“No,” said Sean. “He is coming.”

His eyes, which were always as blue as mine, suddenly changed. It was as if ink were leaking into the iris and sclera, tainting them, staining them with ugly shades of green and brown. As if reptile skin had been run through a blender and turned to paint. Even the Darkness inside me recoiled.

“He’s coming for you, Joe,” said Sean in a voice that was low, raspy, rumbly, and entirely obscene. “If you keep hunting Santoro and Kuga, you’ll find him. And he really wants you to find him, Cowboy. Oh yes, he does. He wants that so much.”

As he spoke, his breath plumed out. Not cold breath, but hot. It was like being next to the open mouth of a great furnace. I could feel the heat on my cheeks and lips and eyes. I recoiled in horror and fumbled for my gun. I think I screamed, but I’m really not sure. God knows I needed to.

But then I blinked and the bed was empty and I was alone with the corpse of Casanova and my combat dog. The heat, so intense a moment ago, faded now, and I could smell the stink of piss and blood from Casanova, his bowels having emptied as his muscles slackened in death.

I turned to Ghost and saw that he’d backed all the way into the corner, tail tucked between his legs, the white hair on his back standing as stiff as needles. He was panting hard. Not from effort or pain but fear. Drool flecked his muzzle.

“It’s okay, boy,” I said, but those words and the tone of my voice lacked all conviction. It was not okay. Not even a little bit. Either I was losing what was left of my mind or the world was broken. Maybe both.

He is coming.

I thought I knew who he was, but I didn’t dare say the name. I refused to let myself think that name.

“It’s okay,” I said and reached a hand toward Ghost. He still trembled, but not as violently, and he summoned the courage to reach out and lick my gloved fingers. “He’s not here, boy. We’re okay. We’re safe.”

It was only then I realized that the room had been utterly quiet while Sean was there. Now real sound flooded back. I could hear alarms and yelling, and saw that the door had been knocked ajar. Not much, but enough to break the soundproofing seal. Thin fingers from something burning were clawing at the edges of the door, mingling with the paler dust from the jagged cracks in the ceiling and walls.

Another sound punched into my awareness, coming from outside but close.

Gunfire.

CHAPTER 98

THE TOC

PHOENIX HOUSE

OMFORI ISLAND, GREECE