Lyse was glad that of all the people in the world, it was Arrabelle who would hear her confession.
"He's . . . I . . . it's my fault."
"What's your fault?"
Lyse shook her head.
"He died because of me."
Arrabelle pushed Lyse back so she could see her face.
"Did you just say that Weir's dead?" She wasn't being accusatory or judging Lyse-she was just shocked. Lyse knew this intellectually, but she still felt the guilt well up inside her like a fountain.
"It was in Italy. After Lizbeth took off-"
Arrabelle's face fell, as much for Lyse's pain as for the news itself.
"Oh, God . . . does Lizbeth know?"
Lyse shook her head.
"How could she? It was just the two of us-I sent Daniela off after her-and now Daniela's in the hospital"-something else she also felt tremendous guilt about-"it was just a chaotic mess and then The Flood's people attacked us. I lost it and when I came to, Weir was just lying there . . . on the floor of the catacombs . . ."
Arrabelle swallowed back her own tears.
"Oh, Lyse, I'm so sorry. For you both." She shook her head, trying to clear it. "Poor Lizbeth."
"She'll blame me," Lyse said, "and she'll have every right to. It was my job to protect all of you and I failed."
She hated herself in that moment. She wished nothing more than that she'd never been born. She should've protected Daniela and Weir . . . and Lizbeth, wherever she was. She'd let her just run away like a spoiled little child instead of keeping her in hand.
I'm not even thirty and I feel the weight of being a caretaker to too many souls, she thought, miserably.
"You are one person, Lyse MacAllister," Arrabelle said, a firmness in her voice. "Not God. You did what you could do and it didn't work. Someone died, someone got hurt. That's the price of doing business in this messed-up world. Everyone knows that this isn't going to end well, that some of us aren't going to make it. But we do it because it's the right thing. You do it because it's the right thing."
Lyse swallowed, the lump in her throat beginning to dissolve.
"You didn't ask to be a part of this," Arrabelle continued. "It was forced on you. But you're still here. And I'll follow you into the pit of hell if that's where you think we need to go. You didn't kill Weir, but you will avenge him. I promise you that."
She pulled Lyse back in, squeezing her tight.
"Now stop crying," Arrabelle said, finally letting Lyse go. "I might not have been premature when I said that bit about hell. I think we're there now."
Lyse looked around them, the red desert stretching out in all directions.
"I think I can jump us out of here again-"
"Yeah?" Arrabelle asked.
"Yeah, but I want to see if I can't get us somewhere interesting . . ."
Arrabelle caught the glint in Lyse's eye.
"Like go-big-or-go-home interesting?"
Lyse smiled.
"Exactly."
• • •
Lyse asked them to form a circle and join hands. Four witches-each one powerful and unique in their own way: two herbalists, a diviner, and whatever the hell Lyse was . . . an evolved one, she supposed she should call herself-standing in the middle of a bloodred desert about to perform some crazy-ass magic. Until she'd come back to Echo Park and learned that blood sisters and magic were real, she would've peed her pants laughing at the absurdity of what they were doing now. It felt like that silly slumber party game kids played-Stiff as a board, light as a feather-only with four grown-ups as the participants instead of a bunch of giggly preteen girls.
"Niamh," Lyse said. "I want you to imagine us in Daniela's hospital room. Sounds crazy. Sounds impossible, but, dammit, you have the gift of controlling dreams, so if anyone can make it happen, it's you."
"I'll do it," Niamh said. "I mean, I'll try. If you can make the jump, then I will do exactly what you tell me to."
"Good," Lyse said. "Evan, Arrabelle, I think you should just concentrate on this insanity working and us getting back to Earth in one piece."
Nods from them both.
"Can do," Evan said, and gave Lyse a wink.
She was happy to have the three of them on her side. It gave her the feeling that she could do anything . . . and maybe she could. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what exactly had happened the first time she'd attempted this.
You didn't think about it, she told herself. You just did it.
"Light as a feather, stiff as a board. Light as a feather, stiff as a board."