She shook her head, just about ready to stuff a honey bun into her mouth. “No, I’m going with you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I figure two heads are better than one when it comes to this Fritz guy,” she explained, shrugging as she wiped glaze from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I told you this is too dangerous,” John said.
“Yeah, and I listened for about three minutes before I realized that you’re wrong, and I need to be part of your crew.”
“My crew?”
“Yeah, y’know like the Ghostbusters or whatever the fuck they’re called.”
“The show was Ghost Chasers,” he told her.
“Yeah, I want to be one of them,” she said.
He looked at her hard, his eyes unflinching. “They’re all dead.”
She stopped, stared, then continued. “Then I’ll be your newest recruit,” she said.
“No.” He shook his head. “No, you can’t.”
“Are you going to deny your only daughter?” Nicole asked, walking away toward a nearby table.
“The potential for danger is . . .” John continued as he followed her.
“Very high,” she interrupted. “I know. Sit,” she commanded.
For some reason, he listened, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
“See, you got to look at this from my perspective,” she said, picking up a mini cheese Danish and shoving the whole thing into her mouth. “I’m going to find Fritz no matter what, so we might as well pool our resources and . . .”
John shook his head again. “Absolutely not,” he said.
Her eyes grew hard. “You’re bein’ a jerk,” she said.
“And you’re not listening,” John snapped. “Things in the world . . . they’re changing, and not for the better.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Nicole said. “I’ve spent more than a few nights on the street, and . . .”
“That’s not what I mean,” John said. “The incursion of demonic entities into the world is on the rise, and I . . . we believe that this is just part of a much larger problem.”
“We?” Nicole asked.
“Me, my wife, and the organization that we work with.”
“Who’s that?” Nicole asked. “Maybe I should give them a call.”
“It’s just too dangerous,” John said, finishing his coffee and rising from his seat. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes were fixed on him. He didn’t like what he saw in them nor the way her mouth had curled up in a sneer.
“You’re sorry?” she asked, her voice as cold as the breeze that began to move about John.
And then all hell broke loose in the dining room. It was as if someone had placed an industrial fan in the center of the room and set it on high. Place settings began to blow off the tables, and people began to cry out as they slapped at their necks and arms.
“Stop it,” John said to her.
“Stop what?” she asked, feigning innocence as she nibbled on a blueberry muffin. “I’m not doing a thing.”
“You’re acting like a child.”
“And you’re treating me like one,” Nicole retorted angrily, although things in the room began to settle down. “I’m not a little kid, John Fogg, television superstar, and I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.” She reached up to her neck, absently petting something that John couldn’t see. “I’m going to find this guy sooner or later,” she continued quietly. “With you or without you. But I figure if we do it together, we can get this problem straightened out all the sooner, then I can be on my way.”
Guests were wandering about the dining room, looking stunned, while waitstaff rushed to clean up the mess. John watched for a few minutes, struggling to control his temper.
“I don’t respond well to blackmail,” he finally said, his voice tight.
“And I didn’t mean for my little show to come across as that.”
“Oh really? What did you mean by it then?”
“I wanted to show you,” she said. “You keep talking about how dangerous this is. I just wanted to prove to you that I can take care of myself.”
Without another word, John turned and began to walk away.
“Hey, Ghost Buster? Where are you going?” she called after him.
“There’s a car waiting outside,” he said over his shoulder. “For both of us.”
“Both of us?” she asked, cramming more food into her mouth as she jumped up from her chair to follow.
“Yeah,” John said. “And don’t ever call me Ghost Buster.”
6
Brenna had never allowed herself to think about how much she missed her husband—until now.
And that acknowledgment made her furious.
How long had it been? Two years? Probably closer to three. He’d just upped and disappeared one afternoon while she’d been out seeing the grief counselor he’d refused to meet. Craig had been determined that sorrow was best dealt with alone, which is exactly what he did when he’d left her in the most vulnerable time of her life.
It was early morning, and she’d tossed and turned for most of the night, making it impossible for her to see her son and tell him about his father. And that made her angry as well.
With a sigh, Brenna threw back the covers and shuffled from her bedroom to the kitchen, the shroud formed by lack of sleep wrapped tightly about her head. She needed coffee—strong and black.
It was how Craig was drinking it last night.
She set up a pot of coffee to brew and leaned on the counter waiting.
To say she’d been shocked to see her husband yesterday was an understatement. They’d ended up going to the bar in a nearby hotel, and as they took seats across from one another at a small table in the corner, she’d let him have it with both barrels.
He’d been smiling, but he wasn’t when she finished.
He had no right to smile at her.
Brenna poured herself a cup of strong-smelling coffee, rocket fuel, and allowed herself a small smile as she remembered the nervous, almost frightened look on Craig’s face.
“You have every right to be pissed at me,” he’d said, avoiding her eyes. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d refused to even speak with me, never mind coming here.”
