Daughters of Men: Episode Three

Sons of God: Season Two

Jul 07, 2025

You're reading Daughters of Men, the second season of the Sons of God series. This is Episode Three.
Last time, Mae went to the address in the letter, where she was expected to undergo a ritual for “enhancement.” After backing out, Wade let her know Ziggy was most displeased. Later, the appearance of tough-looking goons in the hallway of Mae’s apartment building caused her to question just who, exactly, is Delia’s step-father. When one of them pursued her on her walk, she ducked into the nearby church, where she met Pastor Sue.
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Season two picks up with Mae fleeing to the Windy City after making a deal with the mysterious and otherworldly entity she not so affectionately calls Ziggy, with Special Agent Chance Davies in hot pursuit. With only the ghost of her late husband to guide her — you know, the one she killed in self-defense before dumping his body and getting out of Dodge — she wastes no time making new enemies, and a precious few friends, as she works to untangle the web she’s gotten herself into and discovers just what, exactly, Ziggy wants her for.

Chance sat on his couch and sipped a Coke Zero while he contemplated the photos and documents spread out on his coffee table. Crime scene photos, investigation reports, witness reports, all centered around Mae Bishop but lacking a cohesive thread to connect them. The trail had gone cold, and it ate at him that he had been so close and she had slipped right through his grasp. Someone had to be helping her, but who? Someone with tech that wasn’t on the FBI’s radar, going by the way those videos had been scrambled.

He set down his Coke and slid the photos of Wade Bishop and Al Stimpson in front of him. They weren’t pretty to look at. The level of violence and disfigurement spoke of either sheer viciousness or unadulterated rage. He suspected the latter. Nothing in Bishop’s past suggested otherwise.

He picked up the autopsy photo of Wade Bishop and studied it. What could drive a rural housewife with no priors to bash in her husband’s head after 25 years of marriage? He could think of several things, actually. Nobody in their hometown would speak a single bad word about Mr. Bishop, but Mrs. Bishop had been a regular customer at the local ER. Either she was the clumsiest person in the whole town, or she was a likely victim of domestic violence.

It wasn’t hard at all to imagine her flying into a rage at Al Stimpson, after hearing the testimonies of his other surviving victims. If it wasn’t for the mysterious nature of her escape, Chance would have felt certain that she was wanted for nothing more than panicking and making some poor choices following what would have otherwise been a clear-cut case of self-defence.

Chance let the photo slide from his fingers onto the table and leaned back against the cushions. He was making a lot of assumptions, and although his gut told him Mae Bishop had been driven to kill out of desperation and self-preservation, the fact was that he had two deceased males who were the victims of extreme violence, allegedly by her hand. It was up to the courts to work out justice, for both them and for her, and to determine the extent of her guilt or innocence. His job was to find her and bring her in, and he couldn’t allow sympathy for her motives to cloud his mission.

The doorbell rang, causing the little terrier across the hall to start yapping. Chance picked up his phone to check the time, then muttered a mild epithet as he scrambled to gather the documents back into their file folder. He’d completely lost track of time. The bell rang again before he reached the door. “Coming!” he called.

He opened the door, and immediately a small body dove through it and flung its arms around his waist. “Hi Daddy!”

“Whoa. Who are you? Where did my little seven-year-old go?”

Madison giggled and looked up at him with a gap-toothed grin. “It’s me, Dad!”

“No it’s not. You’re an eight-year-old big kid.” He scooted back awkwardly with his giggling daughter still clinging to him to make room for his ex-wife, who carried Madison’s suitcase.

“Did you forget?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t forget.” He checked the defensive note in his voice. “I was just in the middle of something.”

Cindy’s eyes drifted to the coffee table, and she gave him a knowing look. “I hope there’s nothing in there that will traumatize her if she sees it.”

“She won’t see it. I’ll lock it up.”

“Dad, is Mr. Jenkins here?”

“Yeah, of course he is, and he’s excited that you’re coming. Why don’t you go get him and let Mom and Dad talk?”

“Okay!” Madison ran for the bedroom, flinging her backpack onto the couch as she went.

Cindy handed over the suitcase. “So you’ll drop her off on Sunday, right?”

“Right. Five o’clock sharp.”

“Could you make it four-thirty? The party starts at five and she should be there before the guests arrive.”

“Do I get to stay for the party?”

“Of course. You are her father. Though you’re getting to spend her entire birthday weekend with her.”

