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  Mary lifted her hand and placed it in the path of the mask.

  “Wait,” she rasped.

  The disturbed eyes that stared at Lassi didn’t offer the kind, loving gaze of Mary, however. Instead, Mary’s glassy eyes looked like they peered out from the grip of some deep, dark well of nightmares.

  “Mary,” Lassi said. She stroked her hair. “We’re going to do everything we can to get you through this. I need to place this mask on your face.”

  Mary shook her head.

  “The babies,” she whispered. She winced and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “What about the babies?” Lassi asked, her breath catching. She moved her hand to Ryan’s leg and bore down. Her fingernails bit into his knee.

  “Lassi. Shite. You’re going to draw blood,” he said.

  “What?” Her gaze whipped up to him, then down to her clawed fingers. “Oh, sorry.” She jerked her hand away, then stroked Mary’s cheek. “What about the babies?” she asked again.

  Mary struggled to open her eyes. “They’re using your magic. That’s why you can’t access it.”

  Lassi frowned. “What do you mean, they’re using my magic?”

  A jagged grimace crossed Mary’s face. Her head arched in Ryan’s lap. “The singing…it’s horrifying.”

  She writhed against the sofa in spasms.

  Lassi swiftly positioned the mask on Mary’s face and guided the elastic band holding it in place over her head. Next, she affixed the oxygen delivery bag to the mask.

  “Stay with us, Mary. We’ll get you through this.” She turned to Ryan and said, “Hold this bag, Ryan. Every six seconds give it a gentle squeeze.”

  “On it,” he said. His fingers bore down on the inflated plastic, then released. “One-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three,” he whispered.

  Mary’s face contorted into a horrible grin, much like Billy’s face when he died.

  “She wants to take me with her,” she whispered.

  “Who?” Lassi asked. “Who wants to take you with her?”

  Mary’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she grew limp.

  Lassi felt for a pulse. Nothing.

  “Get her on the floor,” she commanded Ryan. “I’m going to start CPR.” She shoved her hands underneath Mary’s head.

  While Ryan rose to his feet, Lassi cradled Mary’s head.

  Ryan crouched before Mary, scooped her in his arms, and lowered her to the floor. “Where do you want me?”

  “Behind her head. Keep the mask tight on her face. Keep inflating the bag for her.” Lassi knelt next to Mary, placed her palms on Mary’s sternum, and began chest compressions.

  “Come on, Ma. You can do this,” Ryan pleaded. “Don’t die on me.” He pressed the bag to give another puff of air.

  A knock sounded. “Medic unit 32 here.”

  Bootsteps tromped into the hall.

  “We’re in here,” Lassi called, as she pumped Mary’s chest. A strand of hair fell along her sweaty forehead. She blew at it ineffectually, tossed her head to get it out of the way, and then gave up.

  Mary’s entire skin turned a sickly blue-gray.

  Two blue-uniformed medics entered, one carrying a medical satchel, the other an AED defibrillator.

  “Sorry we’re late,” the dark-haired guy sporting the name-patch Mike, said. He set the bag on the floor. “Let me take over for you.” He slid next to Lassi and said, “On three, ready? One, two, three.”

  She lifted her hands while Mike took over chest compressions, nudging her out of the way.

  Lassi turned to Ryan and said, “I’ll take a turn on the bag-valve mask.”

  “On it,” Ryan said, handing her off the self-inflating bag. He pushed to standing, where he stood to the side, arms crossed, his expression pinched with fear and worry.

  Lassi knelt behind Mary’s head, giving her puffs of oxygen six seconds apart.

  Mary’s skin still showed the blue-gray tint.

  Come on, Mary. You can’t die on us.

  Mike continued, “Horrible traffic jam on Route 674. We scooted around on the side of the road. Doc Breslin wasn’t so lucky. The guy behind him rear-ended his vehicle.”

  “Oh, no,” Lassi said, gently squeezing the bag. “Was he injured?”

  “Nah,” Mike said. “Just pissed. But that’s why he’s not here. How long have you been doing compressions?”

  “No more than ten minutes,” Lassi said.

  Mike nodded.

