This was pointless. Nothing was happening. The image of the car was slipping away, replaced by the red vinyl of the booth seat across from me.

Luke whispered in my ear. “Name it.”

Bucephalus, I thought. Instantly, the image of the car strengthened again, forming solid lines around me as if I sat inside it and around it and over it all at once. I could see a line of pistons, the brake line, the gas pedal, the ignition, the seats, all at the same time. Bucephalus, start.

Across the parking lot, headlights flicked on and blinded us both, but not before I saw the car jerk sideways as the engine turned over and roared to life.

The waitress set down two plates in front of us.

“Have a sandwich!” Luke said, glowing brighter than the headlights.

“Can I get you any sauce?”

I blinked at her. “I think I need to get sauced.”

The waitress blinked back.

“She’s fine,” Luke said. After the waitress had gone, he looked at me, the corners of his mouth quirking, and said, “Are you just going to leave it running? Now that my salary’s not being paid by supernaturals, I have to worry about the price of gas.”

I tried to convince the engine to turn off, but it remained running. Eventually, I had to let Luke out of the booth to go switch off the ignition. I watched him out the window, his lanky form trotting to the car and getting in, fumbling behind the wheel for a few minutes, and then popping the hood open and fussing under it. He shut the hood, climbed back into the driver’s seat, and in a few seconds the car lurched forward, the lights finally going out.

He returned and slid back in next to me, a little out of breath. “You’re a bit of an atom bomb, aren’t you? I had to stall the engine to get it to stop.”

A smile broke out across my face; I couldn’t help it. It was just so crazy. And instead of feeling shaky, like I did whenever I moved stuff in the daytime, I felt great. I felt like that great mass of night pressing in the windows was pulsing through me, huge waves of energy pumping like a wicked bass line. I felt like whooping, but when I found words, it was just an ordinary question. “How did you know I should use the name?”

“They think names are very important, remember? And so they are.”

I frowned. “Is that why no one can remember your name?”

He nodded, mouth full of barbecue, and mumbled past the food. “Names are a way of keeping someone in your head. Most people don’t remember me very well, either.”

“But I do. I can say your name: Luke Dillon. And They can too. At least, Brendan could.”

“They see things differently. I guess you do, too. Big shock there.” He poked the corner of my mouth where my smile ought to be. “Eat your food.”

I remembered my hunger, and we both ate our sandwiches in silence. When we were done, Luke put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close to him. Resting my head on his chest, listening to oldies music playing overhead, feeling the cold touch of the vinyl booth on the back of my arms, I thought, again—despite the Sticky Pig looking the same as it always did—that this night wasn’t like any other night.

Luke leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I wish I could have this with you.” Something about his breath against my skin as he spoke, his fingers brushing against my neck, and the unfamiliar, exciting night pressing in against the windows made my stomach turn over. I sat up and grabbed his hand, tugging him out of the booth with a sort of urgency. “Let’s go outside.”

I waited slow minutes while he looked at the check and counted out a tip, and then I pulled him out of the restaurant and back into the dull red light of the parking lot. With every step I took into the night, the pale moon looking down from overhead, I felt like I was shedding a skin; a weighty slab of flesh that peeled away to reveal a brilliant, light creature inside. All around me was a wall I’d spent sixteen years building, and with every thud of my heart, pieces crumbled from it. I was practically shaking by the time we reached the car, and before he could get his keys out, I kissed him. Crazy, out-of-control kissing, my mouth pressed against his, my arms linked around his neck.

Caught off guard, Luke took a moment before he wrapped his arms around me and kissed back, his fingers crumpling my shirt. There was something honest and raw in our kisses; a gasp of fear or impending loss that we couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge in conscious thought. He held me tightly, lifting me off my feet and sitting me on the hood of his car so I wouldn’t have to stand on my tiptoes to reach him, and I tasted the skin of his neck and his face and his lips until I had no more breath, and then I linked my legs around him and kissed him some more.

Inside the car, my phone rang, quiet but clearly audible. I didn’t want to get it. I didn’t want this night to end, because I didn’t know what tomorrow would look like. But Luke’s hands dropped to his sides and he rested his face against my neck, out of breath. “You have to get that, don’t you?”

I wanted to say no. But while I tried to imagine how I could justify ignoring it, Luke lifted me from the hood of the car and got his keys out of his pocket. The phone had stopped ringing by the time he retrieved it from the passenger seat, but my parents’ number was still displayed under the words missed call.

Standing outside the car, shivering for no reason, I punched the redial button and pressed the phone to my ear. Luke stood behind me and crossed his arms over my chest, pressing his cheek against mine while I listened to the phone ringing.

“Deirdre? Where are you?” Mom’s voice had a strange edge to it that I didn’t recognize.

“At the Sticky Pig. We—”

“You need to come home. Right now.”