“Come on, Cin, you get her for the whole week.”

“Is that my fault? You’d see her more if you were home more. And please don’t call me Cin.”

He blew out a huff of air. “Sorry. Cindy.”

“Don’t call me that, either.”

“What else should I call you?”

“Cynthia.”

“Since when?”

She sighed. “Since always. That’s my name. You’re the only one who calls me Cindy.”

“You always said you liked it.”

“Well, I don’t anymore.”

“Hey!”

They both looked over at Madison, who stood in the bedroom doorway, holding Mr. Jenkins and a mylar birthday balloon he’d left for her on the nightstand. The large rabbit looked like he’d started out white and then rolled around in black paint. “Mr. Jenkins says you have to stop fighting.”

He and his ex exchanged a look, silently agreeing to tone it down. “We’re not fighting, honey,” he said. “We’re just talking out our differences.”

Cindy—Cynthia, he mentally checked himself—knelt down and held out her arms. “Come tell mommy bye. I need to get going.”

Reluctantly releasing the balloon and shifting the bunny to one arm, Madison ran over and flung the other around her mother’s neck. “Bye!” She kissed her on the cheek and then turned for the kitchen. “Dad, what’s for lunch?”

Shaking her head, Cynthia got to her feet. She turned a stern look on Chance. “Four-thirty. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t. We’ll be there.”

She nodded. “See you Sunday.”

“Have a nice weekend,” he called as he closed the door behind her. He turned the deadbolt with a sigh, then headed for the kitchen, snatching up his unfinished Coke as he went. He found the bunny in the middle of the kitchen floor and his daughter with her head buried deep in the fridge. “Hey, what are you looking for?”

“A carrot for Mr. Jenkins.”

“They’re in the bottom crisper drawer.”

He heard the drawer open, followed by a sigh. “Da-aad! These are baby carrots!”

“So?”

She stood up to face him, the hand on her hip and the expression on her face reminding him a little too much of her mother. “Mr. Jenkins likes the big kind.”

“Well, this kind is already washed and peeled. I think Mr. Jenkins will be happy either way.” He ignored her dramatic sigh as she turned back to the fridge. He went to stand behind her, holding the door open and peering in. “I’ve got chicken nuggets or peanut butter and jelly. Or I could do grilled cheese. Which sounds good?”

She frowned, seeming to think it over while she fished some carrots out of the bag. Then she suddenly beamed a smile at him and melted his heart. “Chicken nuggets!”

“Sure thing.” He opened the freezer to take them out. “How about some mac and cheese to go with them?”

“Okay! Can I have a Coke?”

“You know your mom says no pop.” He reached into the fridge and grabbed a can of watermelon-flavored carbonated water. “Here, I got you this.”

She screwed her face up, but then she took it and popped the lid. Satisfied, she went to feed carrots to the rabbit while he went to work preparing their lunch. She chattered while he worked, filling him on on the details of her week. He was vaguely aware that she kept mentioning someone named Josh in among the more familiar Aidens and Amelias and Sophias. When she said Josh took her and Mom bowling, he looked up sharply. “Wait. Who’s Josh? Is he a friend from school?”

She giggled. “No, Dad. Josh is Mom’s new friend.”

“Is that so?” That ice pick sensation stabbing at his heart took him by surprise. “Where did Mom meet Josh?”

“At church. He started coming a few months ago.”

That surprised him even more. He opened his mouth to ask if this Josh knew her mom was divorced, but closed it as he realized what a stupid question it was. Thoughts and emotions swirled as he sliced up an apple so he could feel a little better about feeding her something healthy. The divorce had been finalized almost a year ago. It wasn’t like he was still holding out hope for reconciliation. Cindy—Cynthia, he reminded himself—had made it clear she wanted to move on. Still, he’d thought she’d taken her vows, and her faith, seriously enough to continue to honor them. He certainly had. He’d never even considered dating anyone else to be an option, despite his colleague’s many attempts to set him up or cajole him into getting back on the market.

The market. As though it was all about shopping for meat. The thought made him shudder.

Even so, he’d never stopped praying for his ex-wife, and never stopped feeling like she’d made a terrible mistake throwing their marriage away, no matter how justified she’d felt. He wondered bitterly if she’d wanted to see other men all along. If his over-commitment to his job had only been a pretense.