  The other fellow, whose name-patch read Samson, crouched opposite Lassi. He proceeded to unpack the AED kit, peeled apart Mary’s robe, and affixed the electrode pads to her skin. Then, he turned the machine on.

  The AED called out drone-like instructions. “Stop CPR. Do not touch the patient. Analyzing.”

  Mike called out, “Clear.”

  Everyone moved back from Mary.

  The machine then droned, “Shock advised.” The lights on the device turned red as the shock was delivered.

  Mary’s body twitched.

  Mike resumed compressions. “Any pulse?”

  Samson placed two fingers on Mary’s carotid artery. He shook his head.

  Mike resumed chest compressions.

  Lassi resumed inflating the O2 bag.

  A weighted silence settled over the room as they performed their tasks.

  Ryan paced in a small circle. “This can’t be happening to my mother.”

  Two minutes later, the machine said, “Stop CPR. Do not touch the patient. Analyzing.”

  Again, each person moved away.

  “Shock advised.” The lights turned red, and another shock was administered.

  Once more, Mike resumed CPR and Lassi gave puffs of air.

  The process repeated two more times, with no results.

  “I think we’re going to call it,” Mike said. He gave Lassi a level-eyed gaze.

  She nodded, her eyes filling with tears.

  Samson switched off the AED.

  “No!” Ryan said. “Give her another shock. She’ll pull out of this, I know it.”

  Mike lifted his chin to Samson. “Go ahead.”

  The AED went through its instructions, and another shock was administered.

  “Anything?” Mike asked as he continued CPR.

  Samson felt for Mary’s pulse. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m afraid she’s gone.”

  Ryan let out a cry.

  Lassi sobbed.

  Mike looked at his watch. “Time of death, 15:42.” He lifted his hands from Mary’s body. “I’m afraid Miss Conway is well and truly dead.”

  Lassi sank hard into disbelief. Three dead bodies, all of them friends, was three too many. No way could it be anything but supernatural fuckery. She simply had to find out what killed them. Somewhere, somehow, she’d have to find a clue.

  Chapter 18

  Day 5, afternoon - Siobhan

  Sitting next to Paul, with the perpetual lights of hospital reality illuminating her every angst-filled thought, Siobhan wept. Her once bliss-filled life—never mind Dylan’s affair lurking in the corner—had taken on the bizarre lights and camera action of a horror movie. Only this movie had so many twists in the plot, she couldn’t see straight. Far too many disturbing things had taken place, in much too short of a time.

  Dylan. Seamus. Billy. Lady Freddie’s siding with Petra. Lassi and Cillian being broken up. Breaking Stephen’s heart. Paul…my little Paul…my reason for living… She glanced down at his sickly body.

  His rasping breathing proved extremely unsettling. The delicate eyelids shielding his eyes were lined with tiny purple veins. Siobhan had never noticed those veins. Then again, when has my son ever been the color of snow? He looks a hop and a skip from the afterlife. She shuddered and shook her head vigorously. No, best not to think at all.

  Dr. Quinn, Paul’s pediatrician at Waterford City hospital, strode into the room, snapping her from her gloomy thoughts into her gloomy reality. A portly man, suitable to play Santa Claus come Christmas-time, he typi
cally brought some sort of lightness into the room when he entered. Today, his expression conveyed something that shook Siobhan’s bones.

  She bolted to her feet. “What is it? What’s happening to my son?”

  He made a sweeping gesture with his palms. “Please sit, Mrs. Riordan.”

  Her legs began to shake so hard she fell onto the unforgiving, plastic seat.

  Dr. Quinn reached for another chair which had been pushed against the wall. He settled his large, white-coat clad form into the seat and folded his hands in his lap. “We’ve researched everywhere. I am very, very sorry but there doesn’t seem to be anything we can do for Paul.”

  Siobhan rubbed her hands together as if washing them with this bad news. “Who can we consult with? I want a second opinion.”

  “We’ve consulted with experts around the globe.” Dr. Quinn leaned forward in a half-tripod position, resting his elbows on his thigh. He stroked his white beard. “No one has any answers. Again, I’m sorry. So very sorry.” He cleared his throat. “His entire system is on the verge of failure. Nothing is coming up in any of the tests, and we have run every single test we can think of.”

