But he did not come.
And she could not keep the lord in his foreign country waiting any longer, nor the dying in his house.
* * *
Andrew picked up the phone and hung it up again three times before he finally dialed and sat waiting, clutching the phone to his ear. He breathed out, trying to calm himself as he twisted the curled cord around one hand.
The phone rang only twice before someone picked it up. “Dr. Clancy’s office,” said a professional female voice.
“Er, yes,” Andrew said, “I’m calling about making an appointment.”
“Are you already a client here?” asked the voice.
“No, I . . . I’m not calling for me. For my daughter.”
“Is she over the age of eighteen, sir?”
“No. No, she’s just fifteen.”
The voice was unflappable, even as Andrew stumbled over his words and felt like a fool. “May I have your name, sir?”
“Andrew Hunter.”
“And your daughter’s name?”
“Miranda. Miranda Hunter.”
“All meetings with the doctor are confidential. But can you give me a reason why you want your daughter to come in for counselling?”
He cleared his throat. “Your ad in the Yellow Pages said Dr. Clancy specializes in trauma counselling. My daughter’s been traumatized.”
“Under what circumstances, sir?”
He turned that over in his head. Where to start? There was the cult . . . she had grown up under Jacob’s strict rule. Who knew what all had gone on there. Julie had told him a little bit about the man named Clint who had come in and introduced some kind of witchcraft to the community. And the Oneness—he didn’t know all the factors there either; how the Oneness had gotten involved with the community and what Miranda had seen or heard. He did know a man had been killed and Julie had been, for a little while at least, a suspect. She was still involved in the court case. And of course, Julie herself had been shot—and then resurrected. And Miranda had hitchhiked back to the community and been picked up by Chris, and then had nearly been killed by a madman as a sacrifice. And then she had walked out through an incredible blaze holding the hands of a woman who was on fire and another woman who, according to his memory, was a ghost.
Oh, and she’d also been introduced to her father for the first time in her fifteen years of life.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into the phone.
“What was that, sir?”
“I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “This was a bad idea. I don’t think you can help us.”
He hung up. Hung his head in his hands. Raked his fingers through his hair.
This was too big.
Just too big. Too much. Too many factors he didn’t know how to begin to explain, let alone tackle. Really, it was no wonder Miranda was regressing and acting like a kindergartener. He would too if he were her age.
Shoot, he almost wanted to now.
Two answers presented themselves, and he didn’t want to look at either of them closely.
Julie was upstairs, taking a very long time about getting a shower. Miranda was at school. Calling a psychologist had been a dumb idea, but for a few minutes it had sounded like a way to make something of a start.
The trouble was, he realized, that psychologists only knew how to deal with human minds and emotions, and so much more than that was involved here.
Two answers.
One, call Chris. Sit down with the young man whose phone call had brought Andrew back into his daughter’s life in the first place and ask him for help, even though he was Oneness and his “help” was going to take him deeper than ever.
Two, try to somehow make contact with the Person who was apparently living inside of Julie.
Go straight to the root of the whole problem, essentially.
He laughed out loud at the idea.
Calling Chris might well lead to the same end, but at least the Oneness were human. Or they started out that way, anyway.
A voice in the back of his mind reminded him that Julie was also Oneness. True, he answered, but at the moment communication with Julie was a little strained, and anyway . . . she was different.
That was why April had come here. Because Julie wasn’t just like the rest of them.
He wondered if, when the words “for better or for worse” were written into traditional marriage vows, the powers that be had had any concept of what cults and charismatic leaders and killers and demons and spirits could do to a marriage.
“I’ve hung in there this far,” he muttered. “What’s a little more crazy in the grand scheme of things?”
Upstairs, he heard the shower shut off, quieting the noise of the pipes in the walls. He wondered what she’d been doing for the last forty-five minutes. Julie had never been high maintenance—well, not fifteen years ago, at least. She probably relished the time shut away from him to think. Maybe pray. Or whatever it was she did.
His hand was resting on the phone.
He picked it up and dialed another number.
There was no sense in pretending this whole situation was just a normal part of human experience, just a bump in the road that time and mutual effort could get them over. He needed help.
The Oneness was the only place he could think of to ask for it.
* * *
Julie came downstairs with her hair wrapped in a towel, her whole body still relaxed and her limbs heavy from the coma-inducing effects of the hot water. She couldn’t remember the last time she had just luxuriated in a shower like that. The community had drawn its water from its own well and heated it using precious energy produced mainly from their own windmills and solar panels—and frugality was a virtue in all things.
She could hear Andrew talking in the kitchen and drew close to the door, curious.
She felt love swell in her eyes as she anticipated seeing him. Love and gratitude. He was a good man. He was doing so much for them. She could hear the near-desperate tone in his voice, the humility—it only took her a moment to realize who he was talking to. That he would go to the Oneness and ask for help moved her heart. And gave her hope.
