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  Trevor had wondered for a long time if their kind would come to stop him and, if so, when. He had expected them after he had collected the toothless, old Sergej Dedov in Russia. He had expected them again after he’d collected wide-eyed Amelie Nay in France. But he’d flown from one country to the next, amassing an impressive set of ceramic dolls, and they hadn’t come. He had started to wonder if they ever would.

  Finally, they had. And why now? He knew the answer to that even as he took a step back from the doorway: because even for them, Brandon mattered more than the others.

  Trevor saw the boy on the fair side of the lawn, barefoot and in his pajamas, push open the wrought iron fence. He didn’t look back.

  “Leave him be,” said Anxo.

  Trevor retreated farther toward the stairs, glancing at the short swords Anxo and Simiel carried on their hips. He knew the swords had tasted blood. Lots of blood. These creatures could be vicious. But so could he.

  “You’re here under orders?” Trevor asked.

  They didn’t answer. Instead, Simiel warned, “Stop now.”

  “Let your true purpose guide you,” said Anxo.

  Trevor flushed with anger. True purpose. He had served loyally for long enough, and in serving had suffered. He would not suffer anymore. He would no longer sit by and watch those he loved freeze on city streets, starve in poverty-stricken villages, be jailed for crimes they didn’t commit, die from medical malpractice, have their hearts broken, and be pushed to suicide.

  There had been so many atrocities, and every one of them fueled him with hatred for his true purpose, for humankind, and for the brotherhood who had stood by through the centuries, unwilling to help.

  With Brandon treading down the street in his pajamas, putting more and more distance between them, Trevor opted to forego a lengthy discussion and strike first. He wanted to end this quickly. He wanted to get the boy back.

  He stepped forward, pushing Simiel aside while grabbing Anxo’s throat. As Simiel hit the wall and fell to his white, ethereal knees, Trevor used all his strength to squeeze the life out of Anxo.

  Gargling, silently and uselessly gasping for air, Anxo pried at Trevor’s hand while reaching for the sword on his waist, but Trevor was quicker. He yanked the sword from Anxo’s hip and spun it around in his palm, preparing for the impending attack from behind. Smokeless fire danced off the blade, its white flames as cold as ice.

  Anxo kicked the wall, writhing, arching his back in and out. He growled in frustration. He clawed at Trevor’s face and chest, but Trevor held firm.

  From behind, Simiel pulled his own sword. Back on his feet, he swung the blade up and around. Flames crackled, churning into the air. He brought his sword down hard, intending to kill, but Trevor deflected it with Anxo’s. Blade crashed into blade, knocking the sword from Trevor’s hand. It hit the floor, sliding along the polished wood.

  With his grip still firm on Anxo’s throat, Trevor looked at Simiel. The warrior’s eyes had turned misty with rage. Simiel was already winding up for another swing, one that would take off Trevor’s head if he didn’t act fast.

  Trevor had no choice but to let go of Anxo so he could dodge the sword coming toward him. He folded to his knees, arms cocked to the side for balance.

  The blade missed Trevor’s scalp by inches.

  Still recovering, Anxo took one long shrieking breath.

  Trevor came back up, right arm extended, fingers curled. As he did, he saw Simiel spinning the sword; he was preparing to drive the blade down through Trevor’s back. Halfway to a full stance, Trevor plunged his fist into the gut of the creature.

  As white, sticky fluid seeped along the edge of the wound, Simiel’s face contorted into an ugly, pained expression. All the strength left his arms. He dropped the sword and doubled over.

  Trevor grabbed hold of something soft and gooey and pulled with all his might. Whatever he ripped from the creature’s torso was invisible to his eyes. Even the fleshy weight of it faded to nothing as soon as it was removed from Simiel’s body. Simiel dropped to the floor in pain. With shimmering white arms wrapped around his stomach, the creature writhed, howled, hissed, and screamed.

  At the same time, Anxo attempted to retrieve his own sword. Before he could, Trevor again grabbed his throat, shoving him backward until he was pinned against the wall. This time Trevor wrapped both hands around Anxo’s neck.

  All of these horrors happened right beside the open front door, but his house was isolated at the end of a street nearly a quarter of a mile long. Even if somebody did see him, he would think Trevor was alone. The painful screams from the creature behind him and the gasping from the one in his grip could be heard—just as their bodies could be seen—by only a select few.

  Anxo pulled at Trevor’s arms, but he was getting weak. Dying. And without his sword or his comrade to save him, there was nothing he could do.

  After a minute or so, Anxo’s body went limp, but Trevor didn’t let go. Holding him upright by the throat, Trevor continued to choke the creature until he was sure he was dead. Then he tossed him to the side. Wispy white fumes trailed off Anxo’s torso as the universe reclaimed its fabric.

  Simiel was not yet dead, but he no longer hissed, screamed, or writhed. He lay curled up on the floor, staring at nothing.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Simiel whispered.

  But Trevor knew he did.

  BRANDON RAN AS FAST as he could. The road leading away from the bad man’s house was lined with tall fir trees, spaced evenly every fifteen feet, and undeveloped wilderness behind them. He hoped the house wasn’t as isolated as it had seemed from those upstairs bedroom windows.

