Will looked up at last. “What do you want me to say?”

Malloy seemed to consider this for a long while, finally letting out an extended soliloquy of a sigh. “Nothing,” he said at last. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, Fitz. I’d like to collect my pension in ten years, so I’m going to tell you what happened. As far as the city’s concerned, the Pentacle Killer was shot and killed and burned in the fire, no identity known. He was killed by one of our men in blue. Officer Lyga is due for promotion. He’s a good man. Now he’s a hero. Heroes are good. Heroes make people sleep better at night. That’s the story. You understand?”

“You think people will believe it?”

“People will believe anything if it means they can go on with their lives and not have to think too hard about it.” Malloy rose and opened the door. “You’re free to go.”

At the door, he put a hand on Will’s arm. His tone was urgent. “Will, what’s happening?”

“Get some rest, Terrence.”

“Don’t make an enemy of me, Will,” Malloy called after him.

Will walked the labyrinthine halls of the police station. He passed a windowed room with half-drawn blinds where two men in dark suits sat waiting to speak with the chief. Both men sat calmly, quietly, as if they had no reason to hurry. As if they were accustomed to getting their way, and this meeting would prove no different.

Will paled and hurried past, pushing through the doors of the station into the gray-wool haze of morning. He tossed two cents at a newspaperman and read the day’s late headline about the death of the Pentacle Killer, which featured a posed photograph of Officer Lyga standing beside the American flag above the caption HERO OFFICER KEEPS CITY SAFE. They had worked fast. There was no mention of Will or the museum. Will left the newspaper on a nearby bench and shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets to hide their shaking.

Memphis waited until Octavia was fast asleep, then shut the door to the bedroom where Isaiah slept and crept to his side. He stared at his hands. It had been three years since Memphis had tried to cure his mother and felt the press of spirits amid a great fluttering of wings. Maybe he’d lost the healing gift forever. But he was tired of being too scared to find out.

Memphis kneeled beside the bed. He thought about praying, but what would he pray for? Was he asking for God’s help, or his forgiveness? He wasn’t sure he believed in either, so he said nothing as he placed his hands on his brother’s body and thought about the healing. As Memphis kneeled beside his brother, he felt nothing. No trace of warmth. No smell of flowers before he was transported into the world of spirits and strange sights.

“I’m not giving up, dammit,” he said through clenched teeth. “Do you hear me? I will not give up!”

Memphis took a deep breath. It started as a twitch in his fingers. Then the old familiar warmth trickled through his veins like a tap suddenly turned on. And before he had time to think, he was sucked into that shadow realm between worlds. Around him, he felt the press of spirits, their hands placed gently on his shoulders, his arms, a great chain of healing. He heard his mother’s voice, soft and low.

“Memphis.”

She wore a cloak as iridescent as a moonlit lake. She wasn’t sick and gaunt like the last time he’d seen her; she was lovely, if a little somber. It was his mother in this place, and he wanted to run to her.

“Our time is brief, my son.”

“Mama? Is it you?”

“I must tell you these things while I can. You will be called to make great choices and great sacrifices,” she said a bit sadly. “All will be needed, but only you can decide which is the right path to take. A storm is coming, and you must be ready.”

“What about Isaiah?”

His mother didn’t answer. “There is something I never told you. Something I should have told you…”

The soft comfort of spirits dissolved. They were standing at the crossroads of his dream. In the distance were the farmhouse and the gnarled tree. The sky roiled with dark clouds mottled with lightning. Memphis’s mother looked up at the sky with fear. The wind blew fiercely, kicking up a cloud of dust.

“You can’t bring anything back, Memphis. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Promise me!”

The dust was nearly upon her.

“Mama, run!”

“Promise me!” she cried as the dust wall swallowed her up.

Memphis stumbled forward on the road, trying to outrun the choking dust. Through the field to his right, he saw the wheat bending into blackened ruin as a thin man in a somber coat and a tall hat cut through. The crow darted across Memphis’s path.