“Finn,” I manage to say, a whisper.
He nods. And he’s warm. Confused, I slide my hand against his chest, finding what I need to know. A heart beats against my hand, strong and true through this thin ribcage.
Ba-bump.
Ba-bump.
Ba-bump.
No.
This can’t be.
“It is,” he nods again, and I realize that I’d spoken aloud.
Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.
“Am I insane?” I ask limply, and all feelings have fled my body. I’m numb. I’m a piece of wood. I’m a sponge, and I have no feelings, and I’ve absorbed all of this insanity for so long that now I’m insane myself. That’s the only possible answer.
Finn’s slender arm stretches behind me, curling around my shoulder, and I’m limp against his chest, my ear pressed to his heart to make absolute sure.
Ba-bump.
Ba-bump.
Ba-bump.
“This is impossible.”
My words are whispers. Three of them. Six syllables of impossibility.
“You can’t trust your own mind right now, Cal,” he tells me solemnly, his pale blue eyes so light and clean and familiar. “So you’re going to have to trust me instead.”
I do. He’s the only one.
He knows that.
But…
Reality isn’t this. Reality is a red smashed car and a white tombstone. Good night, sweet Finn.
There were dragonflies and sunlight that day. There was a cemetery and tears.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan.
“How can this be?” I ask tremulously, afraid to trust it, afraid to hope.
Finn looks away, his hands still wrapped around mine.
And all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.
“Because it just is,” he says firmly. “I can’t tell you. You have to come to it. But you will, Cal. You will.”
Oh God, we’re back to that. We’re back to the “I can’t tell you because it will annihilate you” thing.
My chest deflates.
My breath rushes out.