“Tell me what?” Her voice rose several octaves. She could feel herself becoming hysterical. “It couldn’t have been Nate. Adya said the boy in her head was dead for weeks. Nate’s been perfectly fine all semester.”
“Lane,” Adya said, in a voice that was disconcertingly tender. “Nate’s mother filed a missing person’s report back in June.”
“He’s been missing for almost five months,” Mackenzie said. “Whatever you’ve been spending time with in the Sanctum, it isn’t Nate Schiller.”
Colton Price didn’t answer the phone on the first try. Or the second. Or the third.
The Apostle stood stewing in his kitchen, overheating in his robe. He stood in the dark, listening to the kettle rattle on the stove. The only source of light came from the little blue nucleus beneath the burner. He stared into its depths and wished for a time when his kitchen didn’t smell like rot.
“Do we think,” sang the voice in the dark, “he is playing by the rules?”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” said the Apostle, holding tight to his mug. He’d already broken two this evening. One in a rage, when Price continued to ignore his calls. One in a fright, when his infernal haunt spoke directly at his ear. He didn’t want to try for a third. Shards of porcelain lay scattered across the wide stone tile. The mugs had been a wedding present, a thousand lifetimes ago. Breaking them felt like breaking a promise to his wife.
“Who else will you talk to, darling Dickie?” crooned the voice. “There is you and there is me and there is we.”
On the stove, the kettle began to whistle. In his pocket, his phone began to ring. He pried it loose, moving the whistling teapot to an unused burner to cool. Somewhere behind him, the nightmare thing dragged a finger along his wife’s crystal stemware, hung from the broad buffet. Glass clink, clink, clinked together like a tuning fork struck against a surface.
“I wish you would stop that,” the Apostle said, pressing the phone to his ear.
“I haven’t even done anything,” complained Colton Price.
“Not you.” He moved the phone from one ear to the other, irate, and pressed two fingers to the pulse in his neck. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all night.”
Price didn’t apologize. “I’ve been busy.”
The Apostle pinched the bridge of his nose until he saw spots. “I need you in Chicago tomorrow.”
Price popped his lips. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
“I’ve got plans this weekend.”
“Cancel them.”
The pause on the other end was infuriatingly pronounced. In the interim, some of his wife’s glassware shattered against the floor. Finally, Price said, “Does this have anything to do with Nate Schiller’s unscheduled resurrection?”
“It has everything to do with him. Schiller’s utter lack of discretion throughout this entire process has been abhorrent.”
“I don’t get the impression he electively respawned in the middle of a public park.”
The Apostle chose to continue as though Price hadn’t spoken at all. “His is quite possibly the first success we’ve had. I want you in Chicago when he wakes up.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” Colton said, and the Apostle nearly smashed his third mug of the evening.
Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “He should be in our custody. We have no idea what state he’ll be in when he wakes. He could be incognizant. He could be violent. I need someone there to make sure things don’t get any further out of hand.”
“All right.” Price let out a whistle. “All right, calm down. I’ll go to Chicago. The Cubs are playing the Sox this Sunday anyway. I’d love to see them get their asses handed to them on the home field.”
“Excellent,” the Apostle said, and he meant it, though it came out through gritted teeth. “I’ve already booked your flight on my charter. Be at Logan’s at six a.m. tomorrow for check-in. And Price?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m certain I don’t need to tell you that you do this alone.”
A pause followed. Then, “Understood.”
The line went dead. He was left to the silence of his kitchen, his mug empty and his kettle cooling and the smell of death at his back.
