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Endless options, endless wishes of pain upon another, had flashed through Adam’s imagination over the last few months, usually in the early morning hours in the time Cahill called “the shadows.”

He hated it, and he hated that this was within him, that White and Wilcox and their cult had put it there, right beside the warlock wound and his love for Vic.

This was what he hadn’t wanted to face, what he hadn’t wanted Vic to see.

Still shaking, but quickly cooling, Adam picked up the book. He didn’t think he sounded like himself when he said, “Let’s go home.”

14

Adam’s phone buzzed with a call from Jodi in the middle of his class. With a muttered apology to his professor he declined the call and texted her back.

In class. 911?

No. Just call me when you can.

Adam turned off his phone and called her as soon as he was outside the building. Students of all ages flowed around him, moving to and from the parking lot or heading for the bus stop.

“Me and Emily want to try something to help Cole,” Jodi said when she picked up.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, but we need at least three people. So bring your deck and meet us at the hospital.”

“It will take a bit. I’m walking to the bus stop now.”

“When are you getting a car?”

“When I can afford it.”

He could hear her eyeroll. She really should understand. Jodi was an elementary school teacher. It wasn’t like she was rolling in cash.

“Okay, text me when you’re on your way to the hospital, you loser.”

She hung up.

Adam shook his head.

Jodi remained Jodi. His cousin had come a long way but Adam sort of liked that she hadn’t changed too much, which she constantly proved by still being able to get under his skin without even trying.

Vic had a dinner shift at the kitchen, which left Adam free to hit the apartment just long enough to grab his tarot deck.

He paused at the front door. Vic wasn’t home. Someone could be in there. Wilcox could screw with them anytime he wanted. He’d made that clear.

Adam wished he had the sword. It would come if he called it, he knew, but he did not want to risk angering the king.

When he pictured it he did not see White, but Ian, the version of him that he’d killed in the Between—lying at Adam’s feet, the blade driven into his chest, blood pooling on that hard, blue-gray sand as he gasped, his lungs trying to catch the too-thin air.

Adam had knelt, taken off the mask, his hand still on the hilt.

The face beneath it was older than his, far older. He looked a lot like Bobby, though more gray streaked his hair and beard. He had a lot of scars. His time in that gray, dead place had not treated him well. Adam hadn’t smelled much beyond the blood.

“I didn’t . . . think you had it in you.” Ian coughed, and red flowed from his mouth.

“I didn’t either.”

Hand shaking, Adam forced himself back to the moment. He unlocked the door.

Spider lifted his head from where he sat in his fort.