He made a great show of checking over his body, in case a part might have flown off, I guess, then settled against the seat once more. “There’s a ritual he was looking for back in the seventeenth century. Apparently, a soul eater who emerged in the prehistoric era endeavored to become a god who was eventually worshipped in ancient Greece. The ritual he used was one of the first recorded occult ceremonies.”

I swallowed the acidic fear that stung my throat. “Did it work?”

“Ever hear of Hades?” Cyrus laughed and shook his head as though he were speaking of an old friend. “I can’t say for certain, but Father was too obsessed with the ritual for it not to be the one he’s using now. I believe it entails consuming the souls of all those he’s killed. He must have been working on it for centuries.”

Cyrus lapsed into thoughtful silence again. Just when I was about to speak, he came to vicious life, pounding the dashboard with both fists. I jumped, accidentally colliding with the horn.

He pounded his fists again. “He should have told me. I served him faithfully—he should have told me!”

“He couldn’t tell you,” I said gently. “Then you would have known he was going to kill you.”

My words had no impact. “No wonder he wanted me to give asylum to those disgusting bikers all those years back….”

“Actually, it was only two months,” I corrected, but again, he didn’t seem to hear.

“I should have known. I should have known he was planning something like this.” Cyrus shook his head, a look of pure disgust on his face. “I worshipped him. If he’d asked it of me, I would have let him take my soul.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” I remembered the way Cyrus had knelt beside his father’s casket as though it were a holy relic. It wasn’t a flattering truth I was about to give him, but it was truth at least. “You were too selfish to have done something like that.”

“You’re probably right.” A thin smile crossed his lips. “You know, I was thinking of killing you today.”

“I was pretty much counting on you trying.” I’d heard him mumbling to himself shortly after he’d begun the drive at sunup. So I’d kept the chloroform handy and hidden all the stakes in the van at the bottom of my sleeping bag.

“You’re not going to scream and rave at me?” He chuckled. “That’s not the Carrie I remember.”

“Well, the Carrie you remember has spent two months trying to get over you.” I nearly choked on my tongue at my Freudian slip. “I meant, trying to get over what you did to me. You don’t make me as nervous anymore.”

“You’re trying to get over me?”