Carlos

Sergeant Nguyen drives me to John's place in sullen silence, clearly not pleased with being cast in the role of babysitter and chauffeur. When we arrive and I get out, grabbing the plastic grocery bag holding my belongings from the back seat, he finally speaks.

"You sure you'll be okay alone? I got chewed out enough for letting you out of my sight once already."

"I'll be fine," I say, patting the top of the car with my good arm. "This place has state-of-the-art security. And have you seen John's dogs? Those things are massive."

"If you say so." Nguyen gazes past me and looks up at the house. "Honestly, I didn't think Turner was the type."

"The type to own dogs?" I ask, carefully modulating my tone between a clueless 'whatever do you mean?' and a warning along the lines of 'go ahead and say something homophobic, you fucker, I dare you.'

If any of that comes across, Nguyen shows no sign, and instead says something that surprises me.

"No, the type to let a stranger live in his home. He's civil enough at work, but real cagey outside of it. When he moved here, a bunch of us offered to help him unpack, get settled, all that shit. He blew us off. Never hangs out with anyone after hours, never accepts invites to parties. I get wanting to keep your work and personal lives separate, but my mom would say people like that have something to hide. Plus, there's all the rumors about him."

"What rumors?" Drawn by the promise of gossip, I lean down and peer at him through the open door.

Nguyen shrugs. "You know how it is. Somebody knew somebody who knew somebody at his old precinct. Anyway, word is Turner's a good cop — on paper. No complaints against him, no use of excessive force, no dirt. On the other hand, perps who got away, the ones who were guilty as sin and slippery as fish, had a tendency to turn up dead on his watch. He's got vigilante vibes. That's the rumor, anyway."

I frown. "So, all you have is pure speculation."

"Yeah; but if there's any truth to it, you should be careful. Guys like that have something to hide, and guys with something to hide are dangerous."

"Thanks for the warning," I say, straightening. "But I think I'll take my chances."

He nods at the fresh cast on my arm and the brace on my neck. "Good luck with that."

I shut the door and walk up the path to the house. He waits until I've let myself in, nearly getting knocked off my feet by Rick and Morty's enthusiastic greeting, and given him the thumbs up before he drives away.

Inside, I re-arm the security system, climb the stairs to my room, and collapse on the bed, exhausted from my ordeal. Briefly, I consider locking the door, but then the dogs leap on the bed and curl up with me, and my anxiety subsides.

I didn't expect I'd see Kyle any time soon. He'd used a massive amount of energy to push me, and it would take time to build up his energy again.

Besides, as I'd told John, I didn't get the sense he'd wanted to hurt me. He'd wanted me to get out his aunt's house for my own good.

That other thing Kyle said, though — that, somehow, this was all happening because of me — gave me pause. He had to mean the Ritual of the Feasts, which meant the connection wasn't to me, specifically, but to my family: to Aunt Toni and my mother, from whom I'd inherited my talent for getting possessed, and maybe even further back.

My grandmother, Aunt Toni once told me, was a fierce warrior, la cazademonios, "the demon hunter," who had personally taken a demon to hell; a journey from which she had never returned. If anyone had dealt with something like the Feasts, it would have been her.

I needed to talk to her — to Aunt Toni, that is — and find out what she knows. If I could only get her to call me back.

Rousing myself, I push Rick off me and dig my phone out of the plastic bag of my belongings. I hadn't called my aunt from the hospital because I intended to tell her everything, and I was worried if the nurses or doctors overheard me talking about ghosts and demons and ritual sacrifice they might rethink their decision to let me go, and send me to a different sort of hospital, instead.

There were things I didn't want John overhearing, either. He seemed to accept what I'd told him about Kyle, but as for the rest, he remained a skeptic, as far as I could tell.

As for what Nguyen had told me... Well, dogs are good judges of character, right? John's dogs love him. More importantly, they're sweet-tempered. In my experience, cruel and violent people seldom raise gentle, sweet-tempered dogs.

Then again, he was almost like a different person at home than when we were working; maybe there was a side of him even they haven't seen.

~ ★ ~

Once again, Toni doesn't pick up, but this time I make it clear that I'm not calling out of guilt, or to say I'm sorry, or to ask a favor. This time, I talk until I get cut off, having reached the time limit for leaving a message. Then I text her, and send her an email for good measure. There's no way she can ignore me now.

Finally, I give in to the exhaustion pulling my eyelids shut, and fall asleep.

When I wake up, the dogs are gone, my room is dark, my mouth is dry, and I'm starving. A glance at my phone tells me two things: I slept for six hours, and Toni hasn't called me back.

