The interior of the place is nice. Hardwood floors and thick-carpeted rugs. The banister leading upstairs looks like it’s been treated with wood polish every day since it was carved. There is original art on the walls, and not the weird modern kind either—you know, the kind where some skinny bastard in New York declares some other skinny bastard a genius because he paints “really fierce red squares.” This art is classic, French-inspired shore-scapes and small, shadowed portraits of women in delicate lace dresses. My eyes would normally spend more time here. Gideon schooled me in art appreciation at the V&A in London.

Instead, I whisper to Thomas, “Let’s just get my knife and get out.”

I lead the way up the stairs and turn left at the top, toward the room with the drawn curtains. It occurs to me that I could be completely wrong. It might not be a bedroom at all. It might be storage, or a game room, or some other room that would conceivably have its curtains shut. But there’s no time for that now. I’m in front of the closed door.

The handle turns easily when I try it and the door swings partially open. Inside is too dark to see well, but I can make out the shape of a bed and, I think, a dresser. The room is empty. Thomas and I slide in like old pros. So far, so good. I pick my way toward the center of the room. My eyes blink to activate better night vision.

“Maybe we should try to turn on a lamp or something,” Thomas whispers.

“Maybe,” I reply absently. I’m not really paying attention. I can see a little bit better now, and what I’m seeing, I don’t like.

The drawers of the dresser are standing open. There are clothes spilling out of the tops, like they’ve been rifled through in a hurry. Even the placement of the bed looks strange. It’s sitting at an angle toward the wall. It’s been moved.

Turning in a circle, I see that the closet door is thrown open, and a poster near it is half torn down.

“Someone’s been here already,” Thomas says, dropping the whisper.

I realize that I’m sweating and wipe at my forehead with the back of my glove. It doesn’t make sense. Who would have been here already? Maybe Will had other enemies. That’s a hell of a coincidence, but then, coincidences seem to be going around.

In the dark, I sort of see something next to the poster, something on the wall. It looks like writing. I step closer to it and my foot strikes something on the floor with a familiar thump. I know what it is even before I tell Thomas to turn on the light. When the brightness floods the room, I’ve already started backing out, and we see what we’ve been standing in the middle of.

They’re both dead. The thing that my foot struck was Chase’s thigh—or what’s left of it—and what I thought was writing on the wall is actually long, thick sprays of blood. Dark, arterial blood in looping arcs. Thomas has grabbed my shirt from behind and is making this panicky gasping sound. I pull gently free. My head feels disconnected and clinical. The instinct to investigate is stronger than the urge to run.

Will’s body is behind the bed. He’s lying on his back and his eyes are open. One of the eyes is red, and I think at first that all the vessels have popped, but it’s only red from a blood splash. The room around them is demolished. The sheets and blankets are torn off and are lying in a heap by Will’s arm. He’s still wearing what I assume were his pajamas, just a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt. Chase was dressed. I’m thinking these things like a CSI person might, ordering them and making note of them, to keep myself from thinking about what I noticed the moment the lights came on.

The wounds. There are wounds on both of them: bright, red, and still seeping. Large, ragged crescents of missing muscle and bone. I would know these wounds anywhere, even though I’ve only seen them in my imagination. They’re bite marks.

Something ate them.

Just like it ate my father.

“Cas!” Thomas shouts, and from the tone of his voice I know he’s said my name a few times already and gotten no response. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

My legs are rooted. I can’t seem to do anything, but then he’s got me around the chest, holding my arms down and dragging me out. It isn’t until he flicks the light off and the scene in the room goes black that I shake him off and start to run.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“What do we do?”

That’s what Thomas keeps asking. Carmel has called twice, but I keep ignoring it. What do we do? I have no idea. I’m just sitting quietly in the passenger seat while Thomas drives nowhere in particular. This must be what catatonia feels like. There are no panicked thoughts running through my head. I’m not making plans or evaluating. There is only a gentle, rhythmic repetition. It is here. It is here.

One of my ears picks up Thomas’s voice. He’s on the phone to someone, explaining what we found. It must be Carmel. She must’ve given up on me and tried him, knowing she’d get an answer.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I think he’s freaking out. I think he might have lost it.”

My face twitches like it wants to react and rise to the challenge, but it’s sluggish, like coming off of Novocain at the dentist. Thoughts drip into my brain slowly. Will and Chase are dead. The thing that ate my father. Thomas is driving to nowhere.

None of the thoughts run into each other. None of them make much sense. But at least I’m not scared. Then the faucet drips faster, and Thomas shouts my name and hits me in the arm, effectively turning the water back on.

“Take me to Anna’s,” I say. He’s relieved. At least I’ve said something. At least I’ve made some kind of decision, some executive order.

“We’re going to do it,” I hear him say into the phone. “Yeah. We’re going there now. Meet us there. Don’t go in if we’re not there first!”

He’s misunderstood. How can I explain? He doesn’t know how my father died. He doesn’t know what this means—that it has finally caught up with me. It has managed to find me, now, when I’m practically defenseless. And I didn’t even know it was looking. I could almost smile. Fate is playing a practical joke.

Miles go past in a blur. Thomas is chattering encouraging things. He peels into Anna’s driveway and gets out. My door opens a few seconds later and he hauls me out by the arm.

“Come on, Cas,” he says. I look up at him gravely. “Are you ready?” he asks. “What are you going to do?”

I don’t know what to say. The state of shock is losing its charm. I want my brain back. Can’t it just shake itself off like a dog already and get back to work?

Our feet crunch up the cold gravel. My breath is visible in a bright little cloud. To my right, Thomas’s little clouds are showing up much faster, in nervous huffs.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Man, I’ve never seen anything like that before. I can’t believe that she— That was—” He stops and bends over. He’s remembering, and if he remembers too hard, or too well, he might throw up. I reach an arm out to steady him.

“Maybe we should wait for Carmel,” he says. Then he pulls me back.

Anna’s door has opened. She’s coming out onto the porch, softly, like a doe. I look at her spring dress. She makes no move to wrap herself up, though the wind must be moving across her like sharp sheets of ice. Her bare, dead shoulders can’t feel it.

“Do you have it?” she asks. “Did you find it?”

“Do you have what?” Thomas whispers. “What’s she talking about?”

I shake my head as a reply to them both, and walk up the porch steps. I go right past her, into the house, and she follows.

“Cas,” she says. “What’s wrong?” Her fingers brush my arm.

“Back off, sister!” Thomas squeaks. He actually shoves her and gets in between us. He’s doing this ridiculous little sign-of-the-cross thing with his fingers, but I don’t fault him for it. He’s freaked. So am I.