I wince. Now that I know what I know about Dad, I’m not sure that’s the compliment she thinks it is.

  “Your father was full of vitality when we first met. Over the years, I saw it wane, and I couldn’t help wondering if it was because he’d tied himself down. He wasn’t living his destiny.”

  I keep my eyes on my plate. “Or maybe it was just the cancer.”

  “The boy has a point, Stella.” Grandpa always has my back.

  Mom smiles down at me, shaking her head at Grandpa’s stubbornness as well as my own. “You’ll always be my baby, Rion.” She pulls my head into her stomach and combs her fingers through my hair the way she did when I was young. “But you’ve got to get out there and find yourself. Discover your potential. See everything there is to see. Do everything there is to do. Your grandpa and I will be here for you whenever you need to ground yourself.”

  My eyes begin to sting because Mom isn’t entirely wrong. Home can be a stifling place, as nice as it is to know I have one. The thought of leaving breaks my heart, but the thought of staying has broken my spirit even more. What Mom is trying to give me now is a gift. I know that. Ever since Dad died, I’ve let my dreams go in favor of staying by her side. She shouldn’t have to shoulder the burden of Grandpa’s care and the bakery all by herself.

  I wrap my arms around her waist and squeeze. “I love you, Mom. Let’s not talk about this right now, okay?”

  “Just promise you’ll think it over,” she says, still combing her fingers through my hair. “You’re always welcome to stay with us. We’d be blessed to have you here. But don’t throw your ambitions away because of Grandpa and me. I don’t think either one of us would be happy to know that’s what you were doing.”

  Grandpa grunts his agreement, and there’s not a lot I can say in protest. We finish our dinner in silence. When my alarm goes off, I clear my plate and head for my room. On my way, I turn back and poke my head into the dining room. “You both know how much I love you, right?”

  With a mouth full of potatoes, Grandpa says, “Go on, boy. Grass isn’t gonna mow itself.” His dementia’s been getting worse over the last several months, which is a big part of my hesitation about leaving.

  I think Mom understands because she shoots him a look like he’s just ruined something she’s been working on all night. “We love you too, Rion,” she says. “Now go have fun with your friends.”

  That’s another lie I’ve told her, that I’m meeting my friends tonight. I feel sick about it, but part of me knows everything is about to change in my life, and not the way my mom would like it to.

  * * *

  In downtown Mobile, there’s one establishment that claims to have the most substantial deck in the city. Conveniently, it’s called The Deck, so no one can forget what it has to offer. Really, it’s a dive bar frequented by college students. I thought it would be a reasonable place to meet Eden, considering how dark and loud it is. No one will overhear our conversation, and no one will likely come looking for either of us here.

  I show up ten minutes early because I loathe being late to anything, and to my surprise, Eden is already waiting at the bar. When I see five empty shot glasses in front of him and a bottle of cheap beer in his hand, I realize why. The man’s probably been here for hours. It’s becoming painfully clear my maybe-brother is a raging alcoholic.

  On the wall above the bar, four smoke-obscured televisions blare commentary on a recent college baseball game. Eden is talking to a waitress with braided brown hair and a black t-shirt that hangs down to her thighs and provides infrequent glimpses of the shorts she’s wearing underneath. He doesn’t even seem to notice how smoking hot she is. He talks to her like he would talk to a man—aggressively, laughing loudly, missing everything soft and curvaceous about her. He’s not even attempting to flirt. They seem to be arguing about the game, in fact. I suppose it’s up to me to rescue the poor girl. Eden strikes me as the type who can be loudly, confidently wrong about something for hours on end.

  Before I can intervene, he waves me over. “Hey! You made it. I didn’t think you’d actually show.” His breath reeks of all the liquor he must have consumed in the course of the evening.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  The waitress turns to me. “Hey, sweetie, what would you like?” I can see the relief in her expression, so I give her the most apologetic look I can as I order a local microbrew.

  Eden whistles at my order. “Ooh, fancy man. Gonna drink that from a brandy snifter?”

  “Forgive me for not appreciating piss in a bottle.”

