Brystion and I limped into my living room, a bloody, stinky mess of smoke and daemon ichor, grass stains and gashes. Whole in body, if not in heart, anyway. Phineas had not returned, and Melanie . . . I’d let the ambulance take her away to the county hospital where I couldn’t follow. A quick phone call to Robert ensured she would be well guarded, and Brystion managed to wheedle our way out of too many questions. Just some concerned citizens walking home from the local bar, smelling something funny . . . I don’t know if I would have bought it myself, but the incubus could be mighty convincing. He somehow managed to flash a brilliant smile despite his pain. Melanie’s hand was broken, but it was the violin she was inconsolable about. “Find it, Abby,” her shattered voice shivered beneath the wail of the sirens. “My soul is inside it. The daemons have my soul.” Her words continued to echo in the back of my mind, hollow and aching, swirling with the disappearence of Phineas.
