“So you know? And that doesn’t change anything?”

“No, it does not.”

“Who’s Dean Princeton?” Paige asked.

“It’s not imp—” I began.

“Expisco half-demon,” Griffin cut in. “The only one who’s ever worked for a Cabal. When he was Hope’s age, maybe a few years younger, he was the nicest kid. Wanted to be a bodyguard, but everyone told him he wasn’t tough enough. He worked at it, though. Took a job in security. Got promoted to backup guard for Lionel St. Cloud. Then they started finding the bodies.”

“Dean Princeton has nothing to do with Hope Adams,” I said. “And to draw an analogy based on racial type is nothing short of prejudice. You cannot—”

“His racial type is what turned him into a killer! Are you saying that’s not relevant? Hope Adams is Lucifer’s daughter. She’s a chaos demon. Did you actually read the reports on Princeton, Lucas? Did you see what he did to those people? Hear all the witnesses testify about what a sweet kid he’d been once? Maybe you’re right, maybe this girl’s demon is still sleeping, but it’s going to wake up, and I’m not sure we should be in such an almighty rush to save—”

The last words were a strangled cough. Karl had Griffin by the throat.

“Hope is not Dean Princeton,” Karl said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I could trot out twenty man-eating werewolves for you. Does that mean all werewolves should be killed at birth…just in case? Where Hope is concerned, you stay clear. You don’t spread your stories about Dean Princeton, especially to her. If you don’t want to help find her, then don’t. But I’m going to and you won’t stop me.”

“We’re going to help you,” Paige said, laying her fingertips on Karl’s arm. “He’s thinking of us, not Hope, and we understand that. It doesn’t change—”

A cell phone ring. I murmured an apology, then realized it was Paige’s.

She frowned at the display. “A pay phone? Probably a wrong number. I’ll take this outside.”

HOPE VISIONS OF MADNESS

HOPE

VISIONS OF MADNESS

Joan of Arc saw visions of God. Believing she was the messenger of the Almighty she mustered the will and the passion to rally the French against the English invaders. Touched by God? Or by madness? History is filled with tales of visionary madmen, and I had no doubt Jaz was mad, with a fire that burned through self-doubt and moral qualms.

A few days ago, I’d reflected on that impulsive side of Jaz, how he pursued what he desired without fear. I’d chalked it up to a charming lack of self-doubt and self-consciousness. It was a lack of something all right…