  His eyes widen. “Now he’s spicy all of a sudden. Ha!” He slaps a hundred-dollar bill on the bar as the waitress brings my order. “Here’s your tip… Is it Melissa? For putting up with my bullshit for the last hour.”

  Melissa stares down at the bill and back up at him. “That’s a hundred.”

  He leans in and murmurs, “I know. Got nothing else to spend it on, but you know how it is. Gotta justify the budget.”

  “Well… thank you. I mean, wow. I mean, thank you!” She takes the hundred and looks like she wants to hug him, but she doesn’t. “Let me know if you two need anything else. Seriously.” And she skips off.

  “Why do you do it?” I ask after his smile evaporates. “You tipped Phoebe four hundred the night I met you, and I know it wasn’t for the service.” I laugh. Phoebe is the worst bartender I’ve ever met, but I think some people like to be ridiculed.

  He sways a moment, looking taken aback. “Like I said, gotta justify the budget.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He rolls his eyes, and I follow him as he stumbles to a table outside. The night air is heady and humid. Outdoor lights are strung overhead, and country music twangs over the speakers on the deck. In one corner, an employee grills something that smells heavenly on a huge barbecue. It’s too bad I already ate.

  “Service workers like to be appreciated,” Eden finally says after choosing a table far from other patrons. “And so do I. Did you see how happy that made her? She works her ass off for peanuts and puts up with dickheads like me all day. She deserves a little reward every once in a while.”

  I sit across from him and take a sip of my beer. “That’s really nice of you, you know.”

  He slams his drink down. “You take that back! I am not nice. I’m the Grim—”

  “Reaper. Yeah, yeah. The Grim Reaper of turning those frowns upside down.”

  He chokes on his drink and gestures with it, spilling some onto the table. “Caution, young one. I’m a curmudgeonly, old bastard, and you do not want to annoy me.”

  I can’t help provoking him. “When did you learn that word—curmudgeonly? Recently? Seems a bit multisyllabic for you.”

  “Shut it.” He glares across the table and sighs. “I’ve been reading…” He hiccups. “Jesus… I’ve been reading”—his eyebrows pinch together as he thinks a moment, and then he gives up—“things. You wouldn’t understand.”

  As amusing as this conversation is, I haven’t entirely forgotten why I’m here. I sigh. “Let’s cut to the chase. Say what you came here to say.”

  “Huh?”

  “What do you mean ‘huh?’ You’re the one who called me. You said you’d tell me everything about the organization and the artifact my ‘damn family’ is hiding.”

  He scratches the back of his head and then cries out, “Ohhh, now I remember!”

  It’s nearly impossible to reconcile this version of Eden with the one who casually beheaded a man in an alley after getting shot multiple times. This Eden is a loser. He pulls out his phone and starts tapping the screen. When he finds what he’s looking for, he squints down at it, pulls out a pair of glasses, which make him look deceptively dignified, and begins to read.

  This is how I learn about the House of David, their objective, and even some of their history. This is how I learn about the artifacts, the cults they inspire, and how many historic events they’ve triggered. The Nazis in Germany, the Crusades, and Charlemagne’s Holy Roman Empire. The only reason there aren’t more religious uprisings these days is because of the work the House of David does, stamping out the little fires before they can spread.

  Eden also tells me about Seditio and how they’re working against the House to encourage more uprisings and cults. They believe chaos will bring people to God, and the whole idea of them terrifies me. “Those are the men who attacked you?” I ask.

  He nods. “They’re ridiculous, little cosplayers, if you ask me, but there’s nothing ridiculous or little about the damage they do.”

  I take a moment to process what he’s told me, recalling that night, the way he fought, the brutality of the killings, and how, no matter how many times those men in masks hit him, Eden just wouldn’t die. “None of this explains why you survived all those bullets to the chest,” I say.