Maybe, after all, Andrew would become One.
And then, maybe, he would learn what the Spirit was. Would share her passion. Would help her figure things out.
Maybe.
But there was a hardness in his tone, too, a defensive wall she’d felt every time she tried to talk to him about these things. And she knew there was no guarantee the hardness would change.
Sometimes, increasing pressure only made hard things even harder. Sometimes, adversity made hearts impenetrable.
“Please, Spirit,” she whispered.
And she let the Spirit interpret the request.
“Can you hold on?” she heard Andrew say. “There’s a call coming in.”
She stepped into the kitchen doorway as he said, “Hello?”
His face went white.
She reached for the door frame to steady herself as his words made clear what the person on the other end had said. The conversion was hurried, and it ended with Andrew already halfway to the door, hanging the phone up as he grabbed his coat and keys.
He didn’t have to say the words, but he did.
“She’s gone. Miranda’s gone. They said she ran away.”
Chapter 9
Reese sat up straighter as Chris hung up, brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure. He had to get off the line, but then he just hung up on me . . . I think something’s up.”
He jumped on the phone when it rang again. The conversation was short. And Reese could already feel her sword forming in her hand in response to what she sensed before Chris got off.
“Miranda’s gone,” Chris said. “Her school said she ran away. Andrew and Julie are going after her.”
“With our help,” Reese said.
Chris smiled, locking eyes with her. “Of course.”
She held up
her sword, fully formed in her hand. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
Chris raised his eyebrows. “You’re expecting demons?”
There was a hardness in Reese’s voice. “Julie and Miranda lived in their presence. They don’t let go easy. Julie may be out of their reach, but unless Miranda has Joined, she isn’t.”
Chris had his car started in minutes, and Reese climbed in, slamming the door after her. She could see her breath on the frigid air, but she just rubbed her gloved hands together and breathed into them, cranking up the heat without a word of complaint.
Chris looked over at her as he threw the truck into gear and started down the long driveway of the cottage where he and Tyler still lived, apart from the rest of the Oneness cell. Since his Joining, the little house high on the cliff had become an open residence, a place where any of the village cell were likely to be found . . . just as Chris and Tyler spent much of their time at the main cell house. But the cottage was special to them both, and neither had wanted to leave it completely. Reese was looking out the window, her legs drawn up under her. She looked expectant—even excited.
He had almost forgotten he was marrying a warrior.
Reese had grown up in the cell in Lincoln, where warfare with the demonic was a way of life as it was not in the fishing village. She had been gifted from the beginning with the sword and in battle strategy and skill; she had led attacks, fought harrowing battles, and sent demons fleeing for their lives.
He hadn’t realized until now that she missed it.
* * *
The meeting with the principal and Miranda’s home room teacher was brief. Andrew wanted out as fast as possible—out so he could get on with the search for his daughter. They were little to no help. The teacher made a few snide remarks about Miranda’s immaturity and distractibility; Andrew cut her off. He could tell her a whole lot more about all that than she wanted to know.
“Just tell me where she might have gone, please. Or at least where you think she left from.”
The teacher and principal exchanged a look. “We have no idea where she might have gone,” the teacher confessed. Andrew couldn’t remember her name and didn’t ask again. Normally he was polite and well-mannered; today any such attention to details was a waste of time.
“Where was she last seen?” Andrew pressed.
“She came to class after lunch,” the teacher said. “She asked to go to the bathroom and didn’t come back.”
“Great. And no one saw her?”
“We called you when I realized she wasn’t coming back.”
“And that was . . .”
“An hour later.”
He looked helplessly at Julie. “Any idea where she would have gone?”
Julie shook her head. “I don’t know anything about her life here. I tried to ask her about school, but she just talked about her friends . . .”
“Her friends,” Andrew said. “Can we talk to her friends?”
The principal frowned. “Frankly, I find that a little intrusive. If you’re having trouble at home, that isn’t their problem.”
“This isn’t about trouble at home. She could be in a lot of trouble.”
“If you want my opinion, you should get your daughter in for counselling,” the principal said.
Andrew glared at him. You have no idea, he thought. None. Out loud he said, “We have to find her first. Can you give us access to her friends, please? We just need something to go on.”
He glanced over at Julie. She was frowning. A frown that went deep and bothered him. He cursed inwardly, wishing these people would just give him some kind of answer so he could get his wife out of here and ask what was going on.
Or maybe he didn’t need answers from them.
Maybe they truly could not help.
The teacher was talking. Saying yes? Offering help? He tried to shake away the distraction and listen to her. It didn’t work.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Just . . . excuse me a minute.”
He grabbed Julie’s arm and steered her out of the principal’s office, practically shutting the door in the faces of the confused faculty.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“There’s something wrong here.”