  A pause, the length of an entire universe, stretched between them.

  Siobhan’s breath caught in her throat. She blinked, rapidly, to keep from crying in front of the doctor. Finally, she said, in a hoarse whisper, “So what are we to do then?”

  Dr. Quinn cleared his throat again. “I expect he will begin to go downhill quickly. We’ll do what we can to keep him sedated and comfortable, and if you insist, we will put him on life support. But that's not always a blessing for either the patient or the family, so you need to really think about that.”

  The floor began to give way beneath Siobhan’s feet. Any second, she feared plunging into all-consuming darkness. Keep it together. Don’t let go just yet. Stay strong for Paul.

  “I…” Her voice sounded like a faraway warble. She took a breath and tried again. “I’ll think about it, Dr. Quinn.”

  Dr. Quinn sat tall, placing his palms on his knees. “We have a fine chaplain on staff and wonderful resources for grief counseling. We can help you through this.”

  She shook her head. “No one can help me through this, I’m afraid. I’ve already lost his father to a…” vampire. “To murder. He was murdered. Now, this.” She swept her hand toward little Paul.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Riordan.” He reached out to pat her back. “If there’s anything I can personally do to assist you, let me know.” He gazed at her kindly with his Santa Claus eyes.

  If I say one more word, I’m going to lose it. I’m going to fly into hysteria and fall to pieces. Numbly, she nodded, rolling her lips between her teeth to keep from speaking. She pressed her palms together and squeezed.

  “Well,” Dr. Quinn said, pushing to his feet. “We’ll keep Paul comfortable, rest assured.”

  Go away, go away, go away. Siobhan blinked again. Another nod.

  He pivoted and lumbered toward the door. Before exiting, he paused in the doorway, turning his head toward her. “For what it’s worth, I lost my family in my thirties. Terrible car crash. It took me years to put my life together. You seem like a lovely young woman. I’m sure I’ve given you the most devastating news, but you can get through it, I know.”

  The words “you have no idea what I’m going through. We have monsters in our town,” stood poised for release on the tip of Siobhan’s tongue. She puffed out her cheeks with air and nodded once more. Please go away.

  Dr. Quinn cocked his head, studying her. Then, he nodded and disappeared.

  Siobhan let her breath out. I need Stephen. I need to call Stephen. With a shaking hand, she retrieved her phone from her purse. She tapped Stephen’s number. No answer. She tried Lassi’s. No answer. She tried Cillian’s. Then Mary. Then Ryan. No fucking answer. Feeling completely and utterly alone, she began a slow, steady, downward spiral into darkness. All the shadows in the room seemed to laugh at her.

  No way would she ever get over this moment.

  Chapter 19

  Day 5, late evening - Lassi

  The weight of grief and silence pressed its leaded fingers on Lassi as she sat, alone, on the sofa in the front room of her cottage. Her phone rested on the coffee table like an omen to bad news. She hated the thought of answering it ever again.

  Outside, the sky crept toward nightfall. The dark night inside her soul had already set in. I’m having twins…with no active father in sight. And Mary… Her lip began to tremble. She’s been a better mother and mentor than my real mom ever was. What will I do without her?

  She forced her grief to take a back seat, preferring, instead, to wallow in regrets. What made me think it a good idea to move to fecking Ballynagaul? I had a good life. A good job. Friends. But truthfully, she had something deeper here in Bally—a sense of community and the knowledge she played an essential part in the fabric of this world. And, she had love. In Dublin, all she had were boorish hookups, like the time she’d hooked up with that medical intern, Frankie O’ Shey. Frankie had a thing about doing it in the supply closet while staff roamed the halls. He was like a voyeur-in-training. He kept the closet locked, all the while whispering things like, “What if someone pops in and sees us, huh? What do you think about that?”

  “They can’t pop in if the door is locked, and they might actually need some supplies. Have you ever thought of that?” Lassi would retort. Sure, Frankie was a lot of fun for about two minutes, but he was nothing like Cillian Ward. What the feck is wrong with Cillian? What the feck is wrong with me? She patted her tummy. Mary will never get to meet my babies. I was going to make her the godmother. This thought unleashed the floodgates. She lay back on the sofa and sobbed.