  “Ah, that.” He closes a window on his phone and opens another, pulling his glasses a little further down his nose. “Okay, so in 1902, Judge Jonathan Hubbard tested the Finger of God—that’s a piece of wood said to have been part of the cross Jesus was nailed to—to see what properties it possessed. He found the wood hosted a new kind of microorganism. It interacts with living flesh in a way that enables rapid tissue regeneration. Basically, if the Finger of God is under your skin, then you’ll heal incredibly quickly. However, if you’re shot or stabbed through the heart, there’s nothing it can do for you.”

  “And if you’re beheaded?”

  “Yeah, don’t get beheaded either.”

  Though the information he’s sharing is incredible, it reminds me of little things my dad used to say—a joke here and there, the unusual way he prayed—and I find myself believing every word. I’m also amused that Eden’s reading this information off his phone instead of just telling me. “You didn’t write any of those notes, did you?”

  His over-the-glasses look is on point. “No, Sarah did.”

  “And who’s Sarah?”

  “Ah!” He starts shuffling through windows on his phone again. “I was just getting to that. You’ll meet her, if you accept my offer.”

  “What offer?”

  “Hang on.” While he searches, he continues his explanation. “Your father… I mean our father… gathered intel for the House. He found artifacts and alerted the Judges—people like me—to new leads. I suspect that’s how he got involved with the Bachmans, so…” His brow knits as he furiously taps his screen. “Where the hell is it?”

  I cross my arms, lean back in my chair, and tease him in a motherly tone. “Use your words, Eden.”

  He’s about to spit some insult back at me when something on his screen stops him dead in his tracks. “It’s a special alert,” he mumbles. “Eight murders in the past twenty-four hours—home invasions. The Heltons… Shit. They were shot. The police are advising people to stay in their homes until a suspect can be identified. This is bad.”

  “Who are the Heltons?” I ask, but he’s already on his feet, slipping his arms through the sleeves of his long coat.

  “We have to go. Now. I’ll explain on the way.” He’s about to leave when he suddenly remembers his unfinished drink and pauses just long enough to guzzle the rest of it. Then he shoves his way through the bar to the front entrance. As soon as we’re outside, he starts to run.

  I follow close behind him. “Why are we running? Did you kill those people? Are the police after you?”

  “No!” He sounds offended. “Where’s your car?”

  “Don’t you want to take yours?”

  “I’m drunk, genius. You need to drive. Get us to your house ASAP!”

  He beheads people in alleys, but he won’t drive drunk. Interesting. I lead the way to my car. “Why my house?” I unlock the doors and settle into the driver’s seat.

  He slides in beside me as I start my engine. “I should never have let any of those Seditio bastards walk away. I should have killed every one of them.”

  I check both ways before pulling out of my parking space. “Seatbelt,” I remind him.

  “Are you kidding me?” He’s sweating, and it’s weird to see him this distressed. “Fuck a seatbelt, kid, your family’s gonna die if we don’t get there in time!”

  “What?”

  “Gun it! Go!”

  His urgency is enough to spike my adrenaline. I speed through downtown, ignoring the red lights and stop signs. “You’ll pay my tickets, right?”

  “God damn it!” He really is worried, and it’s starting to rub off on me. “Faster! Seditio is sending a message. They’re not gonna stop with the Heltons. Those people did nothing, do you hear me? Nothing! Your family’s got a much bigger stake in this than they did. The Bachmans are hiding the Chains of Peter. Everyone knows it now. If you think Seditio might spare your mother because she’s polite to them, you’re about to learn a very hard lesson about terrorists.”

  Eden grabs the handhold as I screech around a tight corner. I swear two wheels are off the ground, but I can’t help it. An image of my mom at the wrong end of a gun has struck me, and I don’t care about anything else anymore.

  I swerve into my driveway and slam on the brakes. The tires scream in protest. I don’t even bother with the parking brake. I just spring from the car, run to the front door, and barge in, panting… And my mom and grandpa are sitting on the couch watching television. Oh, thank god. No one’s gotten them. Maybe Eden just overreacted. He was drunk, after all.

  “Rion, what’s going on?” Grandpa says, looking even more confused than usual.

