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.