Rising, I make my way to the bathroom and relieve myself, then frown at my reflection as I wash my hands. I look like I've seen better days, which is true.

Unstrapping the neck brace, which is already itching and which I really don't need, I take it off, wrap my cast in the plastic bag the hospital gave me, and take a one-handed shower.

It's a lot less fun than the last shower I had, but I feel and look better afterwards. When I go to get dressed, however, I realize I'm out of clean clothes.

I don't want to put the funeral suit back on, and the clothes I wore to the park are covered in mud. The only other set I brought with me is in the wash.

I'll ask if I can borrow something of John's, I think; his clothes won't fit me, but I just need something to wear until I finish the laundry.

At the top of the stairs, I pause at the sound of voices downstairs: one low and male, one light and female. The male voice belongs to John, but I don't recognize the other.

Sighing, I retreat. I'm only wearing a towel, and if John didn't want me wandering around in my underwear, I doubted he'd appreciate the fresh-from-his-shower look. I'll just grab the clothes and hope he doesn't mind. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, as they say.

I'm across the hall and in front of his door before I remember his other warning.

"This is my room. You can go anywhere in the house, except in there."

But that was before, I reason: before he knew me better, before he admitted his attraction, and before he fucked me. Surely, he wouldn't mind now. Would he?

I rest my hand on the doorknob and my heart speeds up, as if I'm about to do something risky, like sky dive, or speak in front of a crowd.

I just want a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, I tell myself. I'm not gonna rifle through his porn, or whatever he's got in here.

Twisting the knob, I'm relieved to find it unlocked. If he really wanted to keep me out, he'd have locked it. Right?

Pushing the door open, I step through and turn on the light.

It's a normal-looking room, overall, though larger than I expected. His bed, draped in a dark-gray cover, stands against one wall, a desk and bookshelves occupy the other, with a good ten feet of open space between. To the left of the desk is another door, which I assume leads to a closet. I head for this when something on the desk catches my eye.

A folder lies open, the papers within spread about as if John had been interrupted while in the middle of looking at them, but what snares my attention is a photograph.

Picking it up with a trembling hand, I examine it more closely, trying to convince myself I'm wrong, but there's no mistake.

I've seen the picture before. It's the one Aunt Toni gave to the police when my mom disappeared. She smiles at me from the faded photo paper, as does the boy in her arms.

Me.

I flip the photo over and look at the back. It's the original, dated almost exactly twenty years ago, the day I turned seven. She'd taken me to the beach.

Dropping it like a hot match, I scan the scattered papers: everything there was to know about my mom and her case is right here. Aunt Toni always said the police had barely bothered to look for her, but this says otherwise. If the case went cold, it wasn't for lack of effort.

But why the fuck was John Turner looking into it now, and why wouldn't he have told me if he already knew there was some connection to the current case?

Confused, and beginning to feel a little angry, I open the closet, intending to grab some clothes, head downstairs and confront John face to face, when I freeze.

It's not a closet. It's a supernatural armory.

Boxes and chests, all sealed with protective symbols, are stacked along the floor. Rare books of occult lore line one wall. Bottles of blessed water and sacred salts, herbs, crystals, and strange instruments line the other. Weapons cover the back wall — ritual daggers, blades short and long, several swords, and even a couple of crossbows.

John didn't believe in the 'supernatural shit?'

That was bullshit.

What else was a lie?

I back out of the room, clutching my towel, with the beginnings of panic fluttering little wings in my chest.

Maybe this is what Kyle meant by get out.

I need to get out of here, get in my truck, and get to Aunt Toni.

Racing for the door, I crack it open and peek down the hall towards the stairs. It's empty and quiet. I step through and cross to my own door, open it, and find myself face to face with John.

Unable to conceal my surprise and alarm, I back away and bump into the wall. He looks past me towards his room and his expression shifts.

"I told you not to go in there."

"John, I—"

A woman's voice interrupts me. "John? Where did you... Oh. So this is what you've been hiding."

I turn my head carefully and see a well-dressed woman standing at the end of the hall, hands on her hips.

John rubs his forehead and sighs. "Becky, I told you to wait downstairs."

"You know I'm not good at listening." She looks me up and down and arches a brow. "Huh. I was expecting a naked woman — maybe even two — but this is a surprise."

I swallow. "John is full of surprises."

I look back at him, and there's no mistaking it for a trick of the light when his eyes change color this time, from green-brown to green and golden-orange.

For one thing, they're glowing.