“You heard me. I was not offering to kill Ricky. I was merely hurrying you to the suggestion obviously forthcoming. The answer is no. I agree that if you do force Olivia to choose, it is entirely possible she may pick Ricky, both from guilt at having hurt him and from reasoning that I am, as you say, better equipped to escape whatever trap you set. Therefore, I will take this further. You do not need to make Olivia choose. I’ll do it for her. I volunteer.”

“Because you presume you can get out of it.”

He pursed his lips. “Hope, certainly. Presumption is a dangerous thing. But yes, I’m not actually throwing myself on the pyre. More like agreeing to face your champion. That’s fair, I believe.” He peered at her. “You do have a champion, don’t you?”

Her form rippled, the edges blurring to shadow, her eyes deepening to pits, and in those pits he saw the death of self, the death of soul, the death of everything. Which should, he reasoned, fill him with terror. Certainly, even the sense of the sluagh had done so earlier. But now, he looked into those pits and felt only a sort of odd satisfaction.

I see all that you can do. There’s nothing more you can frighten me with.

“Oh, but you’re wrong about that, Gabriel Walsh. Take your time. Think about our offer.”

“I don’t need to.”

And that was, strangely, not bravado at all, but the truth. He did not want Olivia to choose him over Ricky. Where would that lead? Right back where they started, only with a different two surviving in guilt and pain and blame.

No, this was the answer. This had always been the answer.

Stay together.

No matter what.

“You have my offer,” he said. “I volunteer. Now bring me your champion.”

The sluagh snarled…and disappeared.

You learned, Gwynn whispered. You aren’t just paying it lip service. You finally learned.

No, we did. About time, too.

Gwynn chuckled. It is indeed. This isn’t over—but you know that. So while you wait, let me return you to this…

Sunlight pierced the dark room, and a breeze brought the scent of wildflowers and of Matilda, right there in front of him, still blushing, eyes open as Gwynn leaned forward and kissed her.

THE PACT

Ricky paced around the tiny room, some sort of magical cage with no exits. Every now and then he’d bang the walls and shout, “Hey! I wanna talk to someone!” Which was probably as effective as a convict clanging his cup along the bars, but at the very least, he might get their attention.

And he did. He was opening his mouth to shout again when she appeared—the woman who was the manifested format of the elder sluagh.

“Where’s Liv?” he said. “Where’s everyone? Gabriel, Lloergan—”