  Crusty McKitty wandered in. He jumped on the couch, made his way to the back, and perched, looming over her head like a furry vulture. It was the closest he’d ever come to sit with her in companionable silence.

  “You're nice to me,” she wailed.

  He gave her the slow-eyed blink cats use in greeting.

  “And, you’re blinking at me,” she sniffled. “You’ve never done that to me. You greet everyone in this house that way, but with me, you hiss and glare.” She let out a shuddering sigh. “I wish you were a cuppa right now and I could tolerate drinking you. Tea used to comfort me, not make me puke my soul out.”

  He flashed her a look she interpreted to mean, “Well, feeder-woman, I wish you were a can of tuna fish so I could wolf you down, but we can’t always get instant gratification in this life, can we?”

  “I could turn you into a taxidermy project to make a nice stuffed toy for the babies, you know,” she said.

  He jumped on the arm of the sofa, padded over to her side, and placed a paw on her belly. He gazed at her calmly with his golden-green eyes.

  She reached out to pet him.

  He didn’t pull away. Instead, his expression became a “you’re going to be okay, and I’m going to watch over your babies,” kind of look.

  It heartened her. Tears tracked silently down her face. “This is unexpected. Who knew you’d be protective of my children? At least the babies will have one positive male role model in their life.”

  Her mobile phone blurted its tune. She stared at her phone, as thoughts of sticky spiders and freaky deaths and sick children clawed their way into her mind. Finally, not bothering to look at the caller ID, she reached for it.

  “Hello,” she said, in a weary voice. “What’s the bad news this time?”

  “Lassi, it’s Bres.” His voice cracked. “It’s…it’s…”

  She sat up, pushing Crusty out of the way. “It’s, it’s what? Who died this time?”

  “Little Paul’s on death watch,” Bres answered, the words emerging husky and raw. “Dr. Quinn says there’s no hope.”

  “Oh, dear God,” she cried. “How much worse can it get around here?”

  “Lassi, I’ve got to go…another call is coming in…I’ll touch base later, okay?” Bres disconnected
.

  Lassi’s sobs reappeared.

  “This is awful,” she cried.

  Crusty gave her his slow-eyed blink.

  “Oh, kitty,” she said, reaching for him.

  Again, he didn’t hiss or claw or back away from her. She hugged him to her tummy. “I finally get it. I finally understand the pain of losing a child. I’d die if I lost my babies.”

  Crusty pushed away from the grip she had on him. He didn’t leave, though, as she expected. Instead, he sat a respectful distance at the opposite end of the sofa and watched her.

  She grabbed one of the red and gold sofa pillows and squeezed it. A new awareness fought its way through her tears and snot. “I could actually be a good mother, whether Cillian’s in or out. So what if it comes out as a screwed up, quasi-immortal sea creature with tentacles? Aren’t octopus selfless and devoted mothers to their…spawn?”

  Mary’s last words to her chugged through her brain. “The babies…they’re using your magic.”

  Lassi’s brain furrowed. Do they need it to develop properly? Would they have been normal or born with just the normal Finn magic if I hadn’t gone and become a Leviathan? Then again, who knows what magic did to Cillian's sperm? Her teeth ground together. Ugh. Stop thinking about him.

  Images of Ryan’s face swam before her eyes. Poor Ryan. He looked a wreck when he left to head to the morgue. He’d been the best son a mother could have. If Lassi had a son, she’d want a son as loving, as devoted, and as fiercely protective as Ryan.

  A fresh assault of tears spilled from her eyes. “I’ve never felt so helpless in all my life,” she cried to Crusty. “Even a tragedy in the hospital had a team of experts. We always knew what to do or what to not do, what was possible and what was not possible. How can science compete with magic? There are no rules with magic. It’s not even supposed to be plausible. Magic’s got me by the short and curlies. I’ve simply got no answers. None. Zero. Hopeless. Helpless.” She fell back against the armrest and smothered her face with the pillow.