Phelan stirred awake only a few bare moments after she was gone. He groaned quietly, twisting in his blankets, eyes blinking open slowly in the dim light. J.T. watched for a moment, silent, the spirit’s words still sinking in.
Then ancient eyes fell on him and Phelan said without preamble, “I was dreaming.”
“Of what?” J.T. asked, meeting Phelan’s gaze, curiosity edging the question. Did he hear her voice, I wonder? Does he remember who she is?
I never did get her name, did I? There was something easier about dealing with the spirits when he could name them. The faceless ones, the wraiths almost without form that he’d only seen once or twice in the weeks and months since the end of the world were the ones that left him the most unsettled.
“Home,” Phelan breathed, looking away again. “The Isles. I was walking with Finn and Brighid and their daughter. I haven’t dreamed of the girl’s voice…” His eyes slid closed again. J.T. swallowed hard.
“Was she your goddaughter?”
Phelan’s eyes sprang open and he looked at J.T., brow crinkling. “For lack of better terminology, aye. How did you—” He pushed himself up on an elbow and groaned, putting a hand to his head. “Déithe agus arrachtaigh. What actually hit me?”
“The camazotzi, apparently,” J.T. said, his tone desert-dry and his expression serious. “Your head got bounced off the ground a few times.”
“Feels like it.” Phelan traced the stitches along the sides of his face with a fingertip and winced slightly. “It also feels like one of them danced on my chest.”
“I wasn’t there, so I can’t say for sure whether one did or not.” J.T. edged forward in his chair a little. “You feel okay?”
“Other than the headache and being able to feel most of my ribs every time I breathe, yes.” Phelan eased back down to his pillows again and exhaled a heavy sigh. He stared at the wooden planks of the ceiling above, brow furrowing slightly again. “There’s something…clover and heather. I can smell clover and heather.” He looked at J.T. again, slowly, realization dawning in his eyes. “There was a ghost here. A spirit.”
J.T. nodded. “I was out by the fire. Jac was sitting with you when I saw it go by.”
“What was it?” Phelan started to sit up again, more slowly this time. He winced, but made it upright, sitting up in his bed and wavering only slightly. “The spirit. What did it look like?”
“A girl.” J.T. closed his eyes, easily able to conjure the image of her against the black backdrop of the closed lids. “Small, blonde hair—not golden blonde, but white-blonde—with all kinds of silver trinkets knotted into it. She had a pretty face. Voice reminded me of wind chimes.”
Phelan’s breath caught, the color draining from his face. He uttered a quiet oath under his breath, words tumbling over themselves so quickly that J.T. wouldn’t have had a prayer of deciphering them even if he’d been fluent in Phelan’s native tongue.
“What did she say?” he whispered.
J.T. shook his head slowly. “She made it sound like I’ve got a more powerful gift than I’d ever imagined. How…how rare is what I can do?” How deep will I end up going—how much further out of my depth am I about to be?
“Rare,” Phelan said, eyes sliding shut for a moment. “More rare now than in ages past. Unlike some with similar skill, I fear that your abilities will only grow as time goes on, rather than leveling out or beginning to fade away.” His bright eyes blinked open again and he offered the younger man a weak, wry smile. “Long and arduous road for you, Jameson. I’m afraid I don’t have much good news in that regard, beyond the fact that I know you’ve got the strength in you to control it before it controls you.”
J.T. shivered, remembering the conversation he’d had with Marin months before. How long before it controls me? How long before I cross over that threshold? “And healing the soul?”
“Bloody,” Phelan breathed, then stopped himself. “Ériu did a number on you, didn’t she? How much did she say?”
“Too much,” J.T. murmured, “but enough. She touched you and you…you healed. She said something to you and you relaxed. I don’t know what she—”
“My soul,” Phelan said quietly. “She touched my soul, Jameson. Healed a part that I didn’t realize was broken.” He closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “Gods and monsters.”
“I don’t know that I can handle that kind of power,” J.T. said. “How can she be so sure I’ve got that kind of talent?”
Phelan shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “Because she always knew and she tried to tell me long ago…but I didn’t listen.
“Déithe agus arrachtaigh, but I didn’t listen. And I should have. Forgive me, Jameson, but I should have.”
