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Motes bounced around, frazzled by the pulsing scar but unable to fix it. Were they larger in here?

I held out my hand, expecting one to pass through it as they had with Victor outside. Instead, it landed in my palm, the size of a softball, and hummed, sending a gentle wave of warmth through me. I gasped as a second joined it, then a half dozen more, crowding in as if they all wanted to touch me, or be close to me.

“Angel?” Victor’s voice was sharp with worry.

My breath caught in horror as I realized what I was seeing.

The motes weren’t the remains of the souls murdered here.

They were Jude.

As if his soul had shattered into a million broken pieces. Was this all that was left of him?

41

JUDE

Dreams often feel like reality until you wake up and realize you were asleep.

So when I played with the little boy in my bedroom, I didn’t think much of it. He was just there, like he’d always been there. Like he belonged.

I was small. Three, maybe. Old enough to hold a needle, not old enough to know that three-year-olds shouldn’t be trusted with sharp things.

He handed me a cloth doll. Its arm was loose, hanging by a thread. Its face was blank, no eyes, no mouth, just faded fabric and a stitched smile that had long since unraveled.

“Fix?” he asked, eyes wide, the black of them so different from my own. But I understood he was sad. I got sad when my stuff broke too. Sometimes a toy got thrown away, but sometimes, it could be fixed.

I took the doll from him and wandered down the hall and stairs to the drawer beside the couch where Grandma kept her sewing kit. I returned to my room with the needle and thread and stitched the arm back on. The way I’d seen Grandma do a dozen times. In and out, pull tight, knot it off. My stitching looked loopy and lopsided, but it did the job. The arm no longer hung loose, though I poked myself twice, drawing tiny drops of blood.

The little boy grabbed my hand, his grip icy as he wiped away the blood. I knew better than to cry. Daddy hated the noise.

I handed the doll back with a smile. “Better.”

He gave me a firm nod, returning my smile with very sharp teeth.

I pointed at my own teeth, then at my shark plush, a gift from Grandpa. “Teeth.”

The boy’s grin widened. “Good bite.”

I agreed as if having pointy teeth would help me eat too. Though it was nowhere near lunchtime.

He hugged the doll close and tugged me across the room to the closet door, pulling it open. The closet door swung open. Instead of shoes and jackets and the box of toys, a glowing line snaked through the corner.

I stared at it, in awe as it shimmered with colors and I tried to recall the colors Grandma has been trying to teach me.

“Purple,” I said proudly and clapped my hands as I reached to touch the brightness.

It tingled my fingers, seeming to expand as it sought my touch. Oh, it liked me. I smiled at my friend and stepped into the closet to get closer, the boy right behind.

The purple light pulsed, warm and curious. When I pulled my hand back, it shrank. When I reached forward again, it grew, stretching toward me like it was trying to wrap itself around my fingers. It wanted me to touch it. It wanted me to play.

“Look!” I giggled, making it grow and shrink, grow and shrink, like a game of peek-a-boo.

The little boy watched me with his dark, glittering eyes. “Bigger,” he said. “Make it bigger.”

I stretched my arms wide. The tear stretched with them, growing taller, wider, until it was as big as the closet door. The colors swirled faster, purple and silver and deep, dark blue.

“Pretty,” I said as the inside of the purple lights swirled with colors and things I couldn’t begin to understand.