But he guessed he knew, deep down, that she’d been right. Maybe not to divorce him, but he had certainly been wrong to put his job before his marriage and family life. He could only be angry at himself that it had taken the divorce to make him see it.

“Dad!” Madison’s alarmed voice pulled him out of his thoughts. She pointed to the stove, where the water on the macaroni was boiling over. He rushed over to move it off the burner and grabbed a dish towel to mop up the mess.

“Sorry,” he said. “I got distracted. Here, bring me the milk and butter.” He took the pot to the sink and drained off the water, then added the cheese powder. “So,” he said as he stirred it all together, “what’s this Josh like?”

No goons had been lurking in the hallway that morning. No disturbing sounds emanated from 2C. Mae had ventured over to knock on the door, ready with the excuse of needing to borrow some coffee, but nobody had answered. More to distract herself than anything, although she truly was out of coffee, she had gone to pick up some groceries from the corner store. On the way home, laden with four plastic bags filled with mostly microwavable fare full of ingredients that would pack back on all the weight she’d lost if she wasn’t careful, she slowed as she passed the women’s shelter and caught herself trying to think of an excuse to go inside. But before she could, she caught a glimpse of someone exiting her apartment building at the end of the block. Her heart did a little leap at the sight of Delia taking a seat on the stoop.

Mae picked up the pace. Crossing the street and reaching the stoop, she smiled as Delia looked up. “Hey, girlie! Been wondering about you. Everything okay?”

The girl shrugged. Mae searched for bruises, but her hair had been combed to hang artfully over one half of her face. Mae’s eyes narrowed, but her smile didn’t waver. “Can you help me carry these up?”

“Okay.” Delia got back to her feet and took two of Mae’s bags.

“Is your step-dad home?” Mae asked as she let them both inside.

“He’s sleeping. He had a late night.”

“Where are his friends?” At Delia’s blank stare, she clarified. “The two guys who were hanging out in the hall yesterday.”

“They’re not his friends. They work with him sometimes.”

Mae had figured as much. She let the questions drop as they climbed the stairs. But as they reached the landing and neared her apartment, she jerked her chin toward Delia’s door. “I knocked earlier. Nobody answered.”

She sighed, sounding far too world-weary for a girl her age. “I know. I’m not allowed to answer the door.”

“That’s probably smart.” Mae shifted one of her bags to the other hand and fished out her key. Once she had the door open, she held it for Delia. “Come on in.”

The girl stepped inside and looked around. “It’s like a mirror image of our place. It’s nicer, though.” She looked up at Mae. “You made it pretty.”

Mae suppressed a laugh. “Well, it was sort of like putting lipstick on a sow, but I did what I could. Here, bring these in the kitchen.” She went to the counter and set her bags down, then took the others from Delia. “So how come you’re not in school?”

“I’m homeschooled.”

“Really? Your dad teaches you?”

“Step-dad. And no. I have tutors.”

“I see.” Mae fished a bottle of Dr. Pepper out of one bag and held it up. “Want to split this with me?”

“Sure.”

She went to get out two glasses and then pulled the ice tray out of the freezer. “Do you miss school?” she asked as she fixed their drinks.

“I guess not. I’ve never been.”

“Doesn’t that get lonely? What about friends?”

“I have Pastor Sue.”

Mae came over and handed her a drink. “I meant your own age.”

Delia took the soda and seemed to contemplate it for a moment. “Not really,” she said, before taking a sip.

“Doesn’t your step-dad let you have friends?”

Again, the girl paused a long while before shaking her head.

Mae took a deep breath. “I heard something yesterday, coming from your apartment.”

Delia’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “You should forget what you heard.”

“I can’t forget.” Mae reached out and pushed her hair back from her face. As she suspected, a bruise spread along the upper part of her cheekbone, spidering out across her temple into the hairline. “Did your step-dad do that?”

Delia pulled back and shook her hair back over her face. “It wasn’t him. Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? What does that mean?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

For a moment, she looked like she wanted to open up. But she shook her head and set her drink on the counter. “I should get home. He’ll be waking up soon.”

“Hold on, sweetie. Look, I want you to know that you can come over here anytime. I mean it. Any time. You’ll be safe here.”

She stood there, looking caught between wanting to stay and wanting to flee. “I know you want to help me,” she said. “But you can’t. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You let me worry about me.”

Delia lifted her head and looked into Mae’s eyes. “You’re a good person, Mae. You should stay away from bad people.” She turned to go, then turned back. “And you were right not to let them do the ritual.”

