He just shrugs, which makes me chuckle.

"Here's what I think," I say. "I am shaken up. I am intimidated. You can see that, right? But not because I've done anything, or seen anything, or know anything. It's because I'm an exmental patient with documented authority issues, I forgot to take my medication today, and I just saw a really gruesome dead body. I'm not doing so well, okay?"

"Okay."

"So quit playing cop games and just ask me your damn questions. I don't have anything to hide except maybe the fact that I'm kinda nuts-no, wait, you already know that-so whatever this is about-"

"Maureen Selkirk is dead."

Where did that brick wall come from? I swear it wasn't there a second ago, and then ... I blink, trying to process what he just said. "Who is what?"

"Maureen Selkirk. I believe you spoke to her and Father Stone shortly before he died."

"How-how did she die?"

"The same way Stone did. Technically."

"What's that mean?"

"It means she asphyxiated. Boy selling chocolate door to door found her in her living room with the power cord from her air conditoner tangled around her neck. She had it mounted up high, above her door."

"And you think-" I stop, swallow with a suddenly dry mouth. "You think I had something to do with it?"

"Right now, it looks like some kind of freak accident. But we're still investigating-and you were apparently the last one to talk to Selkirk and Stone, according to the witnesses I've been able to track down. Mind telling me what you said?"

"Nothing. I mean, they invited me to attend services with them. That was about it."

"Uh-huh. Can you be a little more specific?"

I'm about to deliver a zinger out of sheer reflex-What, you want me to identify the church? It's that pointy building with the oversized dinner bell mounted on the roof-when I realize that's exactly what he's asking.

Not just which church. Which religion.

He stares at me calmly. I stare back. Sheriff Stoker is second-in-command, Cassiar said. Which means that with Longinus/Ahaseurus dead, I'm locked in a room with the current head of a cult dedicated to making my existence one of eternal suffering and despair.

And he wants to know if Stone and Selkirk spilled the beans.

"This Sunday," I hear myself say. "They invited me to services this Sunday. I told them I'd try to make it, but no promises."

He nods. "That all they said to you?"

"That's all I said to them. Then I made my excuses and left, because frankly I had no intention of showing up."

I'm thinking furiously while trying to look bored and impatient. Internal power struggle? A schism in the Cult of Let's Bedevil Jace? Someone staged a coup and Stone and Selkirk sided with the wrong faction?

If so, the prime suspect was sitting right across from me. Stoker kills the cult leader and assumes the mantle; Selkirk and Stone are murdered because they supported Longinus. So where does that leave me?

That depends on whether they still need me or not. If they do, they won't kill me. If they don't, I'm an expendable loose end.

"Have you seen Ahab Longinus lately?" Stoker asks.

"Who?" I say, trying to sound confused-and believe me, it isn't hard. Stoker's using a classic interrogation technique, hitting me with one revelation right on the heels of another, not giving me time to think. "I mean, who gives their kid a moniker like Ahab? Was his family Welsh or something?"

Now it's his turn to look confused. "Welsh?"

"I'm sorry. I should have said, 'from Wales.'"

He tries to recover. "Longinus. Lives at the edge of town in that big, ancient house?"

"Sorry, don't know the man. It is a man, right? 'Cause people will name their daughters anything these days. I met a kid the other day who, I swear, goes by 'Lumina'. I asked her if she was the two-door or four-door model and she just gave me a blank look."

"He seems to be missing."

"How can you tell?"

He frowns. He's lost control of the interview and isn't sure how to get it back. I don't give him the chance, either. "Who reported him missing, is what I'm asking."

"He hasn't been reported missing. His neighbors are concerned, that's all."

"Which neighbors?"

He ignores the question, which tells me there aren't any nosy neighbors-just someone very familiar with Longinus's basement and what goes on there. "Longinus spent a lot of his time with Selkirk and Stone. Did they ever talk to you about him?"

"No. You find Jimmy Zhang yet?"

"No. You have any ideas where he might be?"

A number of possibilities pop into my head-root cellars, the local graveyard, somebody's old fridge-but I keep them to myself. "Afraid not."

"He's probably out of town," Stoker says. "Turns out that broken window was just an accident; display fell over, is all."

He waits to see if I argue with that. Because he knows as well as I do that even if that steam cleaner did somehow manage to launch itself through a plate glass window, the big red puddle he found in the back room of the grocery store wasn't from a broken ketchup bottle.

I smile. "Oh, good. A perfectly innocent, reasonable explanation. I thought there'd be one."

"There usually is," he says softly.

We regard each other silently for a moment.

"I'm just a wee bit worried about you, Jace," Stoker says at last. "All these events must be difficult for you."

"Definitely. I was really close to that steam cleaner. Oh, the times we had-"

"So I think it might be best if you took it easy for a while. Stay home. Watch TV. Relax." Don't make trouble and keep out of my way.

"Funny, that's exactly what I was going to do. Thanks for the reminder." I'll do whatever I want and you can go to hell.

He gets to his feet. "I'll take you home. Drop in on you from time to time, make sure you're doing all right." I'm watching you.

"Thanks. I appreciate that." See previous comment.

I stand up. "Okay, then. Let's go."

He takes me home. The minute his car is out of sight, I turn around and leave. Not so much because I've got someplace to go as because I hate being told what to do.

