I had a horrible thought. Maybe Jason wasn't here at all. Maybe the comment he'd made in Jude's car had been nothing more than an offhand remark, and he wasn't even in the house. I didn't move, biting my fingernails nervously. If that were true, then the only thing I'd be able to do would be to get back in the car . . . But I couldn't sit next to Lilith's body. No. No.
I looked up. How did I get to the attic? Was there a pull-down set of stairs in the ceiling somewhere? Or was there an actual built-in staircase?
Then I heard a woman moan.
Above me.
They were here.
She moaned again. She sounded so close. Where were they? How did I get to them?
"There's someone here," said the woman's voice.
"Shh," hushed a voice. Jason?
"I won't be quiet," said the woman. "Help m—" she yelled, but her voice was muffled before she could finish.
"Shut up," said Jason's voice. It was his, unmistakably, even though it had a threatening tinge to it that I'd never heard before. "If you make one more noise, I'll kill you. I can cut parts off your dead body just as easy as your live one."
I shuddered. Jason sounded ugly. Hard. Cruel. And I couldn't believe he was talking about cutting off body parts.
Michaela Weem was his mother, no matter how awful she was. Jason shouldn't—
But did I have any right to judge him? After my evening?
Noah's and Gordon's empty eyes danced in front of my face, dangling inside the van's open door, staring at me.
"Go on, kill me," said the woman. "Do it. It's what I've always known you'd do. Evil spawn. Abomination."
"Shut up!" Jason insisted. "I'm not going to warn you again."
"Kill me!" shouted Michaela Weem.
"Jason!" I yelled. "Jason, it's me!"
Michaela Weem shrieked.
"No!" I yelled. "I'm here. Stop!"
From above me, the shrieking died off. There was a gurgling noise, like there was blood in her throat.
"Jason!" I called, my voice hoarse.
Behind me, a square of light appeared in the ceiling. A set of steps folded down and settled against the floor.
"Azazel?" said a voice. Jason's voice.
I flew to the stairs, scrambling up them as fast as I could. "Jason?" I said. "Jason?"
He caught me in his arms at the top of the steps. I dropped the gun I was holding to wrap myself around him. He smelled like sweat and blood, but I didn't care. He smelled like Jason. My Jason. I kissed his lips. His cheeks. His forehead. His chin. His neck. I couldn't stop kissing him.
"Jason, Jason, Jason," I murmured between kisses, feeling his arms tight around my waist.
But Jason was pulling away from me.
He held my face in his palms and forced my face away from his. "You're hurt," he said. "You're bleeding."
"I'm fine," I said, tears starting to stream down my face. He was here. I'd found him. Nothing else mattered right then. I'd found Jason. We were together. Everything else was just periphery. I didn't care about anything except the fact I'd found him.
"What happened to you?" he said.
There was so much. "I got away," I said. "I had to shoot people. They're dead."
"Jesus," he breathed. "But your head . . ."
"I was in a car accident."
"We've got to get you to a hospital."
I shook my head. "No. I'm a murderer. I can't go—" I broke off. Speaking of being a murderer. "Where's Michaela?"
"Who cares about her?" said Jason. "Let's just go. Both of us. Let's just go. Now."
I peered around Jason, actually looking at our surroundings for the first time. The attic was low-ceilinged. It had exposed rafters. It was lit entirely by candlelight. At least twenty candles squatted on the floor, between boxes and broken pieces of furniture. There was an old sewing machine, the kind with a pedal. In the corner, lying on several bloodstained rags was Michaela Weem.
She lay on her back. Her hand was bandaged, but the bandage was crusted with dry blood. Her head twisted towards me at an unnatural angle. Her eyes were wide and staring.
"Oh, Jason," I whispered. "What did you do?"
He touched my face again, turned my chin to face him. "I didn't know where you were," he said softly.
Slowly, I disentangled myself from Jason. I went to Michaela. Kneeled next to her. She looked so old, lying there. Old and broken.
I looked at Jason. "She's your mother," I said.
Jason shook his head. "I don't have a mother," he said.
Suddenly, Michaela moved.
I leaped back, but not in time. She reached over, with her good hand and grasped my wrist. She sat up, gasping for breath.