San Barkett was a small but well-traipsed coastal community three hours north of Verweald. Affluent homes dotted the sage hills, while smaller, red-roofed dwellings bordered the town's center. Bohemians sold art on the boardwalk during the weekends while residents with far too much disposable income ate at trendy cafes, and blooming jacarandas bordered the main boulevard, the delicate purple blossoms covering the asphalt and paved walkways.

San Barkett was where I grew up.

I directed Amoroth where to go and stared out the window without taking in the scenery. I knew those lovely flowering trees, those cliffs cut like broken treads against the battering waves. I once read that scientists could analyze isotopes to see where someone was raised, and I wondered if they'd see San Barkett reflected in my bones. I knew every corner of this place, and I'd washed my hands of it when I left at eighteen.

My childhood home was a five-bedroom new-traditional house built in the classical style. White columns framed the high porch, and most of the large windows faced the sloped lawn, the yard bordered by juniper hedges and an overgrown dogwood tree with its branches spread above the concrete walkway. No cars waited in the driveway, but I asked Amoroth to park alongside the tended parkway. Surprisingly, she did so.

"Nice house. Much better than yours, by the way. Why did you want to come here?" she asked, squinting through the early afternoon sunshine. The house was just as I remembered it; the front door the same cobalt blue as the facia, the white trim around the glossy windows pristine, freshly painted. I suddenly felt much younger—much younger and stupider.

I glanced at Amoroth. She had a curious glint in her eyes I didn't like or appreciate. "Would you stay in the car? I'll only be a minute."

"Oh yes," she mocked, opening her door. "I drove for three hours to just sit in the car. You do realize I don't technically have to drive anywhere, right?"

Right. Being able to move through the Realm at her own convenience meant Amoroth only took her car for appearance's sake—or for the convenience of people like me who couldn't be transported through the Realm for whatever reason. I still had to ask Darius about that, if I could ever find the right opportunity to question the difficult creature.

"Fine," I grunted as I got out.

We crossed the lawn, Amoroth following silently behind me, and I didn't ring the bell when I reached the porch; instead, I crouched by the flowerbed and flipped a decorative rock hidden in a philodendron.

"Why are we here, Gaspard? Robbery? Murder?"

I glowered at her. "No."

"Don't look at me like that. I don't know your proclivities."

Amoroth's scrutiny wore on my nerves as I opened the front door and walked inside the unlit the foyer.

"Nobody home?" she queried as she slammed the door and plunged us both into darkness.

"No," I said, flipping the light switch. I knew no one would be home at this hour, as both Luc and Eleanor had demanding work schedules, though I didn't explain this to the nosy Sin and instead continued deeper into the house, climbing the wide stairs.

The stairwell wall held a collection of slim frames, each photo capturing a moment from my childhood. Tara was predominantly featured, though I made several appearances, as did my parents. Luc had a slender, youthful presence he inherited from his own father. He smiled easily, in contrast to Eleanor's more severe expression, her makeup and hair impeccable in every picture.

Amoroth lingered on the stairs as she took in the assorted gallery. "Mmm...this is your parents' residence."

"Yup." On instinct, I opened the first door past the landing. Part of me expected to find my bedroom just as I had left it, so surreal was the timelessness of this house—but the room had been converted to a home gym, every trace of my tenancy eliminated. I slammed the door.

"Why are we here if your family isn't? Is that what this little impromptu trip was about? Are you feeling nostalgic, Gaspard?" I heard Amoroth's laughter echo in the hall as I pushed in the door to the master suite. "So, even Darius' cold-hearted mortal cries for her mummy."

I said nothing, though temptation burned in my veins. Cry for mom? It'd been years since I'd asked Eleanor for anything, let alone cried for the woman. Even half a decade after I'd moved out, our conversations were stilted at best, and one-sided at worst.