  “Nothing,” I gasp. “I hope it’s nothing. But we’ve got to go. You’re both in danger.”

  They stand just as a figure steps from the shadows. It isn’t Eden. “Where do you guys think you’re going?” he says. He’s wearing a red hannya mask, which I recognize from my Japanese theater class. It’s strange to see such an ancient depiction—an image I associate with education and performance art—sitting atop a figure in a blue t-shirt, khakis, and military boots. It’s like he’s stolen something beautiful and taken a shit on it.

  The intruder waggles his gun at my mom and grandpa. “Obviously, someone tipped you off. Was it that Judge? It really doesn’t matter. Here’s the thing, you either tell me where the Chains of Peter are or you all die just like every other family that wasn’t able to give us what we wanted.” His voice is raspy, like he’s been screaming all day.

  “What on earth are Chains of Peter?” Grandpa says.

  The intruder points a gun directly at him. “Sir, you’ve lived a long life. One more word that isn’t the location of the chains, and I put you out of your misery. I won’t even feel bad about it. Your choice.”

  I dart in front of Grandpa. “They don’t know anything! Let them go. You can deal with me. I’m the one who knows, okay? I know all about the House of David and the Chains of Peter and the cults and everything. They don’t.”

  The intruder scoffs. “Cults? Is that what they told you? Get off your horse, white knight. You don’t know shit.”

  The sound of Eden’s attack precedes the sight of it. I hear a slash and the crack of bone. The intruder’s eyes open wide. Blood cascades down his neck and soaks into his shirt. Eden’s hand clasps the man’s hair as his body falls away from his head. I recognize the weapon he used in the alley, and I swear my heart stops for a moment. I back into Grandpa, who doesn’t move an inch. A strangled cry escapes Mom’s lips.

  Eden just cracks his neck and drops the masked head. Then he casually pulls out his phone and dials a number with too few digits. It isn’t 911. “Dowler. Confirmed, six Seditio agents killed. I need someone to clean the area. I’ll pin my coordinates.”

  Mom fumbles for my hand behind me. When she’s caught it, she squeezes it a little too hard. She’s still trembling as she whispers, “Orion?”

  Before I can respond, Eden whirls around and marches toward us. “All righty, Mrs. Bachman. This can be hard, or it can be easy. It’s up to you, really. My name is Eden Dowler. Sorry to say, I’m familiar with your dearly departed husband. I know how he treated people he claimed to care about, and the fact that he treated you a thousand times better must mean he actually loved you.” He laughs bitterly. “Who’d have thought the bastard actually had a heart? Now, people rarely have marriages as good as yours reportedly was while keeping secrets from each other. So I’m going to guess he told you a thing or two about the artifact hidden in this house—the one he failed to hand over to the organization he worked for.”

  Mom stammers a bit.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “He’s here to protect us. Dad got us into something big, apparently, and Eden’s just trying to get us out of it.”

  Eden glances up at the ceiling and grimaces in a way that tells me I’ve just unwittingly told Mom yet another lie. Then he shrugs. “Eh, close enough. Anyway, Mrs. Bachman, if you could just point me in the direction of wherever your husband happened to hide his most treasured possessions, that would be extremely helpful.”

  “I… I don’t…” Mom lets go of my hand and starts to wring her shirt.

  “Think.” Eden taps his temple. “Where did dear old Dad keep his most shameful secrets? Maybe he had some weed stashed away, a few porno mags, some sex tapes he didn’t want the kid to find?”

  Suddenly, all Mom’s nervousness melts away and is replaced with a fury I’ve never seen in her. “How dare you,” she growls. “Barging into my house, traumatizing my father, insulting my husband! You’re… You’re a horrible man!”

  Eden snorts. “It does seem to run in the family.” He rolls the decapitated head back and forth under his shoe like a soccer ball. “Come on, Mrs. Bachman… Or Stella, was it? I’m an ass, and you want me out of your house. It’s understandable. So take me to your husband’s things. I’ll grab what I’m looking for and leave. You do want me to leave, don’t you? I mean, I’d be happy to stay for dinner if—”