda were present, they were too busy trying to hunt down Danny. The only remaining mourners were Quillan, Silas, Noah and Cabe… and in another parallel to my own father’s funeral, they seemed to be confused about what exactly they were mourning. Certainly, their own mothers… but Weston? The idea of a father, as Tariq had put it? Or the circumstance? Weston’s undignified fall from the top of his own secluded mansion, where the remnants of the great leaders that came before him still stood? I was sure that Silas wouldn’t have attended at all, but he wasn’t allowed to split up from us. Quillan had been so furious at the both of us that the only way to calm him down was to promise that we would all stick together until Danny was found. Silas wouldn’t go rogue anymore, and I wouldn’t run away from the others anymore, no matter how good of an excuse I had.
The priest indicated the end of his soliloquy by looking up at the rest of us and tucking his closed Bible beneath his arm. He was staring at Quillan, who was staring with a blank expression at the rectangular hole in the ground before us. The priest cleared his throat and Quillan blinked out of his stupor.
“Yes?” He sounded as vacant as he looked.
“The rose.” The priest motioned the single, long-stemmed rose dangling from Quillan’s fingers.
I had no idea who had given it to him. He certainly hadn’t picked it up himself. He seemed shocked, as though he hadn’t even realised that he had been holding it, and then his eyes settled on the grave again, the blankness falling back over his features. He didn’t seem to be willing to move. The priest had apparently reached the same conclusion, as he shifted his arms behind his back, casting a nervous glance toward Yas, silently begging for assistance. Yas was still openly crying, all of her attention reserved for the grave that seemed to be holding everyone else transfixed. I moved from between Noah and Cabe and stopped before Quillan, my fingers wrapping around the stem of the rose, just beneath his. He focussed on me, his attention wavering briefly before sharpening. He drew in a quick breath and nodded, releasing the rose. I tried to smile at him—to reassure him in some way before I turned and tossed the rose into the ground, watching as it landed on top of the coffin. It seemed a callous thing to do: to toss something at a coffin, even if it was a rose. I shook off the feeling and turned away from the others, walking towards the car.
They followed, as I knew they would. Their relief sparked through our bond as the car doors slammed, shutting us off from the image of Weston’s grave site, and it grew stronger the further we pulled away from the cemetery.
“Who is Yas to Weston?” I eventually asked.
“The mother of his child,” Cabe replied solemnly.