“So what’s this all about?” she’d demanded. “Is this going to be some sort of half-assed attempt to say you’re sorry for walking out on me . . . for walking out on our marriage during the hardest days of our lives?”
“I know I fucked up,” was all he’d said.
Her anger had been nearly overwhelming then. She remembered the feel of her heart racing, the blood thrumming through her veins as her pulse pounded in her ears. Thankfully, the waiter arrived at that point to take their drink order. She’d ordered a glass of cabernet although, if truth be told, she’d been tempted to order a whole bottle. Craig had ordered coffee—strong and black.
Brenna topped off her coffee and went to sit on the couch.
“You most certainly did fuck up,” she’d snarled at him, unable to hold back the anger and hurt that had pooled deeply inside her since he’d left. She was tempted to get up and leave him, as alone as she’d been these last few years. But something that she still didn’t quite understand had kept her there.
She’d glared at him for a few minutes, then asked, “Where did you go?”
Craig had shrugged. “Everywhere . . . nowhere. I was looking to escape . . . to get away from my thoughts . . . my guilt . . . the sadness.”
She slowly shook her head. “There’s no escaping that. It’s always going to be with you.”
“Now you tell me,” he said, and laughed sadly. There were tears in his eyes.
The waiter returned with their drinks, and they’d spent some time in silence, each pretending
to be absorbed by the beverages.
“What I wouldn’t give for one of those,” Craig had finally said, motioning toward the wine with his chin as he picked up his coffee and took a sip.
“Oh?” she’d questioned.
“In the beginning, right after I left, I spent a little too much time at the bottom of a bottle. It took me awhile to finally realize I had a decision to make, either come up for air, or not.”
“And air won?”
“Eventually, but not before I hit rock bottom pretty hard.”
Brenna sipped her coffee now as she’d sipped her wine then while waiting for him to continue. She remembered his hands shaking as he’d drunk his own coffee and felt a tinge of sympathy for him. But it wasn’t enough to forgive him.
“It took me a long time to pull it all together,” he’d finally continued. “I actually saw some people who helped me.”
She’d been shocked by that statement, remembered thinking that maybe there was some small hope for him.
But then she thought of Ronan.
Their son had barely been mentioned the night before, and that bothered Brenna. She wondered what this new Craig would have said if she’d told him about her nightly visits with their boy. How she and Ronan spent just about every night together in a strange dreamworld.
She knew the idea was nuts, but so was traveling to another dimension to rescue kids from a psychopath who was planning to use them as sacrifices to an ancient god—yet she’d done just that not too long ago.
She leaned forward and turned on her laptop as she tried to decide how she really felt about reconnecting with her ex last night.
He’d said up front that he wasn’t there to rekindle their love or their relationship, that he had only come to apologize for having been so weak and selfish, for having abandoned her when she’d needed him most. His apology had seemed genuine, and she’d had to consciously stomp on a trickle of compassion that tried to seep to the surface of her emotions.
She’d asked what his plans were, but he’d just shrugged, saying simply that he wanted to make sure she had forgiven him before moving on with his life—whatever that might be. Brenna had tried to be civil as she’d told him it would be a long time before the glacier of her anger could even begin to melt, allowing the forgiveness to flow.
He’d laughed at her analogy but admitted that he still had a lot of work to do.
She stared at her computer screen, not really seeing it as she tried to decide how she felt about the previous evening’s encounter. A tiny part of her felt a certain satisfaction that Craig had returned, but the larger part resented it. He had given up his place in her life . . . in her heart . . . and now here he was attempting to force his way into that space once again.
How could she have ever agreed to have dinner with him later in the week? Disgusted with herself, she was about to open her e-mails when her phone began to ring. Grabbing the device, she saw the number and answered immediately.
“Isabel,” she said.
“Brenna, it’s Elijah,” the leader of the Coalition said.
“What’s up?” she asked, knowing that the strange old man didn’t call unless . . .
“There’s a situation unfolding at a school in Waukegan, Illinois. It will require your attention.”
“Tell me about it.” She set her computer down and went to the kitchen counter, where a notepad waited.
“It’s been reported as a hostage situation,” Elijah said.
“But you don’t believe it is.”
“No, I do not. A child managed to escape the building, and is saying that his classmates turned into monsters during Show and Tell.”
“Okay,” Brenna said slowly. “What do you think?”
“Not too long after the child told his story, the body of a teacher was hurled through a fourth-floor window. His throat had been torn out, and there were multiple bite marks on his body.
“I think the child is telling the truth.”
• • •
“Raisin Bran,” Theo said, pulling the old box of cereal from the cabinet and showing it to the little girl.
The child sitting at the kitchen island scrutinized the box and scrunched up her face. “Nothin’ else?” she asked.
