The kitchen in Becca's house was a world away from the cold basement. Yellow light from the window made the worn counters look warm. The air was thick with the smell of strong coffee and the oniony scent of a stew simmering on the stove. Axl leaned against the counter, feeling the tiredness deep in his bones. Garath stood nearby, a silent statue.
Chloe moved between them, quiet and careful. She took two clean mugs from the drainboard and filled them from the black coffee pot.
"Here you go," she said, her voice soft. She handed the first mug to Garath. He took it with a slight nod, not a word. She turned and offered the second to Axl.
"Thanks, kid," Axl mumbled. His mind was still half in the basement, with the red glow and the screaming. He lifted the mug and took a big, automatic swallow.
The liquid was scalding. It hit his tongue like hot metal. He choked, a harsh gasp ripping from his throat. Coffee sloshed over the rim and burned his hand. He slammed the mug down on the counter, the crack of ceramic on laminate loud in the quiet kitchen.
"Holy shit!" he croaked, his eyes watering. He shook his stinging hand. "What is this, molten lead?"
A small, sharp laugh escaped Chloe. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but her shoulders shook.
Axl blinked tears from his eyes and glared at her. "You trying to kill me off? Is that it? Because I've got monsters for that. I don't need help from my coffee."
The laugh died in Chloe's throat. Her face went still, then flushed a deep, bright pink from her neck to her hairline. She didn't look away or roll her eyes. She just stared at him, her brown eyes wide and unblinking, caught.
The squeak of a wheel cut through the awkward silence. Becca rolled into the kitchen from the hall. Her eyes went from Axl's pained expression to the spilled coffee to her daughter's frozen, pink face.
"She's asleep. For now," Becca announced. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but her gaze lingered on Chloe. "Chloe. Sweetheart. Go downstairs and sit with her for a bit. Let me know if she stirs."
Chloe jumped like she'd been shocked. "Right. Yes. Okay." She didn't look at anyone, turning on her heel and almost fleeing the kitchen. The door to the basement stairs clicked shut behind her.
Becca rolled closer, stopping right beside Axl. She didn't speak for a moment, just let the quiet settle. Then she turned her head and looked at him. Really looked at him.
"Don't you ever do that," she said. Her voice was low, perfectly even, and carried a weight that made the words sink like stones.
Axl wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still tasting burnt coffee. He looked genuinely confused. "Do what? Almost die from your daughter's kitchen assault?"
"You know what I'm talking about," Becca said. It wasn't a question. She held his gaze, her own eyes sharp and knowing. It was the look of a mother who'd seen a thousand little glances and understood every one. "Don't. She's young."
Axl's face shifted from confusion to offense. He held up his hands, palms out. "Whoa. I was complaining. Because I'm in pain. What's wrong with that?."
Becca just hummed, a short, non-committal sound that made it clear she didn't believe him. She let the subject hang for a tense second before moving on. "What do we know about the girl?"
Axl sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was too tired for this. "What do you mean?"
Becca's expression didn't change. "You brought a complete stranger into my home, into my family's space, with a poltergeist attached to her. Did you do any background check on her, anything?"
Garath cleared his throat softly. He'd been sipping his coffee, waiting. When he spoke, it was in clear, concise facts. "Layla Averin. Age twenty-four. Employed as a receptionist at 'Hartwell and Sons Accounting.' Only child. Parents are both retired, residing at 42 Maple Lane in Rilo. She purchased the property on Oakwood Lane eighteen months ago with a standard mortgage. Payments are current. No marriage license on file. No domestic partner. Credit report shows no unusual activity. One speeding violation from twenty-two months ago. No other records."
He finished and took another sip. The information was dry, clean, and utterly useless.
Becca looked from one man to the other. She let out a long, slow breath. "So. Nothing. No occult books on her ledger? No weird family history? No secret interest in demonology?"
"Not a trace," Axl admitted, finally picking up his mug again for a cautious, tiny sip. It was still too hot, but he could manage it now. The coffee was actually good, just made with terrifying heat. "She's a blank page. A normal person who walked into a nightmare."
"Right." Axl set the mug down. "About the murder pattern… I still can't place it."
Becca gave him a flat look. "Then why bring it up?"
"Because," Axl said, leaning forward, his elbows on the counter. "I have read every single book, every handwritten journal, every water-stained scrap of paper in Mr. Neal's library. Twice. If that pattern was in there, I would have found it. It's not." He tapped the counter with a finger. "It's new. This isn't some cult pulling a ritual from 'Demons for Dummies.' Someone designed this. From scratch."
Garath shifted. "Is that possible?"
"Yeah," Axl said, nodding. "The basics of ritual magic are ancient, but it's not a locked box. Think of it like… building a bomb. The principles of chemistry are known. A smart, twisted person can still make a new kind of bomb."
Becca's face was neutral, but her eyes were calculating. "So your professional opinion?"
Axl picked up his coffee, mostly just to hold something warm. "It's not some kid playing with Ouija boards. The geometric precision, the energy required to juice up a poltergeist like that… this is planned. Professional. They put that thing in Layla's house for a reason. She wasn't random." He drained the last of the coffee and put the empty mug in the sink. "Anyway, we're talking in circles. Call us the minute she's awake and making sense. We'll be right next door."
