She’s crying too. Not wailing like she was before, more of a rasping, hurting sound.

“There, now,” I say. “There, now,” and I wipe her tears as well. Kerchief snags on her scaly skin and rips a bit. Across the chamber, the wee folk are in the circle again, standing up, holding hands. One of them steps forward, lays something small and gold on what might be the chest of the dead man, only there’s not enough of him left to be sure. They start a chant, slow and solemn.

“Grim,” someone says.

My heart jolts. I shut my eyes. Don’t dare open them.

“Grim.” Her hand moves against me, warm, human, and her body on my knees is a human body again, a woman’s body, slight and wiry and struggling hard to get up.

I open my eyes and she’s back. She’s herself. Or maybe not quite, because when she does get up she’s pale and wobbly and I have to catch her before she falls straight back on the floor. A miracle. Don’t know what’s done it. Don’t know how it can be. But it’s happened. A warm, good feeling fills me up. Must be what they mean by joy. Maybe I do believe in God after all.

“Morrigan’s curse!” Blackthorn mutters. “That was vile! That was disgusting!”

Me, I’ve got no words at all. I mop my face again. Pass her the kerchief.

“Dagda’s bollocks!” she says. “That was . . . Grim, did you break the spell? How? If you did it, I owe you a debt I’ll be a lifetime repaying.”

“Didn’t do anything,” I mumble. “Wish I could’ve.”

“Out,” says Blackthorn, sounding more like herself. “Now. You might need to help me. Lot of steps . . .”

I pick her up in my arms.

“You’re all wet,” she says, noticing now.

“Happens when you wade across a river.”

“Be careful,” she says. “If you fall, we’ll both be dead and that would be a waste.”

“I won’t fall. Though if you’re worried I can put you over my shoulder. That way, I get an arm free.” Brings back a horrible memory from that day we got out of Mathuin’s lockup. Saved a man, lost him not long after. Strangler. Poor sod. He just wanted the pain to end.

We stop a moment next to the chanting wee folk and the sad remains of Lily and Ash. Geiléis and whatever-his-name-was. Mind’s full of questions. How much did Geiléis know? How could she ask Blackthorn to do it, if she knew what was going to happen to her? And what did Blackthorn just see in this chamber?

“Talk later, mm?” I say, and head for the stair. One thing’s certain: can’t get out of this place soon enough. Thought I’d already had the worst day of my life. Might have been wrong. And there’s still Flannan.

42

Blackthorn