  He hadn’t looked over his shoulder for a long time. He was sure that if he did, the bad man would prove to be right on his tail, already reaching his hand out to grab him. By now, though, he had run so far that he dared one quick glance. He was alone. But he didn’t slow down.

  Brandon considered ducking into the woods where he would be less exposed. However, one road always meets another. Before he could decide for certain if the woods would be safer, he saw an intersection.

  Across the street and to one side of it was a two-story gingerbread house. Painted blue with white trim, it looked warm and inviting, like the kind of house where good people lived. They had to be good people. They just had to.

  A little farther around the bend, he saw another house. This one a gray, modern structure, made of siding and sharp angels.

  Closer to the intersection, he saw more. They were all different types. If he were older, he’d have realized the architectural variations meant this neighborhood had come into being organically, one house at a time, and by different builders. But he was too young to recognize this and, considering his state of mind, probably wouldn’t have thought about it no matter how old he was.

  He ran faster, heading for the house closest to him. He didn’t understand why the bad man wasn’t behind him, but was sure he would be coming soon.

  He crossed the street and the gingerbread’s manicured front yard, then bound up the three wooden stairs to its wraparound porch. Huffing and puffing, he rang the doorbell. When no one answered, he rang it again, and then a third time. He only waited a few seconds between each ring. He was out of breath and terrified. He had to get inside before the bad man saw him.

  Finally, an old woman wearing a red housedress opened the door. She must be a hundred, Brandon thought—not in the malicious way some children might think it, but with a kind of awe that anyone could live so long.

  Her hair was pulled back in a bun and she had complemented her housedress with blue slippers and thick reading glasses.

  Upon seeing Brandon, she kneeled and removed her glasses, letting them dangle from a beaded chain around her neck. Looking into his worried eyes, she said, “Deary me, are you all right? What’s wrong?” Before he could answer, she waved her hand to beckon him forward and added, “Come in. Come in.”

  She led him into a living room decorated with s
eventies-style furniture. “Let me get you something to drink. Sit down over there. You look like you need some water.”

  After directing him to the couch, she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Brandon took a seat as he was told. When the woman returned with a glass of water and a small stack of Tollhouse chocolate chip cookies on a plate, she said, “I don’t bake, but I heat up a couple of these in the microwave for my grandkids whenever they come over and they just love them. You will, too, I bet.”

  Brandon thanked her for the snack, which he did indeed appreciate. He hadn’t eaten anything since the sandwich, and he’d been so hungry that it seemed to go straight though him. He was also thirsty from the run. Using both hands to hold the glass, he gulped down half the water. After a deep breath, he put the glass on the coffee table.

  “I made that myself,” she said, pointing to the large doily that covered most of the coffee table.

  With the plate of cookies in his lap, Brandon nodded.

  “Now tell me,” she continued, “what are you doing here in your pajamas all winded like that? Do your parents know where you are?”

  He shook his head.

  “What’s your name?”

  He told her.

  “Do you have a last name, Brandon?”

  He nodded.

  “What is it?”

  “Winslow.”

  Then it was her turn to nod, which she quickly followed with: “Right. How old are you, Mr. Winslow?”

  He wasn’t used to hearing himself called “Mr. Winsow,” but he kind of liked it. It made him feel mature. He wasn’t mature, though. He was still just a child, and he answered her in the way many children would, by holding up eight fingers.

  Facing them was an open doorway leading to a sunny room of indiscernible purpose. Brandon saw a man cross that room on the other side of the doorway. He must have been a hundred, too.

  “Who’s that?” he asked the woman.

  “Who’s who?” She tried to follow his line of sight and her gaze landed on a photograph that was on a bookshelf to the left of the doorway. It was a close-up of a smiling man in his forties. “That’s my husband.” She paused and corrected herself. “Was my husband. He died last year.”

  Brandon realized the man he’d seen was another ghost of a ghost. The run had exhausted him, weakening his ability to block them out. He strained his mind, flipping switches he couldn’t explain how to flip, until the ghost of a ghost disappeared.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Winsow. My name is Felicia Earnheart.” She put out her hand, which he awkwardly shook, and she smiled sweetly.

  “Now what are you doing out here? Sweetie, has somebody done something bad to you?”

  “I need to call my mom.”

  “Yes, of course. Let me get you the phone.” The one-hundred-year-old Felicia, who was really only eighty-one, stood again and left the room. She returned with a cordless handset.

  “Do you know your mom’s number?”

  He nodded. She had made him memorize it a long time ago, just in case he was ever in trouble. Surely the situation he was in now qualified.

  She gave him the phone. Everything about it looked big in his hands. He punched the numbers slowly, carefully.

  The phone rang.

  Someone answered.

  “Hello?... Is my mom there?... I got away from the bad man. I want my mom. Is she there?”

  There was a knock on the door. Felicia went to answer it, leaving Brandon in the living room.

  “Who is it?” she asked through the door.

  “I’m looking for my son. Is he in there?” said the voice on the other side.

