Max reached for his throat. He’d been in the room only seconds, not long enough for the pollen to cause a reaction, but he swore his throat was closing. Choking.

“The staff of the torch,” Max croaked. “It’s pointing right at his bed. How can he sleep like that?”

A skeleton dripping black tears gazed longingly at the pillow, waiting for its inhabitant. Watching. Ready. Max couldn’t peel his eyes away, his pulse sprinting beneath his skin. That statue—all of the horror inflicted on his life was because of that twelve-inch trinket worthy of a novelty store. Max marched toward it, eyes reduced to slits. Someone blew up his father because of this. Something infected his mother because of this.

He lifted it from the makeshift shrine. It was so light and puny, a participation trophy from a Little League baseball team. His fingers tightened around it. It wasn’t even marble. It felt like a cheap stone you could carve your name into with a steak knife. He made no conscious choice to bend his right elbow, to strain his shoulder as far back as it would reach and then slam the cursed hunk against the opposite wall with a satisfying crack.

He’d forgotten Vera was there until she yelped, black wavy hair swishing with surprise as cracked pieces of statue landed in chunks at her sandaled feet. Too close.

“Are you okay?” Max gasped, rushing over.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, though her voice sounded strained. She didn’t look him in the eyes.

Max stretched for the largest piece of remaining statue—the torso and two severed wings that now rested like an offering at her feet. The toothy edges felt sharp against his fingers as he held it out to her. “Want to take a turn? It’s surprisingly satisfying.”

Vera shifted toward the object, her gaze unfocused, head tilted as if unsure what he was presenting. Tentatively, she extended a delicate hand, cautiously inching as if the stone piece might be combustible.

Her nail brushed the surface of the wing, the slightest graze with the tip of her finger.

Then Vera hit the floor.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Vera

“Death is a superior state of consciousness. All confines of this plane do not exist once you cross over. You will be one spirit with the loved ones who have gone before you, and those you leave behind will reap the glory of your sacrifice. I know. I am living proof,” insists the man, a healthy glow on his face, proving his righteousness. The spirit spared his life, and he has made it his mission to share his gift with the world.

Rows of tan metal folding chairs fill the cool cinder-block space, adding to the temporary feel of the group, of their existence. Around Vera, there are candles flickering high in glass jars perched on wall sconces, Walmart tabletops, and dirty garden pedestals. Sweaty bodies press together, too many for the seats. On the concrete floor sit children cross-legged, some only toddlers. Infants are cradled on laps.