Chapter 31

“Anybody worth bringing back is already in a better place.” I knelt in the grass growing over my grandpa’s grave, whispering the words he taught me until they felt as true as the first time I heard them. “Anybody worth bringing back is already in a better place.”

I pressed my hands flat on the guitar in my lap, straining not to touch the strings. And the part of me that knew better held its ground.

But the part of me that welled up with emotion just at the smell of Grandpa’s boot polish pulled in the opposite direction. And all I could do was sit there, paralyzed, tearing at the seams.

Pine stood behind the headstone, staring. His blue eyes were clear of judgement. But he also seemed a little afraid of what I might do next.

I looked back at him, practically begging him to pull me back from the brink and set me back on track.

But he just stood there, waiting for me to choose. Like he didn’t dare tell me what to do.

My hand slid up the neck of the guitar. On instinct, my shaky fingers searched for their spots on the strings. And the agonizing hunger in my heart—starved for one final moment, one last word, one more hug—sharpened.

But with Pine watching me? After all he’d been through? Knowing he’d leave all this behind if he could?

My throat choked up, just like my hand around the fretboard. The steel strings cut into my fingers.

“It’s selfish,” I said out loud, trying to stomp out the temptation. “It’s unfair. It’s wrong.” But even under suffocating guilt, that wish still flickered inside me like a heartbeat. And weak, whipped, and out of tricks, I had to ask—”But what else can I do?”

The prehistoric jungle just outside the graveyard somehow seemed to loom higher and press closer.

This forest was Crow’s castle now. And I was just a mouse in his crawlspace.

I was totally alone. Completely lost. Hungrier than I’d ever been before. So, it was time to face the facts. If this went on much longer, I’d probably see Grandpa one way or another—and dead or alive, I’d have to tell him I’d let everyone down.

This all started because Mom took a chance on me, letting me fill in for Grandpa at the Hemming. But in the end, I turned out to be a bad bet. Just like she thought.

Then I met Pine, and he assumed I was a decent mage. So he threw in with me to make Crow answer for murder. But in the end, I couldn’t beat the bad guy. Not even with a rematch.

When Grandpa John died, I thought maybe the Slumber magic was the one part of him I could keep alive. But in the end, in the rubble of Glen Rose, it was clear . . .

“I can’t fix this,” I said to the grave. “Not on my own. I swear, I tried. But all I do is make problems I can’t solve.” My eyes watered, overflowing with shame. “I’m a pathetic mage. And a terrible daughter. And I don’t deserve to carry this magic anymore.” My shaking finger curled around the sixth string. “I need you.”

A single E note dripped in the air.

Pine took a short step forward and lifted his hand. Asking me to pause. To think.

But I’d just passed the point of no return. My grandpa’s soulshine was already wrapped around my fingers. And the song I’d been holding in for him spilled out like a confession, emptying feelings that tears couldn’t carry.

The air swirled, stirred by heat and magic, and lifted my curls off my shoulders.

The ground in front of me caved and swelled. The grassroots tore and popped. The soil rose and shifted into shape like clay on a pottery wheel.

I dropped my eyes. I couldn’t watch. All I could do was play like I was begging for forgiveness—

Until a large hand fell over mine.

I stopped cold, frozen on the frets. The hair on my neck stood up. That soft touch hit like a blade to the stomach, stealing all the air from my lungs.

I couldn’t make myself lift my head to look. All I could do was stare at the details sculpted into the cool, packed clay that formed each long finger. The knobby knuckles. The cracked palms. The nibbled nails.

The hand closed around the neck of the guitar and tightened.

And the knife in my stomach twisted. What was I doing? I’d sunk so unbelievably low.

“I’m so sorry,” I choked out. Tears streamed down my face. “I’m so sorry.”

But then, the fingers curled over mine gave a gentle pull. The fretboard slipped out of my hands. And the guitar lifted out of my lap.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the ground. I was too afraid. Too ashamed.

The grass shushed as he stood. His shadow fell over me. And with the quiet thump of a hand on acoustic wood and the tiny squeak of steel strings, he took his first breath.

