And, besides having no eyes or ears, he was also missing his tongue. Which makes sense now as to why he was merely grunting and growling. Although, I was more impressed when I thought it was part of his dedication to the bestial personification.

Setting the shot glass on the bar, I spin the glass three times. Then I drive my bandage-covered hand through my hair and expel a breath. “Another,” I tell Pal.

This time, however, Pal takes no sympathy on my misery. “You’re cut off.”

I push the shot glass to the edge of the bar. Just as well. Pal isn’t giving me any celebratory drinks, just as the agents aren’t buying. I’m not the hero. There are no heroes in this story. But since I don’t have access to funds, this drinking session is on Dr. Verlice.

I lay Stoll’s credit card on the bar.

I’m not deliberately trying to drink her from my thoughts. That would be impossible. Obsessions don’t yield so easily.

I’m just trying to learn to breathe without her.

I revel in the burn at the back of my throat, savoring it like I savor Halen’s fiery fragrance that sears my senses more fiercely than any watered-down bourbon.

I was quite possibly delusional in my pursuit. I should have locked her up in the basement of my mountain home like a fucking lunatic and rubbed lotion on her skin until she accepted our inevitability.

But when her pleading hazel eyes—so full of anguished heartache—seared through me, she gave me little choice. She owned me in that moment. I sold my soul to my muse, the little fairy creature of myth, and I charged a sigil right on her flesh.

Did I believe it would work?

That she’d vanish into the night and forget all our atrocities?

There was just enough curiosity left inside me to say fuck it, let’s see what happens.

Here’s the truth of it: No matter the method of practice or conjuring—whether you’re a believer or agnostic—it all comes down to the “will to power.”

Nietzsche’s mind over matter.

Or, as Aleister Crowley, one of Nietzsche’s most devoted disciples, stated: “Every intentional act is a magickal act.”

The mind is the most powerful form of sorcery in this world.

And I intentionally acted on my desire to will her into my life.

Maybe I gave the powers that be a helping hand also… But, as I’ve said, patience is not my virtue. Even the Fates need a nudge in the right direction.

My effort to unblock Halen by utilizing every trick I’ve picked up from a lifetime of study failed. Sex, blood, saliva, semen—the most potent combination—all employed to charge a new sigil, and yet her mind, and her will, remains stronger.

My muse wants to linger in the dark.

Feeling the burn of alcohol course my veins, I touch the bandage around my hand with a forlorn sentiment. When questioned about how I obtained the injuries, I told the truth—that I’d given them to myself. I am diagnosed with brief psychotic disorder, after all. There’s never any reason to lie when people are willing to provide excuses for you.

They want the lie. The truth is too disturbing to accept.

According to the rumors I’ve been able to overhear from the bar patrons, the story is Dr. St. James was further investigating the crime scene when the perpetrator attacked. The attack left Dr. St. James injured and in a state of shock after she defended herself. Agent Alister noted the task force’s efforts to close in on the hermit suspect is what drew him out.

Of course, Alister would take the credit. I’m sure Halen was all too willing to fade into the background. In the end, her profile was accurate, and the locals made the connection to the hermit suspect faster than the feds. Only they didn’t realize how vital his ritual site was.

Did I know he’d show last night? No. Not for sure. It wasn’t part of the initial design. But when you’re asking chaos to answer your prayer, you accept the gift.

I did suspect the offender would be drawn out eventually, as there was one thing Halen overlooked in the tale of Zarathustra.

The sorcerer.

The corrupter of morals.

He presented a challenge to Zarathustra. The suspect would feel threatened by both me and Halen on his sacred grounds.

And yes, I may be the fucking devil incarnate for using Halen’s extremely heightened emotions to try to break the seal of her mind, but if she was going to resurface, it had to be during extreme duress, channeling the frenzy.

Just as I’d seen her that very first night.

Walking the university grounds, immersed in her pain, luring me into the mystery of her.

Despite what lies she feeds herself and me, little Halen had a reason to be at my university as, on that day, on the anniversary of her parents’ death, she was visiting their alma mater in remembrance.

Research is what I do.

I watched her. Followed her. Seeing her take a life brought me to life. So call it what you want. I don’t care if she’s a gift from the gods or the abyss—she’s the muse that revived my dead soul.

Of course, at the time, had I known my muse would return and make me the prime suspect, and that I’d be charged with murder… Well, I might not have given in to her request so easily.

In retrospect, I should have left a note in block letters. However I did try to help her by hinting to Wellington’s wife as a suspect. Instead, her psyche mistook the intensity of our connection as instinct to point the finger at me.

“I’m going for a walk,” I announce.

I leave the bar, knowing the agents will keep up. With dulled reflexes, I dodge camera crews and reporters and true crime fanatics on my route toward the rickety bridge in the town’s central park. The hotel is crawling with leeches, and this spot is the only place to get a moment’s peace away from the mayhem.

The trimmed, bright-green grass of the common reminds me of the campus grounds I strolled daily in my previous life.

Admittedly, I was bored. With life. My career. Achievements. All of it.

Before she crashed my world, I was even contemplating a way out. Hell, all the greats had their untimely demises. No one fades out, pissing themselves in a diaper bound to a death bed and is remembered.

That’s an eternal death sentence.

To be revered, first, you go stark raving mad, then you exit this world in a blaze.

I thought I was nearly to the point of acquiring my madness—especially when, after the keynote speech where Wellington pushed all my hot, little buttons, I decided to carve a sigil in my chest and beg the universe to either give me a muse, some reason to wake up the next day, or I’d go out in a blaze of philosophical glory.

Yes, I realize how overly dramatic I was. But unless one has battled the damning confliction of a brilliant mind, then one cannot commiserate the astounding torture monotony wreaks on that mind. I could never achieve that sort of blissful ignorance that comes from a simple life. I needed divine inspiration to exist.

So when little Halen washed up on my shores of despair, all fiery emotional damage and beautiful agony, my heart beat for the very first fucking time.

Passion lit a fuse of obsession.

Everything about her was new. Exciting. Dangerous. She had extensive knowledge. However, not completely surprising when, the very next day, she wandered up on the crime scene as a profiler.

The start of a dangerously intoxicating game. Our very own secret society of two with a shared, hidden wisdom.

Oh, there is more to the story of that night. How events unfolded. Details that will help Halen further shed light on her dark corner—but she will have to be such a good girl to earn it. I promised her I’d be an open book, and I have every intention of honoring that promise.

To the bloody, blazing end.

I brace my elbows on the wooden beam of the bridge. The winding stream below flows over boulders, tranquil until it encounters the hardened obstacle in its path. Even the destructive, powerful force of the water is thwarted in its mission at times and has to navigate a new course.