Arthur moved quietly in the direction of the screams. His arm and side were wet where the bullet had struck him, and it was getting harder to keep his footing, but he knew he was getting close now. The voices were louder and the words more recognizable.

Arthur stepped out of the courtyard and into an empty dining area of the manor that looked mostly unused. It was dusty and filled with broken chairs and tables that had deteriorated with age.

Frieda stopped the car along the road about two kilometers from their destination, parking out of sight along an old access road. Their target was an old manor built in the mid-nineteenth century that had long since fallen into disrepair.

Arthur Vangeest ran a wet sharpening stone down the edge of his sword, feeling it glide along the razor-sharp finish. It was a brilliant weapon with a deep history, a gift from Frieda Gotlieb many years earlier.

“Complicated how?” Haatim asked. The intensity on Abigail’s face had just gone up dramatically. Anything that unsettled her, he realized, was definitely not good for him.

Reality came into hazy focus. A room. His living room.

Haatim Arison sat in his apartment in his underwear, listening to classic rock and working at his desk. He drummed his fingers on the table and stared at the word document open on his laptop, wondering if there was anything he needed to add or rephrase.

Haatim walked into the Ocotillo Library in Phoenix, Arizona, in the early afternoon and found a table in the back corner. It was the middle of the work week, so it wasn’t very crowded inside. That was fine with him; he wasn’t in the mood to talk to a lot of people.

“Reverend, you have a visitor.” He couldn’t remember when he fell in love with the pain. When agony first turned to pleasure, and then to joy. Of course, it hadn’t always been like this.