And he started to play.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Because it was the song I’d poured out for him, note-for-note. But even on the same guitar, reverberating with the same melody, it was a totally different sound. His cover was rich and dark as campfire coffee, classic and mysterious as an outlaw, straight and steady as a train on tracks. And as I took in his legendary sound—something I never thought I’d hear again—I noticed something else ringing in the air.

Magic.

My heart caught a beat.

The spool of soulshine knitting his body together? I wasn’t pulling that thread. His lifeforce wasn’t tied to me anymore.

He was using his own power. He was summoning himself.

I forced my face up. And through wide eyes full of tears, I took him in.

The last time I saw Grandpa John—the very last time—he’d just come back from the hospital after a bad fall. And something had changed. He seemed crumpled up. Thin. Unsteady.

But the man coming together in front of me now? He was straight out of my very earliest memories. Those were the long legs that raced me through rows of blackberries. The lean shoulders that lifted me over the crowd to see the 4th of July parade. The steady hands that could catch a horse by the halter and calm it with one touch.

He let loose an easy whistle that curled like cursive. And out of one deep breath, he spun himself clothes. Actual clothes, which I didn’t even know could be done. He summoned the same white cotton shirt and sun-bleached blue jeans I’d watched Mom box up and donate to church. His engraved leather belt and amber-brown boots were perfect replicas, right down to the embroidery.

When his physical form was finally complete and every pound of burden had been lifted off me, the guitar stopped. His whistle blew away.

And there he was, standing in a golden haze of sunshine and swirling dust. So real. Maybe too real.

I wobbled to my feet, shaking all over, not sure if I wanted to run toward him or away from him. A nauseous twist I didn’t expect curled my stomach up tight.

This was different from a dinosaur—different from Pine. Maybe because it was someone I lost. Someone I knew, by the law of nature, shouldn’t be in front of me.

Grandpa slipped the guitar behind his back, took a knee, and held out his hand. His deep-set eyes shone with feeling. “It’s me.” His rich, gritty voice rolled out low and slow, sending a crack of longing through me. “It’s all right, Baby. Come see.”

I took a weak step toward him, sizing him up. There was a little less gray in his close-cropped hair. A little less bend to his back. A little less spotting on his skin.

But I reached out to brush my fingers across his palm. And when I felt his warm, rough hand, a wave of relief washed over me.

It was really, really him.

“Grandpa.” My voice broke. And as soon as the relief passed, a cold ripple of shame came right along behind it. But before I could apologize—

He closed his hand around mine and pulled me in close, wrapping me up in a hug.

I sank into his shoulder and buried my face into his button-up shirt, breathing in the smell of fresh cotton and rich leather I’d missed so much. And I held on as tight as I could.

“Mercy, girl. Not so hard.” A deep laugh rumbled through him like thunder. “You’re gonna send me back where I came from.”

I was so choked up about how much I missed him, and the gut-wrenching guilt that came with bringing him back, I could hardly even talk. “You—you told me not to—”

“Oh, I know. I know it’s eatin’ you up.” He tucked me close to his chest. Closer than I deserved. “It’s okay. Don’t you worry. We’ll make it right.”

I let out a long, shaky breath. Let my apology go with it.

“That’s my girl.” Grandpa gave me a firm pat between my shoulder blades and sat back to look me in the eyes. “It’s just good you called me and not somebody else, eh?”

The smile I knew he wanted from me wilted. I glanced over his shoulder at Pine.

He still stood behind the headstone, watching the drama play out from the sidelines. And when our eyes met, he locked up and raised his hands like I’d turned a gun on him. Whatever fire and brimstone lecture I was about to get, he was not taking the heat.

Grandpa John turned slightly to follow my stare. And when he looked back at me, a shadow crossed his face, like he’d just noticed how dirty and sweaty I was. Then he glanced around like something was missing.

“Where’s your momma?” His voice fell storm cloud dark. And I could tell he knew in his gut that something had gone deeply wrong.

But I bet his worst fears didn’t cover the half of it.