“Thanks.” I think. I studied him, too, intrigued by the contrasts. Maturity and purpose burned in his eyes, but the rest of him appeared casual and slightly offbeat. He bit his cheek, thinking.

“How about you tell me if there’s something specific you’d like to know. Oh, hold on; let me turn on my recorder.” He jumped up, brought back a small voice recorder, and placed it on the coffee table.

“Um, I—”

He settled into the cushions, his entire face illuminated with anticipation. I could easily picture him rubbing his hands together in mad scientist glee. “Among other things, I’ve been researching out-of-body experiences, dying, and resurrection. You don’t mind, do you?”

Yeah, I did, but he seemed so excited about hearing what I had to say. “No, it’s fine.”

“Terrific.” He pushed the record button. “Ready when you are.”

The nerves returned thanks to that little black box on the table. Mott wasn’t what I’d expected, and the Adonai across the room was still staring. I tried to ignore it and get over my fear of talking about that night, but it was harder than I thought.

Maybe I should have taken that drink after all. My mouth had gone bone dry. Oh, for God’s sake, Charlie, just do it. Deep breath a-a-a-nd go …

“I’ve been having nightmares ever since you brought me back,” I forced out in one breath. “I thought it was just a dream, but I’m beginning to wonder whether some of it actually happened that night, after I died.”

“Like a repressed memory.”

“Right. Do you remember anyone else being in the room with you when you were there?”

“You think someone else was there?”

“You tell me.”

He sat back and shrugged. “There were lots of people. In and out. Doctors, nurses. Your partner. I couldn’t possibly remember them all.”

“But you were left alone with me, when they all gave up. It was just you. You kept trying.” He nodded. “And no one came in then, during that time?”

“Charlie.” He shifted to look at me squarely, his knee bumping into mine. “Often those who experience near-death see people—loved ones, beings they describe as angels or even God. Is that what you saw?”

“No, it was more like the devil,” I muttered, frustrated. “Sorry.” I rubbed my face with both hands and let out a tired exhale. “I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not anymore. I thought I saw someone earlier tonight who looked like the man in my dream. I don’t know. Maybe it was just a close resemblance, or maybe I’d seen him before the near-death.”

Mott’s hand on my knee brought the direction of my thoughts back to him. “Trauma leaves all manner of scars, some unseen.” He lifted his comforting hand, leaving a cold spot where warmth had just been. Inventor’s hands; stained with ink and covered in cuts, scratches, and calluses, both old and new. “How have you been feeling physically since then?”

“Exhausted. I wake and feel like I’ve been up all night working.”

“Anything else?” he asked in a tone that tried too hard to be casual.

I straightened in the chair. “Why?”

“Often, in the cases I’ve studied so far, residual effects can linger on a person. Psychic energy. An awakening of sorts. Your brush with death, assuming you had a near-death experience—which by all accounts you seem to be saying you had—could’ve caused you to come back with a new awareness, added intuition, a stronger sixth sense … things like that.”

Made sense, I guess. Who was I to say it wasn’t possible? Hell, obviously, I’d come back with something. Something akin to a war inside me. Something that gave me the strength to kill one minute and the ability to heal the next.

“Are you experiencing a greater psychic awareness?”

Did he mean was I more intuitive, could I sense people’s emotions more easily than before? “Yes. But there are other things. I’m stronger. I heal faster than normal.” I thought of the green flash I saw briefly around Aaron in The Bath House. “I think I’m starting to see auras or flashes of color around people … I know. I’ve lost my mind, right?”

“No, no, you haven’t. Who’s to say what happens during this sort of experience? We still don’t know. How’s your health?”

“Fine. I haven’t been sick in a long time. Just tired.” He couldn’t help me. My hope deflated. He didn’t know any more about near-death than I did. “Are you sure no one else came into the room?”

Mott shook his head and gave me a sorry half-smile. I felt more frustrated than ever. I stood, eager to get out of the lab. The Adonai on the table hadn’t stopped staring the entire time, that small, cruel smile still playing on his lips. When I rose, I turned my back to him and focused on Mott. “Thanks for seeing me, Doctor Mott.”

“Please, just Titus,” he said, standing. “My parents were both historians. Had a thing for Latin names.”

I smiled.

He motioned me from his living room. “I enjoyed seeing you again, Detective. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. But I’d like for you to come by for a thorough examination. We may yet find a reason for your symptoms. Please schedule it with Andy on your way out.”

I nodded and had to turn toward Llyran to step around the chair. Briefly, our eyes connected. His grin widened, but I looked away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. The guy was a serial killer and deserved whatever the hell Mott was doing to him. “Don’t be a stranger, Charlie Madigan,” he called, enjoying whatever mind game he was playing. Probably got off on it, the sicko.

My eyelids grew heavy on the drive home. It was past 2A.M. The road stretched out before me, monotonous and empty save for a few stragglers like myself. Lulled by the quiet hum of the car, my emotions reared to the surface. Defeat pricked my ego and spread sour, like heartburn, through my chest.

I was changing inside, and I needed help. I just didn’t know where to turn.

Hank and Bryn had repeatedly offered, but I couldn’t bring myself to draw them into whatever was going on with me. I didn’t want them to see me as any different than the way I used to be before I died. Me. Charlie Madigan. Detective. Human. Mother. Now it seemed I barely resembled myself.

No, I couldn’t go to them; somebody in my life had to see me normally. I needed that kind of stability. My fingers flexed on the steering wheel, and I had to consciously stop myself from squeezing so tight. I should’ve made an appointment with Andy on the way out of the lab, but it hadn’t felt right. I kept thinking of Llyran—I didn’t want to be Titus Mott’s latest lab rat.

In my line of work I was privy to all manner of supernatural beings and experts. Maybe I could find someone neutral, someone who could be objective, someone powerful and knowledgeable enough to know exactly what my problem was. A few names floated around in my head as I hit the blinker to turn onto my street. Unfortunately, I’d pissed off most of them enough times that they’d probably shut the door in my face.

A group of people blocked the street up ahead directly in front of my house. There were bright lights, a camera van, and people with signs. Immediately I hit the lights and pulled the Tahoe to the curb. A couple of my neighbors were walking to or from the scene. A few patrol cars blocked the street and officers were trying to keep order. This couldn’t be good. I turned up my scanner and listened.

Someone had thrown a brick through my window.

The police had been called. Then the media.

Now the jinn, with CPP support, were picketing my house.

This was total bullshit. I got out of the car, tugged on my jacket, flipped the collar, and walked casually toward my house, somewhat hidden by the darkness and the row of cars parked along the street across from the house. With every step my anger grew. I loved our little bungalow, and those assholes were trampling all over the lawn, in the flower beds, and some soon-to-be-hurting jerk-off had broken my front window. I stopped behind a parked car, careful not to draw attention from the two jinn stationed near the house. They were looking, hoping I’d show up, hoping, I realized, to issue a summons from Grigori Tennin. Great. Couldn’t they have waited until morning, at least?