I left Amoroth in the hall picking over my childhood like some persnickety vulture, and I hurried into the main bedroom, past the large bed and the antique davenport, holding my breath against that burning smell of rubbing alcohol and crisp laundry soap. There were two walk-in closets—the first overflowing with expensive couture, the latter stocked with a supply of pressed suits and dress shirts. I entered my Luc's closet and shoved aside the loaded hangars to kneel by his shoes, inhaling the smell of leather and polish.

For a moment, I wished he was home and that I could have seen him today. I couldn't—wouldn't—face Eleanor, but I missed my father, missed his simple affection and warm laugh, even if he never stood up to his damn wife. I had questions for him, too—questions about Rene and those strange, lingering words shaking in my memories, that silver-lined ampoule now held by a Sin.

What does it matter in the end?

The click of the dial swiveling on the safe was loud. Amoroth heard it and came to investigate, standing in the closet's doorway, framed by the diffused sunlight filtering into the bedroom. Her eyes glittered in her shadowed face—until I withdrew my hand from the safe's innards with a .45 caliber pistol cradled in my palm.

"A gun?" she demanded, her displeasure cooling the house. "I drove for three hours to this over-hyped fishing village for a gun? For God's sake, I could have given you a gun and saved myself the bloody effort."

"I didn't ask you to come," I reminded her as I checked the clip. I counted eight brass-colored bullets. "I was attacked yesterday, Amoroth. Attacked again. Darius saved my life—but he could have been too late, and the bastard still had my gun hidden somewhere. Depending upon him or you or anyone besides myself to stay alive is foolish, and it's the surest way to get myself killed. Yes, I could have asked you for a gun, but I didn't. I'm not going to ask you for anything. I don't cry to anyone, Lust."

I did though, didn't I? I thought to myself, slipping the full clip into my pocket before tucking the unloaded gun into my waistband. I cried that night when Tara and Rick died. I cried for anyone, anything, to help, and Darius was my answer. Still waiting to see if that was a curse or a blessing.

Amoroth didn't speak at first, and when she did, the thoughtful comment barely broke the pervading quiet. "I must say I am surprised, Gaspard."

"How so?"

"Isn't it obvious? In one breath you'll defend Darius, but in the next, you'll malign him. Which is it, girl? Is Darius worthy of my contempt or not?"

"I wouldn't dream of telling you what to think."

"Ha...."

I left the closet, and again Amoroth trailed my footsteps. A darker mood gripped the Sin and her thoughts, difficult to glean at any given moment, became inscrutable and contemplative. Giving her a wary glance, I checked the time on my phone and noted we I didn't have much longer before Darius returned or one of my parents showed up. Damn, I spent too long searching for my keys.

My feet slid to a stop on the bottom step.

In one of the frames, Tara smiled from beneath the pressed glass, her youth and image forever preserved in that captured instant. I longed to snatch the photo from the wall, wanted to steal the moment back from time's spiraling descent and take it with me—but I held my hands still and dropped my gaze.

Her presence echoed in that house. Each inch of it held memories of Tara, overlaid like pages in a book neatly pressed and preserved, and I could remember myself there, too. I could hardly recognize that Sara Gaspard—sullen and so fucking ungrateful—but she was there all the same, and she existed with Tara still. They read storybooks under their beds, cried over boys, and made horrid cookies in the kitchen. They ran up and down those very stairs, chasing one another without a care in the world.

I didn't take the picture. I left it right where it was, because it belonged there, not with me. No, I was going on, set on a darker path where soft recollections shouldn't be carried, lest they be sullied by the horrid things I'd see and do. The Sara Gaspard who once lived at the top of the steps, in the first bedroom overlooking the backyard, died with her sister in Verweald.

The Sin tipped her head, eyes on the frame. "Your cult killed her, didn't they?"

"Yes." I turned away. "I'm going to destroy them."

I couldn't see her, but I heard the dark chuckle leave Amoroth as we retraced our footsteps through my childhood home to the front door. The summer's heat returned when I stepped onto the porch and breathed in. "I knew there was something I liked about you, Gaspard."

We made it perhaps two steps across the lawn—and then my eyes adjusted to the sunlight, and I realized we weren't alone.

"...Sara?"