  Felicia took a step closer to the door, planning to lock the deadbolt. Although the man outside could be Mr. Winslow, she didn’t want to take any chances. Brandon had been running from someone, and it was entirely possible it was his father he was running from.

  Before she could fully engage the lock, the door flung open, hitting her in the forehead and knocking her to the ground.

  Trevor stepped inside.

  Chapter 25

  ON THE NIGHT OF HER BIG DATE, Megan Bellows had left Brandon in the care of her friend, Sue Something-or-Other, who, according to Megan, had taken him to a movie.

  “Do you know where she is right now?” Sarah asked Megan, restrained anger in her voice.

  Crumpling into herself, Megan pointed down the hall. “Biology. Mr. Thompson’s class. Down there.”

  “Do you know what classroom that is?” Sarah asked the secretary.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Without saying goodbye to Megan, Sarah started down the hall. Jim fell in line as she passed him and the secretary scurried to catch up.

  Sue was able to recall the theater she took him to and the name of the movie they saw. The theater was the AMC 12 on Bradford Avenue, about five miles from Sarah’s house. It had been recently remodeled. The move was Inside Out. Sarah remembered Brandon had wanted to see that movie for a while and then, just when Sarah was about to take him, he didn’t, so they saw Minions instead. At the time, she’d attributed his waning interest to the natural ebb and flow of children’s interests. One day a kid might be all about Legos; the next day, they were for babies. She didn’t think much more about it.

  But having actually seen the movie was just as good a reason for him to lose interest, if not a better one. The only thing that really surprised her was that he’d kept the secret of seeing it to himself. It was probably a secret Sue asked him to keep, since she wasn’t supposed to be watching him in the first place. Yet, until now, Sarah didn’t think Brandon kept anything from her.

  She wondered in a passing way if there were any other secrets her son was hiding, but knew there’d be no more revealed in this conversation. What she learned instead was that Brandon had been a joy to watch. He was polite and well behaved and Sue couldn’t help but smile when she told Sarah that Brandon had offered to share his popcorn with the kid sitting next to him.

  Okay, Sue shouldn’t have been watching him, and Megan should have told her if she couldn’t do it, but Sue seemed like the kind of girl Sarah would have trusted to watch Brandon. She found herself a little less angry with Megan.

  Sarah thanked Sue for the information and was hopeful when she left the school that she’d gotten a step closer to locating her son. However, the theater turned out to be a dead end. The manager, a pretentious man in his forties with a thick mustache and a comb-over, admitted that they had security footage from the night in question, but would only release it to a police officer. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and said, “It’s policy.” An oversized display featuring a close-up of Tom Hanks loomed behind him.

  Bile turned in Sarah’s stomach. She was just as mad as Hammond had been when getting the same answer from the receptionist at the Sunshine Rooms. “Policy?” Sarah said. “Really? My son is missing and you’re going to tell me you won’t show me the footage because it’s policy?”

  The spacious lobby, decorated in various shades of red and gold, was empty except for the three of them and two teenagers milling about behind the concession stand. The theater had just opened. With no hot new release on the marquee, even the die-hard-gotta-see-it movie goers hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Ma’am,” said the theater manager, “might I ask why you haven’t gone to the police if your son is missing?”

  “You little shit!” Sarah screamed, closing the distance between them.

  The teenagers behind the concession stand stopped what they were doing to watch. One smirked and whispered something behind his hand to the other, who grinned in response. If Sarah had been paying attention to them, she would have suspected they were glad to see their boss getting his ass chewed out. Maybe he deserved it.

  “The police in this city are useless! What big secret do you think I’m going to see on your surveillance tapes?”

  Both teenagers snickered. Then, a woman, also in uniform, stepped out f
rom the ticket booth to see what was going on.

  “I’m just trying to find the man who took my son,” Sarah continued, unaware of all the eyes on her. “Is that all right with you?”

  “Sarah,” Jim said softly.

  “Ma’am, please calm down,” said the manager, hands out, the front strands from his comb-over falling across his forehead.

  “I am calm. And let’s see how calm you are when someone kidnaps your son.”

  “I don’t have a son, but—”

  “I don’t care if you have a son!”

  “But I’m sure if I did, I would go to the police.”

  At the same time, Jim saw the woman from the ticket booth cross to the concession stand. She had a short conversation with the teenagers that was too soft for him to hear. Both the ticket booth operator and the concession sales staff glanced in his direction. They were no longer amused. One of the teenagers gave the woman his cell phone and she dialed a number.

  Jim grabbed Sarah’s arm. “Come on. We have to go.”

  Her head whipped around. She was livid. “No, we have to see that tape,” she told him.

  Looking from her to the employee on the cell phone, he repeated himself. “We have to go now.”

  Then Sarah saw the woman on the cell.

  The woman saw her, too. She looked scared. She ended the call and passed the phone back to one of the guys behind the concession stand, but never took her eyes off Sarah.

  Sarah suddenly understood she had phoned security. She glanced back one last time at the manager just long enough to call him a piece of garbage before accompanying Jim out of the theater.

  Chapter 26

  “POLICY,” SARAH REPEATED TO JIM in a diner a mile down the road. “Can you believe that?”