Theo shook her head. “Nothing else, I’m afraid.”
“No Sugar Smacks or Capt’n Crunch?”
“What part of ‘nothing’ didn’t you understand?” Theo asked the child.
“I know, but I don’t like this kind,” Cassie said, grabbing the box and studying it closely. “There’re no prizes,” she pointed out with a pout.
“How about the prize of a well-balanced breakfast?” Stephen suggested as he breezed into the kitchen, carrying two cups from Starbucks. He handed one to Theo.
“Bless you,” Theo said, peeling off the lid and taking a careful sip of the strong, hot liquid.
“I don’t want a well-balanced breakfast,” Cassie said. “I want Fruit Loops.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place!” Stephen exclaimed. The phone had already begun to ring in his office, and he danced off to get it.
“He’s crazy,” Cassie said with a laugh as she watched him go.
“We all are a little around here,” Theo said, picking up the Raisin Bran and giving the box a shake. “Raisin Bran or eggs?”
“Scrambled?” Cassie asked, her eyes lighting up.
“I think I can manage that,” Theo said, going toward the fridge.
“Did I hear somebody mention scrambled eggs?” Griffin Royce walked into the kitchen, immediately going to his daughter and giving her a loving kiss on the cheek.
“Good morning, Mr. Royce,” Theo said, bringing the carton of eggs from the fridge to the stove. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine, Ms. Knight,” the man said.
“Theo,” she corrected him.
“All right, fine, Theo,” he said, pulling his daughter in for a hug. “Hopefully, this monkey hasn’t disturbed you in any way. I woke up to find she’d already escaped.”
“No worries,” Theo said as she cracked multiple eggs into a stainless-steel bowl. “I was already up and about when Cassie came downstairs. I don’t usually sleep well when John is out of town.”
“And when will the wayward John return?” Griffin asked.
“I haven’t talked to him yet today, but I believe sometime this afternoon if I’m not mistaken.”
“Theo.” Stephen poked his head into the kitchen, his tone serious as he interrupted their conversation. “It’s Brenna Isabel,” he said, holding the cordless phone out to Theo.
“Could you?” Theo asked Stephen. She pointed toward the bowl with the half-prepared eggs as she took the phone from her friend and assistant.
He made a face but picked up the whisk to continue where she’d left off.
“Brenna,” Theo said into the phone.
“We have a situation,” the Coalition’s FBI liaison said without preamble. “Elementary school in Waukegan, Illinois. It could be an infestation, at least one death that we know of so far.”
Theo felt a jolt of ice in her veins, agitating the things inside her. She made eye contact with Griffin and pointed to the small television set hanging on the wall over the breakfast counter.
The man grabbed the remote and pushed the power button, bringing the screen to life. One of the news channels was on, and Theo found what she was looking for.
“It’s on the television,” she said to Brenna.
“Shit,” Brenna cursed. “Was hoping to keep a lid on it. So much for that.”
“Anything else that you could tell me that might prove useful?” Theo asked, half listening to the call and half listening to the newscasters as they talked about the situation at the Waukegan elementary school. From the sounds of it, they believed an armed intruder had taken hostages.
“Not yet, on my way to the scene. Just landed at the airport. I’ve sent a car to the house to take you to Logan, where a private jet is waiting to . . .”
“That’ll take hours,” Theo said. “We’re talking about children here.”
Theo’s eyes went to Cassie, who was watching her nervously, gnawing on the fingernail of her right little finger.
“It’s the fastest way,” Brenna said. “We’ll have Coalition agents here to help with the scene until you can get here.”
“It’ll be too late,” Theo said, feeling the markings upon her flesh starting to crawl, to counter the activity of the demonic inside of her.
“I’m sorry,” Brenna said. “If there was another way then I . . .”
“There is another way,” Theo said, an icy fist closing on her chest. “We’ll be there soon.” She hung up before Brenna could argue.
Knowing what she had to do.
“So I’m guessing this isn’t a hostage situation,” Stephen said, placing a plate of scrambled eggs and a fork in front of the little girl.
“No, it isn’t,” Theo acknowledged.
“Are we going?” Griffin asked.
Theo nodded. “Yeah, as soon as possible.”
“Can I go?” Cassie asked, digging into her eggs.
“No,” her father said. “Eat your eggs.”
Theo could see the beginnings of an argument brewing. “I was hoping you would stay here and help Stephen today,” she said to the girl. “He’s very behind in his work, and I think you are the perfect assistant for him.”
The child looked at Stephen.
“I really could use your help today,” he said earnestly.
“Oh, all right,” Cassie said, going back to her breakfast.
“I’ll get my things,” Griffin said, setting his coffee mug down and leaving the room.
Theo looked at her arms and saw that the marks were moving.
“Why are they moving?” Cassie asked, very seriously.
“Because the bad things inside of me are . . . excited.”
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