He pushed off the counter and headed for the back door, tapping Garath's arm as he passed. Garath gave Becca a respectful nod and followed, his boots quiet on the linoleum.
***
In the house next door, Ace was practicing his impression of a prisoner watching paint dry.
He stood at his bedroom window, his nose practically glued to the glass. Outside, down by the front gate, his mom Sophie was talking to Mrs. Pell. Mrs. Pell was the neighborhood news station. If a leaf fell, she had an opinion on it. Right now, she was telling a story that involved a lot of hand gestures. Sophie was nodding, smiling her polite "I have places to be" smile.
You have places to be! Ace thought, screaming it inside his head. The grocery store! Remember? Milk! Eggs! The crushing freedom of being away from here for two whole hours!
This was his masterpiece. Two days of lying in bed, pretending to be a sick, repentant son. He'd memorized the creak of the floorboards, the exact tempo of his mother's footsteps. The market trip was his one shot. A two-hour window to not feel like a grounded zoo animal.
But Mrs. Pell was a storyteller. She didn't believe in short stories.
Five minutes. Ace shifted his weight. His ribs gave a friendly throb. Thanks for the reminder.
Ten minutes. He started tracing a tiny monster face in the fog his breath left on the glass.
Fifteen minutes. He was pretty sure he saw Sophie sneak a glance at her watch. Yes! See the time! Abort the conversation!
Mrs. Pell put a hand on Sophie's arm. A trap. Another story was launched.
"Oh, come on," Ace whispered to the window. He slumped, his forehead bonking against the cool glass. He was going to die of old age here. He'd be a skeleton at this window, still waiting.
Finally—finally—after what felt like a full-length movie, Sophie waved, gave a real smile, and turned to leave. Ace perked up like a meerkat.
Don't run. Walk casual. That's it. Good mom.
He watched, unmoving, as she walked down the sidewalk. He counted her steps. At the corner, she turned and disappeared.
The coast was clear. The world was his.
He moved with the grace of a startled cat. He yanked the window open. It protested with a screech that sounded like a dying animal.
Ace froze, half in, half out. He listened. Nothing but his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. Okay. Good. No one heard the window-of-doom.
He climbed out onto the porch roof. The sun was annoyingly cheerful. He crouched, and his ribs immediately sent a memo: "This is a terrible idea. We are injured. Cease and desist."
Ace ignored the memo. Going out the front was for amateurs. That was a straight shot to getting spotted by Mrs. Pell, who was definitely still watching from behind her curtains.
He crab-walked across the gritty shingles to the back edge of the roof. Below was the no-man's-land lot. It was basically a dirt rectangle where dreams of nice grass went to die. A ten-foot drop.
He peered over the edge. It looked… far. And hard. The few patches of grass looked as soft as concrete.
"It's fine," he muttered to himself. "Hunters do this stuff all the time. They jump off things. It's fine."
He took a deep, dramatic breath. It hurt. Of course it hurt.
Three… He pictured a heroic, tuck-and-roll landing.
Two… He braced himself, muscles tensing.
One! He pushed off.
The reality was less heroic.
The drop was a sudden, stomach-lurching fall, followed by a sound like a sack of wet laundry hitting the ground. Whump.
He didn't roll. He kind of… folded. The impact was a full-body slap from Mother Earth. All the air punched out of him in a loud "OOF!" Pain, bright and electric, shot from his ribs through his entire nervous system. For a second, he just saw colorful little stars dancing in the dirt.
He lay there, sprawled like a starfish, trying to remember how to breathe. The sky was very blue. A bird chirped somewhere, sounding judgmental.
Cool. Great. Awesome jump.
Wheezing, he pushed himself up. Dirt was now a primary component of his outfit. He got to his knees, then to his feet, swaying like a drunk. His side was a symphony of protest. He didn't even bother brushing off. He was one with the dirt now.
He listened. The world was silent, holding its breath. Even the lawnmower had stopped, probably out of second-hand embarrassment.
Okay. Go. Now. Before something else goes wrong.
He turned and broke into what he hoped was a confident, stealthy run. It was more of a pained, lurching hobble. He was a wounded gazelle heading for the fence-break, the gateway to the alley, to freedom, to—
"ACE!"
The voice was a kid's voice, loud, piercing, and full of way too much glee.
Ace's entire body locked up. His hopeful hobble turned into a mid-stride statue. That voice. That annoying, singsong, I've-got-a-secret voice. No. It couldn't be.
His heart didn't just sink. It performed a perfect Olympic dive into the pit of his stomach.
With the slow, doomed motion of a horror movie victim, he turned.
There, in the weedy corner where the big oak's shadow fell, was his cousin Darren. He was sitting in the dirt, a stick in his hand. He'd been drawing in the mud. Now, he was just grinning. A huge, gap-toothed, "I-caught-you" grin that took up his whole face.
He'd seen it all. The window screech. The weird crab-walk. The pathetic laundry-sack landing. The pained hobble.
Ace was so, so busted.