“What do you mean?”

But her image vanished, shimmering out of sight like a reflection in a pond when the water is disturbed.

A snarl from behind sent me bolting the rest of the way up the stairs.

You have to want him more than he wants you.

I stumbled along a hallway.

“Jonathan, you’re mine. Stop running.”

Stop running. That wouldn’t be good enough. I had to stop being afraid. The creature was feeding on my fear, growing stronger every moment.

You have to want him more than he wants you.

I stopped. Heart pounding, I turned to face the creature.

It paused, looking wary.

Summoning every ounce of courage I possessed, I spread my arms and whispered, “Come back.”

The creature’s eyes widened. It hissed in alarm.

I took a step toward it.

It backed away, still hissing.

I took another step. It turned and ran. I raced after it, caught it with a flying tackle at the head of the stairs.

“No!” it screamed, struggling to escape my grasp. “Get back!”

I was too sure to let go now. I clutched it to me, for it was my own. Screaming, it clawed its way forward until it managed to pull both itself and me over the edge of the stairs.

We tumbled down, rolling over and over, thumping and bouncing. It felt as if I were trapped in a cement mixer, but I didn’t let go. When we hit the bottom, I was on top. Wrapping my arms around the creature, I pulled it to me and whispered, “You’re mine. You’re mine, and I claim you.”

I could feel it wavering, growing thinner in my arms. But it was still struggling, still real and solid.

Stronger now, I pinned it to the floor. I stared at that fierce and horrid face—my own face, twisted and ravaged by all my anger. Pushing past my disgust, my revulsion, I pressed my cheek to the creature’s.

“You’re mine,” I whispered in its ear. “Welcome home.”

Then I held it as close to my heart as I could, and howled in sorrow and triumph as my lost anger seared its way back into my soul.

The beast vanished from beneath me.

I collapsed to the floor, where I lay for a long time, weeping but whole, Saint Jonathan no longer.

“Not bad, kid,” said a deep, dear voice, once so familiar, now nearly forgotten. “Not bad at all.”

I looked up and saw my father smiling down at me, translucent and shimmering as Mrs. Hubbard had been.

I reached toward him, but he shook his head sadly and began to fade from sight. “Can’t do it, kid. I’m breaking the rules as it is. But I wanted to let you know you did good.”

“Don’t go! I need you!”

“I know. You always did. And I was never there.”

He shimmered back into view and stepped closer. Fearful, I started to draw back but forced myself to stay.