The sun's pretty low on the horizon.

I head for the diner. I don't work tonight, but it's familiar and well lit and presumably safe. If Zhang decides to attack me there, at least I can throw some garlic salt in his face.

The diner isn't open twenty-four/seven, and in fact closes every day between two and four; people who want someplace to sit down on their coffee break head over to the hardware store, where Don Prince always has a pot on that time of day. It's close to five now, so the first of the dinner crowd will be filtering in any minute. I step inside and look around-only one of the booths is occupied, but all I can see is the back of someone's head. I take a seat at the counter and call out, "Therese? Got a hungry customer, sweetie."

No answer. Must be in the john or out back. I don't bother calling out for Phil; I don't need him snapping at me right now.

"She's not here." Phil's voice, surly as ever. Not coming from the kitchen, though-he's the one in the booth. That's a little weird; he doesn't like to sit out front with the customers. Usually, he takes his meal breaks in the kitchen.

"Oh," I say. "Well, can I get you to make me a grilled cheese? I'm starving."

I expect him to either complain about me interrupting his break or give me a chilly silence while he complies, but he doesn't do either. Instead, he laughs.

"You want me to make you a meal? Sure. I'd be happy to."

Uh-oh. I turn to look at my boss.

He looks just like my boss usually does-no fangs, no red eyes, no sudden eruptions of fur. He's wearing a long, stained cook's apron and has a cup of coffee in front of him.

But somehow, he seems different.

"But first, we should talk. Okay?" he says. He smiles and motions me over with a friendly nod of his head.

I get to my feet, slowly. He waits, patiently. Not threatening, not menacing, just waiting. Trying to keep my paranoia under control, I walk over and sit down on the other side of the booth. He's probably just going to fire me, which is why he looks so cheerful.

He studies me for a second. "Jace-how long have we known each other?"

"Well, I've been working here for about four months-"

"No. Before that."

"I guess I didn't really know you before that."

He shakes his head, still smiling. "No, of course not. Why would you? It's a small town, there's only one restaurant, you like to eat out ... we must have run into each other hundreds of times, don't you think?"

Where is he going with this? "I'm sorry-I don't understand."

"Did you grow up here, Jace?"

It's a simple question. And after a long, confused moment, I realize I don't know the answer.

When he sees the look on my face, he nods. Still smiling, but looking a little more ... satisfied. "Ah. You don't remember. I myself cannot remember when I got here, though it seems as if I've been here forever. But before I was here, I was ... nowhere. My childhood, my youth-all a mystery. But I only realized this in the last few days. It was as though there were some sort of mirrored barrier in my mind, one that not only blocked any attempts at recall but deflected even the idea of trying."

He falls silent, staring at me intently. It's the longest speech I've ever heard out of his mouth, and it doesn't sound like him at all.

"You said, 'were'. Does that mean this barrier is gone?"

"Not exactly. It has become less substantial, though, more like a thick veil than glass. I can sometimes pierce it if I concentrate hard enough-it is weakening, I think. For the longest time, though, there were only two memories that came through clearly."

"What-what were they?"

"The first was falling," he says. His voice is hard, deliberate. "Falling endlessly through infinite space, between distant and unknown constellations. Plummeting into a vast, frozen silence."

"Wow. Sounds like you grew up on a space station. Or fell off one." I try to keep my own tone light-there's an intensity in his voice I don't like.

"The other was you. Jace Valchek. The Bloodhound."

"That's-that's just a TV show-"

"No. It is who you are. It is what you are. It has been hidden from you, just as my true identity has been hidden from me. But as I am clearly the stronger willed of us, I have regained my self-awareness first."

I swallow. "That's, uh, terrific. I'm glad you're clearing up that whole invisible-amnesia thing-"

"Surely you have recovered some of your memories, too?"

I hesitate, not sure how to react. According to Azura, my memories have been tampered with, though she didn't say anything about other people. Maybe Phil can help me get my brain working right again.

"I might be remembering a few things," I hedge. "Like ... this town isn't quite what it seems to be. Know what I'm talking about?"

He makes a dismissive gesture. "This town is not important. It is a distraction, here only to occupy our attention. We are all that matter."

Phil's gone from cranky to arrogant; I can't say it's an improvement, but I don't feel like arguing with him. "Let's say you're right. Why us, Phil? Why are we so important?" I already know the answer to why I'm here, but I'm hoping his newly inflated ego will insist he talk about himself.

"I was wondering that myself," he says. "And then an old acquaintance dropped by and altered my perspective. By we, you see, I mean more than simply you and I. There is at least one other in this banal little village who is more than he seems."

And then the capillaries in his eyes begin to get bigger. The veins widen as they fill, spreading like a bloodstain soaking through paper. In seconds both his irises are a bright crimson, and when he speaks I can see how his incisors have gotten longer and sharper. "Jimmy Zhang."

He's so fast, I don't even see him move-but suddenly he's got a hand wrapped around my throat. "It's really a shame," he hisses, "that you're so blithely ignorant of who you truly are. You're like a tiger that's been declawed, defanged, and blinded. Killing you will afford me little pleasure."

He grins, showing me just how long his new fangs are. "But I'm going to anyway...."

NINE.

I'm dead.