Page 20 of The Apples Hung Like Stars
Most of the threads don’t mind too much about being moved, but there are three that keep flashing in my mind’s eye, as if they’re pretty outraged at being pushed to one side. They’re the first three voices that I heard, and part of me feels sad that I won’t be able to hear them, so I bundle them around their very own pin, so that we can talk separately from the rest of Pack if we wish, and they seem to calm down after that.
Eventually, I’m able to disentangle my fingers from Clíodhna’s, and test out all I’ve been doing.
Silence. Blessed silence.
I nod, and then collapse back into Clíodhna’s arms, turning to bury my face against her.
She’s still naked, hadn’t even paused to put clothes on before she sped after me. Her skin is cool, clammy to the touch, and I can feel in her skin how scared she was for me.
“What could have happened?” I ask her.
Her face distorts, as if she doesn’t want to answer, and then reluctantly she does. “Mortal brains aren’t made to process that amount of information at once. I’m surprised it didn’t break you.”
I blink. This may be one of the only times when my ADHD might actually be mistaken as a superpower. Usually when people say that, it’s a glib comment that doesn’t consider the stress and trauma that comes from growing up neurodiverse in a world that’s designed for the neurotypicals. But right here, right now? It seems fitting.
I came here because of my brain. I came because I craved the quiet relief from a never-sleeping brain, that I sensed submission could gift me. And in the end, it was that unrelenting brain—the brain that literally rewires itself when it can’t do something—that helped me survive. I’m so used to processing all of the sensory input, all of the time, that the whole of Pack in my head? Not a problem.
Looking around, I catch Aoibheall’s eye. “Okay, you started this. I’ve got three trials to overcome? What’s next?”
Chapter Sixteen
Clíodhna
Aoibheall’s grudging respect for Janet is as apparent as Ciara and the Morrígan’s bemusement. No one in the club knows quite what to make of my mortal, and that is quite satisfying.
Almost as satisfying as the fact that she seems to be quite the mouthy, confident thing when speaking to anyone but me.
I mean, she’s mouthy and confident when she’s with me, but she’s also a deliciously melty little thing as well, and I’m glad that I’m the one who gets to entice that out of her.
Janet stands, and even my banshee subjects take a step back. There’s somethingmoreabout her now. Maybe it’s the fact that she holds all the voice of a magical Pack in her head, or perhaps it’s just her. That this whole experience has tapped into a magical vein that’s been hidden deep within her soul.
She’s Godstouched.
I consider Ciara for a moment, though not for too long, as the Morrígan tends to get a tad overprotective of her own mortal. She has a similar feel. It’s almost as if whatever makes them mortal has somehow been indelibly changed.
I’m all in favour of it.
“Well?” Janet demands of my sister. “What’s next?”
“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging helplessly. “I set the trials in motion, but I don’t know what comes next. I’ve never known.”
We all stand there, as useless as new-born lambs. It’s as if all our legs have been cut out from beneath us. All of us, except Janet.
“There’s got to beform,” she insists. “I’m not going to just stand around and wait for something drastic to hit me. That seems ridiculous.” She stares at us all. “Aren’t you all supposed to be immortals? Don’t you have some kind of control over fate?”
That makes us laugh. Even Aoibheall.
“If that were the case,” she says, “do you think we’d have been caught behind a Veil for centuries?”
Janet exchanges a glance with Ciara. “I’m not wrong though, am I?”
Ciara nods. “You’re not wrong at all, but I’m probably not the best person to ask. I didn’t start forging my own fate until Red here came into my life.” There’s a grief in her eyes that calls my keening to the tip of my tongue, but I fight to get it under control. Whatever Ciara has been through, she doesn’t need me calling her grief into being.
“Fine.” There’s that stubbornness in her. Her chin goes up and her dark eyes flash with fire. “If you’re not going to do something about this, then I will. Clíodhna, what do you hate the most?”
“Other than snakes, you mean?”
Aoibheall has the grace to look abashed at that.