“Yes, there is. Miranda’s missing.” He forced his tone into a gentler vein. “Julie, what is it?”
“I’m not really sure. But something . . . I don’t trust them.” She pointed at the office door.
“Is it demons?”
“Not exactly. But there’s some kind of threat, Andrew—something very real.” She was starting to shake. “It’s familiar. Feels almost like . . . like Jacob’s here. I can’t tell you exactly.”
Andrew released his hold on her arm and leaned against the door. “Do you think Miranda could feel it too?”
Julie looked up, her eyes lighting. “Maybe.”
“And that’s why she ran.”
“I would guess.”
“So she would go . . .”
“Home,” Julie said. “She would go home. I’m sure she would. I can’t imagine her just taking off on her own. I mean, she did that once, but . . .”
Her voice faded, and colour drained from her face. “She did that once. When I disappeared, she went back to the community.”
“She wouldn’t try to go back there now?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s how she got there. She hitchhiked. Andrew, she hitchhiked.”
He stood up straight. “You think she did it again?”
“Does she know how to get to your house?”
“I doubt it. She’s been so . . . childlike. Out of it.”
“But she knows your address.”
“I drilled it into her the first day.”
“That’s it then. How in the world are we going to find her?”
“Maybe she was picked up by someone who will really just take her home.”
They stared at each other.
“Not everyone is a predator,” Julie said weakly.
Andrew didn’t answer. Didn’t voice all the things shouting in his head, the things he wanted to shout at her.
Not everyone has enemies. Enemies that are not even visible to most of the world.
Not everyone is at the centre of something so big it could reshape the world—something bigger than life and death.
Not everyone has you for a mother.
He forced himself to turn around and start walking away, toward the doors. His voice was tight, but he forced the invitation out—“Come on.”
He finished the speech in his head. Directed it at himself this time. And not everyone has you for a father. Not everyone is being looked after. Not everyone is loved.
You’re going to find her, he told himself. Save her from herself and from all this insanity.
You have to.
* * *
“Pull over,” Reese said, suddenly and without warning, as Chris idled the truck at a red light on the outskirts of Lincoln. The corner boasted a little store with barred windows covered in tattered posters and cigarette ads; on the other side, a newspaper box and mailbox fronted an empty lot.
“What?”
“The corner store—pull in.”
He did. “Reese, what’s . . .”
She was already getting out. “Back me up,” she called over her shoulder, and in the next instant she had gone into the store.
Swearing, Chris parked the truck and turned it off, yanking the keys out of the ignition. “Can’t even wait two sec—”
His muttering cut itself off as he realized a sword was forming in his hand.
Unlike Reese, he couldn’t make the thing materialize at will.
This was a response to the presence of the enemy.
Demons.
He walked in to find a sputtering store owner staring at Reese, who stood directly behind a young man in a leather jacket who had slumped to his knees on the floor. His head leaned against the counter; a gun dangled loosely in one hand.
“He must
have had some kind of attack,” Reese was saying. She was trying to hold the young man up, and Chris rushed to her side and grabbed him under the arms. He maneuvered the kid around and leaned him back against the counter. The store owner was rushing around to join them.
“He was going to rob me,” the owner jabbered, “and then this young lady come up and he just collapsed like that . . .”
“It’s okay,” Chris said, not sure what he was trying to assure the man of. “It’s all right. Like she said . . . he must have had some kind of spell.”
Reese had gone very quiet, and Chris turned to regard her. She was staring at the kid.
“What?”
Reese motioned toward him with her head. “You don’t recognize him?”
Chris looked back and took in the robber’s face for the first time.
Of course he recognized him.
Alex.
The teenage boy who had been in cahoots with Clint—Bertoller—and David and the rest of the hive.
Reese’s eyes were filling with tears. Chris had no idea why. He turned back to the store owner. “You probably want to call the police,” he said, “and file a—”
“Actually,” Reese interrupted, “since no harm is done, do you mind if we just take him with us?”
The store owner looked at her like she’d grown a second head. “What?”
Chris echoed the sentiment and the word. “What?”
“I know what I’m doing,” she said quietly. More loudly, she said, “He’s a friend . . . of a friend. He’s sick. You can see that . . . this spell. Seizures. There’s no harm done, right?”
Her argument had been less than coherent, but the store owner looked like he just wanted the whole situation out of his hair.
“You get him out of here, and he don’t come back, I’m happy.” He narrowed his eyes at Reese. “Seems to me you gave him that seizure.”
“No, no,” she said, already reaching for Alex’s shoulder as though she would help Chris lift him. “I just had . . . really good timing.”
Chris nudged her aside and picked Alex up himself, holding him under both arms and dragging him out to the truck. He waited until the teen was buckled into the backseat and Reese was seated beside him again before speaking.
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