“I know,” said her father, nodding, taking a tentative step closer. “I know I did. But you don’t…you can’t know how lonely it was in prison.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” she said. “I love you, but…”

“Can you forgive me, Odessa?” he said, taking another step closer, holding out his arms to her. “Please?”

Blackwood unfurled his leather kit, hands selecting an ampoule by touch, his eyes never leaving the misty forms. They were advancing toward him, legs not moving, but rather all of them drifting in the same direction like a patch of sage caught in a breeze. The conjurer Juanita had sent them forth, expecting him to resist their assault, to repel them and exhaust himself in the fight.

But Blackwood did not prepare a countering spell. He uncapped the ampoule of green glass and slathered a generous dab of a tincture of white rose petal on each hand, returning the vial to its place and sliding the kit into his jacket pocket.

Rubbing his fingers into their respective palms and intoning the spell in its original Enochian language, Blackwood extended his arms and opened his hands toward the slave spirits. A fine gold vapor was emitted by his palms as though exhaled. It formed a nimbus of honeyed light around his body as his arms spread wide. The slave spirits moved faster as they reached his form, lowering their heads in attack.

Blackwood’s body was rocked as he welcomed these tormented spirits, taking them into himself. Instead of giving them the fight they desired, he absorbed their swarming pain, their fear, their bitter anger, their angst. He assimilated their energy, pulling their agony into his own heart.

He felt the conjurer Juanita pulling at them. Filling them with darkness. Driving them toward evil.

Blackwood could not heal their spirits. He could only commune with them. He could only speak to their souls.

You were exploited in life. You must resist being exploited by evil once more.

Odessa’s eyes welled with tears. She wanted to forgive her father. She had always wanted to forgive him.

But she couldn’t. Some crimes—especially the personal ones, the emotional ones—can never be forgiven.

“Dad,” she said, “I…I can’t.”

His expression moved from befuddlement to disappointment…and then anger.

And then it was no longer her father standing before her. It was Earl Solomon. He swung his right arm very quickly and violently, catching her across the face with a backhanded smack that sent her stumbling backward and crashing hard to the stone floor.

Odessa looked up, stunned, her jaw aching, ear ringing. She looked around for her dad until she realized what had happened. It was as though a veil had been pulled away.

Earl Solomon, wearing a hospital gown and padded socks, ran at her with a face-twisting sneer and weird strength. He jumped for her, coming down socks-first, aiming to crush her throat.