“Are you okay?” Max’s words were slow and deliberate, as though she might not understand.

“Yes. I mean, no.” Vera sat up abruptly, the room spinning on a merry-go-round. She wobbled, and Max steadied her shoulders once more. “It’s evil. He’s evil.”

“No kidding,” Max quipped. “What happened? You passed out.”

“A vision.” She raised her hand to her pounding head, her fingers icicles. “It’s mass suicide. That’s what it wants. That’s what they’re planning—full Kool-Aid. I saw Anatole trying to convince them. There are little kids.” Her voice broke.

The rally, the carnival events. Anatole Durand was oozing through the town square right now recruiting more offerings to the Angel of Tears. That was the endgame—to consume Roaring Creek with enough grief that its weakened citizens would obey whispered commands to blow up buildings and down cups of poison. Once the monster overtook their small town, its empowered shadow would spread across the rest of the world, one mass tragedy at a time.

“Are you sure?” Max asked, sounding shocked.

Vera nodded. “The basement, it’s full of chalices—boxes of them—just like the one that broke in my house during the hurricane. I’m not sure when, but he’s going to fill them with poison and distribute them—”

“Not if he can’t find them.” Max popped to his feet. “Maybe we can’t stop the devil ourselves, but we can slow it down a bit. Turns out I like breaking things.” He nodded to the remnants of a statue littering the carpet around her.

It was a start, something they could do.

Max extended a palm and helped Vera to her unstable feet, her body swaying and her stomach sloshing. She took a slow breath.

“Can you walk?” He looked concerned.

“Just a head rush.” She pressed her temples, hands still frozen. It was as if the chill of the room, the vision, stayed with her. This was new. Whatever was surging inside her was growing rapidly.

He clasped her hand. “I got you.”

She followed Max out of the room and down the six steps to the cookie-cutter living room. Off the kitchen was another small set of stairs that would lead them to a finished basement, and below that, a few steps that descended to a damp cellar. Max nudged her toward their destination, but Vera halted, feeling a sharp tug—not physically, not externally—something inside, deep in her bones. She was being pulled in another direction. Vera’s eyes shot toward the coat closet.

“Come on, let’s go. We don’t know how much time we have.” Max pulled, her shoulder straining in its socket.

She was unmoving. Didn’t he hear that? A buzzing. No, a whispering, a finger raised in a restaurant, gesturing Check, please; look over here. Vera turned toward the front door.

Something was in that closet.

“I’ll meet you down there.” Her voice was flat.

“What? I’m not leaving you. They could be back any second!” He yanked again, but she jerked her arm free, spinning his way.