“I asked you a question,” said the killer. “Clock’s running out for you to answer.”

“I don’t remember the question,” said Engelbrecht vaguely. Had he, in fact, been asked a question? If so, was it in this lifetime or some other distant incarnation? Perhaps in a dream? Or was this the dream and soon he would wake up? He distantly wondered what dreams of violence and fire meant.

“I’ll ask one last time,” said the killer slowly. He had an American accent, but there was something odd about his voice. The timbre had a quality that Engelbrecht could not define. It felt somehow darker than it should, though he had no idea how such a thing was possible. “Two questions, really. Where is Kuga? Where is Santoro?”

“But I … I don’t know where they are.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No! I’ve never even met them. Everything goes through … goes through an intermediary!” cried Engelbrecht. “I have no idea where to find—”

“Who is the intermediary?” asked the killer. “Lie to me and I’ll know.”

Engelbrecht’s mouth was so dry and the heat from the fires was so intense. Terror filled his soul, crowding out any chance he would ever think of lying to this man.

“His name is Fong. Alexander Fong,” he said hoarsely. “Chinese, but from Italy, I think. His accent is Italian.”

“How do you contact him?”

“He contacts me.”

“No … there has to be a way to contact him if there is a problem. You’re running out of time. Tell me right damn now.”

“Email,” blurted Engelbrecht. “It’s in my sent messages on my phone.”

“What’s your password?”

Engelbrecht told him.

There was a silence filled by the sound of the fire devouring the room.

“Please,” croaked Engelbrecht, “will you help me? I don’t want to burn.”

But there was no answer from the man. Not a whisper, not a word. Not even a growl from that white devil of a dog.

And in his personal darkness, Dr. Gerald Engelbrecht burned.

CHAPTER 34

PHOENIX HOUSE

OMFORI ISLAND, GREECE

Church was back in his apartment, but he was alone now. Lilith was gone, taking with her all that unique and complex energy, her grace, her insights, and her magic. Although theirs was a relationship that could never be normal by any metric, it mattered very deeply to him. It mattered to love, and be loved, by someone who understood him. Someone of equal power and who was a complete individual. Neither defined themselves by the other, nor needed approval or validation.

The love, though. That mattered. It amused him to think that so many of the people who knew him, good and bad, enemies and allies, past and present, regarded Church as a cold and unemotional person. A machine. A freak.