It had eyes that were deep pits made of mucus and octopus tentacles.

Its skin was an oozing, scabby, bloody mess that creaked as it slunk along the floor on six misshapen limbs.

Its saliva was molten lava that leaked between its yellow, dagger-like teeth.

Its overall shape resembled an uncomfortably muscular scorpion with a humanoid body and a six-foot tail dripping venom.

The demon dropped to the sticky kitchen floor with a crunch—and the petrified goons inched backward, their faces pale and jaws slack. They couldn’t take their eyes off the monster. Not one of them dared to spare a fraction of their attention to check on the thieves they’d been about to enthusiastically murder.

The only problem—it was taking so much of my shredded, exhausted concentration to hold the Creature Feature projection that I couldn’t spare any thought for escaping.

Vera couldn’t see the monster, but she must’ve realized I was doing something. She grabbed my arm and guided me backward. I stumbled blindly, gaze locked on the creature, holding it even as my vision of the rest of the room wavered and doubled.

The monster drew itself up, spreading its limbs. Its chest expanded as it drew in a deep breath. Faustus and the goons went rigid with panic.

Door hinges creaked. The damp breeze hit my back as Vera drew me across the threshold.

Just before my line of sight cut off, I narrowed my eyes, panting with effort. The monster, poised to attack, loosed an ear-splitting roar and belched a spray of magma across the entire kitchen. Every mythic, Faustus included, dove for the floor, arms shielding their heads.

Then Vera and I were out the door. Holding my elbow in a death grip, she bolted down the alley, and I ran after her, my head spinning, stomach lurching, and limbs shaking from the mental and physical drain.

But hey, my demon-monster had been seriously freakin’ scary, right?

Chapter Twenty

I was aware that I was dreaming.

Or at least, I knew my surroundings couldn’t possibly be real. But they felt real—and I desperately wanted them to be real.

I was back in the house I’d lived in between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. No, not house. Home. This place was my home, more than any foster home, group home, or apartment I’d ever lived in.

It was a slender townhouse, two stories with a basement, and squished amongst a row of identical residences. I was in the living room, a space so small I could almost touch both walls if I stretched my arms out wide. Despite its size, it still managed to fit an old, soft couch with a tacky brown and orange floral pattern.

It creaked happily as I sank into it. A warm cup of chai tea sat on the coffee table. On the table’s other side was a pastel pink recliner.

And in it was Gillian.

Gillian had the most beautiful soul of any person I’ve ever met. She was seventy-six years old when I came to live with her. After her husband’s death a decade earlier, she’d started taking in foster children. Only one at a time and only teenagers.

Nobody wants teenagers. Nobody wants to take in a kid who’s already been so thoroughly screwed up that they can’t find a permanent home.

Nobody except Gillian.

After I’d run away from Dwayne, a.k.a. Baron von Foster-Douche, for the fourth time, he and his wife refused to take me back. I didn’t complain, though the uncertainty of moving to a new home had filled me with anxiety.

But the moment I stepped foot into Gillian’s house and she greeted me with her rosy smile, I knew I was in a good place.

Some people just ooze warmth and acceptance; Gillian was exactly that kind of person. She was a churchgoing lady, and every Sunday morning she would invite me to attend a service with her, and every Sunday morning I would politely decline, which never bothered her in the least.

“The invitation is always open,” she’d tell me lightly.

On the coffee table, she kept a large, leather-bound Bible—the very same one I’d rescued from my apartment, let Lienna take, and would never see again. Sometimes, Gillian would read from it, but most of the time, it had simply waited there, looking pretty.

It was on the table now, beside my cup of tea and within arm’s reach of Gillian, who was sipping her own hot drink.

“I’d rather cook my own food anyway,” she said. “Hospital food is the worst.”

We’d talked about that more than once.

Not long after my sixteenth birthday, Gillian developed a bad cough. Just a virus, we thought at first. But it lingered, then got worse, and eventually, the doctors confirmed it was terminal lung cancer. Just like that. One minute she had a cold, the next she was only a month away from the graveyard.

I was devastated, but Gillian refused to feel sorry for herself. She was more concerned about what would happen to me than to her.

She knew the system and she knew me. She understood that the foster system had trouble placing older teenagers, and that meant I’d likely wind up in another group home or something crappy like that. She also knew my predilection for running away.

The Gillian of my dream set her tea down on the coffee table and gave me that gentle smile I remembered so well.

“If I go to a hospital and die there,” she murmured, unafraid of the word “die,” even though I could never bring myself to say it, “they’ll take you away right then.”

“But if you go to the hospital, they can help,” I replied, unable to say anything but the words I’d uttered the day we’d had this conversation. “Maybe they can save you.”

“Oh heavens, I don’t think anyone except the Lord can save me at this point, Kit.”

“But they can help. For a little while, at least.”

“Sure, they could. I could be hooked up to machines with tubes down my throat and needles in my arm. And I could live like that for a little longer.” She picked up her tea again. “Or I could stay in the comfort of my own home with you and enjoy what time I have left.”

A deep ache grew in my stomach—the same pain I’d felt during the original conversation. That sickening feeling of inevitable loss. The helplessness, the fear, the overwhelming sadness. But it was layered in with something new. A regret that stuck through me like a long, thin pin. A yearning to hold on to the past.

“You’re a beautiful boy,” she said softly. “I’ve never told you this before, but it’s your compassion that makes you beautiful. Do you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You hurt when you see others hurt. You want to help them so badly it drives you crazy. That’s a beautiful quality. I won’t be around much longer to remind you of that, so I want you to promise me that you won’t forget it.” She took another sip of her tea, as if that would punctuate her statement. “Do you understand, Kit? Promise me you won’t forget.”

I picked up my tea and held it close to my face to hide the way my lips trembled. “I won’t. I won’t forget.”

Those words twisted the needle of remorse.

“Life will be hard on you,” she continued. “We both know that. You’re going to run away again. You’re almost a grown man, so I think you should.” Her eyes, framed by softly wrinkled skin, met mine. “Run, Kit. Find a place in this world and claim it. You have incredible gifts, and you should use them to make your way.”