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“Now he’s here, doing…Lord only knows what. We honestly don’t know what he’s up to. And why he’s taken such an interest in you. Or why he’s masquerading as a psychiatrist. So that’s why I’m here, talking to you. Not because you’re our target—but because he is. We need to know what he’s up to. More importantly, we need to know where his phylactery is.”
“Phylactery?”
“The inanimate object in which a lich stores his soul. It could be anything. A rock, a lamp, a ring. Sometimes they bury it. Sometimes they hide it. Sometimes they keep it on their person. Sometimes it’s important to them, sometimes it’s not. It’s hard to predict.”
“And why do you want to know what it is? To destroy him?”
“Maybe.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe not. Still waiting on orders to that regard.”
“What do you mean?” Gripping the knife was making her hands go numb. She shifted her grip and took a step around the table to make sure there was furniture between her and Rinaldo. “Orders from who? Who do you work for?”
“In short? The Vatican. The long answer is a lot, lot more complicated than that.” He wrinkled his nose. “Let’s just leave it at that. I’m not sure if they want me to just find it, destroy it, or…steal it.”
“Steal it?”
“Steal the phylactery, and you can control the lich. If the phylactery is destroyed, then, well, so goes the lich’s power. They die. It’s perfect blackmail.”
“And…okay.” She shook her head. None of this is real. This is all nonsense. I’m tired, and I want to sleep. “This is stupid. Your two minutes are up. Get out.”
“Wait—just hear me out for one more second. Let me just finish, and then I’ll go. I promise.”
She glared at him.
Rinaldo fished his wallet out of his back pants pocket. Yes, he definitely had a gun strapped to his side. What kind of priest was he? She swallowed nervously at the sight of it but kept her grip tight on her knife. He opened his wallet and leafed through it. “We need your help. He’s fixated on you, and we don’t know why. If you can get close to him—if you can find his phylactery, figure out what it is and where he keeps it—then we can stop him.” He had a faint trace of an Italian accent. If he was from the Vatican, she supposed that made sense.
No. None of this is real. This is all the ramblings of a guy who the state just put up in this hellhole.
And owns a gun.
Massachusetts would definitely not let someone conceal carry who was also certifiably insane. Plenty of insane people never get certified. Plenty of insane people own guns.
Rinaldo placed a card on the other side of the table. It was white with a simple phone number in black ink printed across the front.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Call or text me if you find anything. If you figure anything out. Or if you need help. If he puts you in any kind of danger—if he threatens you, hurts you, or if you’re scared—I’ll get you out.”
“Why?”
He looked surprised at her question. “What?”
“Why would you help me?”
He blinked and seemed unsure how to respond. It was like she asked why up was up and down was down. “You’re…innocent. Whatever designs he has on you, whatever he’s already done to you, it’s—”
“Wait.” She waved her hand for him to stop. “Wait. What do you mean, whatever he’s already done to me? What are you talking about?”
“Ah. Uh. Right.” He tucked his wallet back into his back pocket. “Well…see…there’s a good chance…you’re…one of his…um…”
“One of his what?” She stepped around the table, anger snapping over her like someone had flicked the switch. “I’m not anybody’s anything. Do you understand me?” She lifted the knife toward him.
Despite the gun he was carrying, he jumped back and lifted his hands in defense again. “I get it—I really get it. It’s just that your—I looked you up. Your memory loss might not be your fault. It might be because he raised you from the—”
Dirt.
There was so much dirt.
Under her fingernails. In her mouth. In her eyes. She couldn’t see it. But she could smell it. Feel it. It was all around her. Inside her.