I hadn’t expected that. Maybe her chastity radar had gone off. “We just finished getting dinner. The party—”

“Deirdre, just come home. It’s important.”

The phone clicked and I stared at it for a few moments before relating the call to Luke. He released me abruptly. “Okay. Get in.”

I got into the passenger seat, unhappy with the turn of events. “I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t either,” Luke said. “But something’s happened. We need to go.”

We made the short drive from the Sticky Pig to my parents’ dark driveway in record time. Every light in the house was on, and I saw silhouettes in the kitchen window. Luke took my hand tightly and we went in together.

Mom was inside the dim yellow kitchen, pacing as restlessly as a caged tiger, her face curiously mottled. Beyond the kitchen door I could see Dad talking on the phone. Mom froze in her steps when she heard the door open, and her eyes fixed on me. “Deirdre.” Her eyes traveled down my arm to the hand that Luke held and then stopped, hardening. She took two steps across the room and snatched my hand out of Luke’s.

“Mom!” I snapped.

But Mom kept my hand in a pincer grip, lifting it to stare at my fingers. “You’re wearing Granna’s ring. This is her ring.”

The look on her face scared me; I snatched my hand back. “She gave it to me on my birthday.”

“You’re wearing her ring,” Mom repeated. “You’ve been wearing it all along. Since before the coma.”

I shrank back from this wild-eyed creature that had taken the place of my mother. Luke’s hand on my back steadied me. “She gave it to me, Mom. In the driveway.”

Mom pointed at it wordlessly, her finger shaking, and then made her hand into a fist. Finally, she formed the words and spat them at me. “She’s dead.”

Strangely, I thought of the emotion I ought to feel without feeling it, as impartial as a National Geographic field researcher, carefully watching the events and chronicling them in a notebook. Deirdre finds that she is saddened by the news of her grandmother’s death, and moreover, suddenly fears for the rest of her family and friends.

But I didn’t actually feel those things. I knew that I ought to, but I felt absolutely nothing at all, like I’d just walked into the kitchen and Mom had told me off for being late.

“Did you hear me?” Mom didn’t even seem to notice that Luke was there. “She’s dead. The hospital called us. Your father’s on the phone with them now.”

“How?” I finally managed.

Mom’s voice shook. “Does it matter?”

“Terry?” Dad’s voice, deep and calming, called from the other room. “Could you come here a second?”

Mom whirred to the other room; the kitchen seemed empty and mute without her frenzied presence. I didn’t want to look at Luke. I didn’t know why. Maybe because he would look at my face and see that there were no tears, that I was a terrible person. In my pocket, my phone beeped a text message; it didn’t realize that this wasn’t an ordinary night, and that a moment of silence was called for.

Luke reached out and caught my arm, turning me toward him. “You can cry later, Dee. The tears’ll come later.” He looked at me, eyes narrowed. “I have to go find what she was working on. Something to protect your family. I’ll bring it back here.”

Fear rose up where grief wouldn’t. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

“You say that now, but how would you feel if the hospital called and it was your father?” He tipped my chin up with his finger. “That’s what I thought.”

I felt tears prick my eyes, but for the wrong reasons. I let him kiss my mouth gently and hug me before he let himself out the kitchen door.

In the other room, I heard my parents fighting; Dad talking in his low voice, and Mom screaming at him. I stood alone in the dim yellow kitchen and took my cell phone from my pocket. One unread text message.

It was from James, and like half of my messages, it had been delivered late—it was sent three hours previously. The subject line was that of all our epic texts—the line we used for things too serious to talk about in person: deep thoughts.

I opened it.

d. i love u.

I sank down onto the tiles and put my head in my hands, listening to my mother screaming at my father and wondering when it would all start to hurt.

Finally, I worked up my courage and dialed James’ number, trying to plan what to say when he picked up. It rang and rang, until I heard his voice: You’ve reached James’ cell phone. By dialing this number you’ve increased your coolness level by ten points. Add another ten by leaving a message after the beep. Ciao.

I hung up. I’d never gotten his voice mail before—no matter how crazy the time was or where he was, he’d always picked up.

I felt alone.

sixteen

I was having one of those dreams. Where I wasn’t sure if I was awake or not. It felt like I was awake, lying in my bed. But my head was still fuzzy as if I was sleeping, and the voice that sang to me was vague and dreamy.

The voice went up and down the scale, not unpleasantly, singing in no fixed measure, whispering to me that the name Deirdre meant “sorrow.” In the foggy way of dreams, I recognized the story of yet another Deirdre. This third Deirdre was betrothed to the King of Ulster, even though she was in love with someone else. Deirdre eloped with the hot young thing, Naois, who was her true love, thoroughly pissing the king off in the process. The king pursued her, had Naois and his brothers killed, and then stole Deirdre away to be his wife. Deirdre, stricken with grief, threw herself from his carriage and smashed her head on a rock, killing herself. The breathy voice of my dream sang that all Deirdres come to bad ends.