“And yet, having no reason has never stopped you before.”

So. He knew of the Armands. It had been my intention that, by the time he became privy to such information, the Armands would be gone. Though I wanted to ask him how he had come by the truth so soon, I refrained. For did the answer, whatever it was, matter at this juncture?

In command of myself once more, albeit with some tremulousness, I eyed him from over one shoulder.

He sat on the chaise, having invited himself in per his usual annoying habit. Though I hated that he had borne witness to my brief lapse, it did please me to see that he, too, was attempting to hide the slight tremor in his own hands and frame. His fear, more than anything, told me that he could not be counted responsible for the attack I’d experienced.

The man, a living man, was none other than the famed psychic medium Rastin Shirazi. Six years had passed since we’d first been introduced. And does any manner of meeting acquaint two souls quite so well as a duel to the death?

“You should leave,” I said. “Things never bode well for either of us when you are here.”

“And yet you know as well as I do,” said Rastin, “that I am not really here.”

“Indeed,” I grunted, hating him. For his stubbornness. For his horrible habit of dropping in on me whenever he pleased. Perhaps what I hated most about Rastin, though, was the conflicting gladness the sight of his meddlesome face brought to me in this moment. “I suppose it could be said that I am the only one who is truly here.”

This last part I uttered as a test. To determine exactly how much he knew.

“Except I know that is not currently true.”

“Is it not?”

“Erik—”

“Don’t,” I said, cautioning him against the use of my Christian name. I had shed it for a reason, adopting in its stead—as a reminder—the alias I had operated under while carrying out all the dark dealings that had led to my perdition. And the resurrection of my given name. Wasn’t that how we had all gotten here—to this dire predicament?

“I know that there are people living here,” Rastin said, for once arriving at his point with relative swiftness. “After I discovered as much to be true, tell me, what other choice did I have but to confront you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “There is always the option of minding one’s own business.”

“Given the circumstances,” replied Rastin in that grave, scolding, and almost parental tone he sometimes liked to take with me, “I’m afraid that you are my business.”

“Well. As you can see.” I paused to gesture to the broken clock and the rest of the mantel debris. “I have everything well in hand.”

“Clearly,” he replied as he regarded me over the narrow frames of his wire-rimmed glasses.

As before, he sported the same neatly trimmed goatee and mustache. A gray scarf, worn over a black blazer, looped his neck. He appeared thinner and more worn than in times past, though, his face prematurely lined.