Mae felt her jaw slack. “How did you… Oh, right. You know stuff.”

Just then, Wade appeared in the living room. “Lose the ragamuffin,” he said, coming toward her. “We need to talk.”

Delia turned in his direction when he spoke, and he came up short. From where Mae stood, it looked for all the world like Delia’s gaze locked onto his. Wade frowned and inclined his head. “Hello there,” he said.

“Delia,” said Mae, “do you see someone there?”

She nodded. “Hello,” she said back.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Wade muttered.

Delia turned back to Mae. “He shouldn’t be here.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Well, I am here,” said Wade, “and I need to have a word in private with the Missus.”

“You should be careful,” Delia said, ignoring him.

With a wan smile, Mae reached out and squeezed her arm. “That makes two of us. You remember what I said, okay? Any time. I’ll leave a key under the mat when I’m not home.”

Delia nodded. With a small wave, she went to let herself out.

“You know, that’s just asking to be robbed,” said Wade.

“Like I have anything worth stealing.”

“That felt weird, her being able to see me. I’m not sure I like it.”

“Well, I for one am relieved. At least now I know you’re not a brain tumor.” She sipped her soda before asking, “What do you want?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He grinned, his affected charm dialed up to eleven. But then he turned serious. “I’ve got your first assignment.”

Once again, all Wade could give her was an address. It took her to an apartment in a decrepit three-story brownstone in a neighborhood that made hers look almost gentrified by comparison. She drove her own car this time, and found an empty spot at a meter two blocks down from the building. She couldn’t lock the car if she wanted to, seeing as how she didn’t have any keys. Anyone who wanted to steal it would have to know how to hotwire it first. With more modern cars and their computerized ignition systems, she banked on that becoming a lost art. And with the cost of gas, she doubted anyone would want such a thirsty old Caddy, anyway.

As she started up the block, she patted her pockets to make sure her weapons were still there. All she had was a Spyderco knife she’d picked up at Walmart and the pepper spray Sue had given her. They weren’t much, but at least they were something. With a sharp eye on her surroundings, she moved like someone with a purpose, lifting her chin and keeping her head on a swivel. The nylon on her puffy coat swished as she walked. She grimaced, wishing she’d been able to wear something that looked a little more lived in, not to mention quieter. Something that didn’t scream to potential muggers, “Hey! I’m brand new!” She made a mental note to check some thrift shops for something more suitable to her new line of work.

Of course, she still wasn’t exactly sure what that line of work was. Climbing the steps to the brownstone, she glanced around but saw no sign of Wade. He’d actually been helpful in the Big Al situation. She hoped she wasn’t walking into something similar.

A sign on the front door advertised psychic readings. It instructed would-be customers to press 3C, which happened to be the number of the apartment Mae had been sent to. “Great,” she muttered. “Don’t tell me this is another frickin’ ritual.” She pressed the buzzer.

“Yeah?” a female voice asked over the speaker.

“Um.” Mae hadn’t worked out what to say. Squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head, she said, “Hi. I’m… ah. I’d like to do a reading.”

The door buzzed and clicked. “If she was really psychic,” she muttered as she pulled it open, “she’d know I’m lying.” The lobby reeked of old tobacco, and the peeling linoleum and once-white walls were both stained brown with who knew how many layers of nicotine. The wooden staircase was covered in chipped varnish, the steps lined with non-slip tread tape instead of carpet, also peeling. Mae started the upward climb. “Of course it had to be on the top floor.”

A thick cloud of marijuana smoke and patchouli assaulted her on the second-floor landing and made her gag. Rhythmic music pulsed at her from somewhere down the hall. Otherwise, it struck her that the building was eerily devoid of sound. At last, she reached the third floor, leaving the oppressive smells and sounds behind her. But somehow, though quieter and refreshingly absent of offensive smells, she felt a heaviness settle on her as she crossed the threshold from the landing into the corridor.

Mae found the right door by process of elimination, since the “C” had gone missing. But the large sticker of a hand with an eye in the middle provided a substantial clue. With one fist clutched around the pepper spray in her pocket, she raised the other and knocked. A woman answered almost immediately. She was rail thin, dressed in a long, hippy-ish skirt and an unseasonable tank top, with stringy, mouse-brown hair that hung well past her shoulders. Mae couldn’t tell her age. She had the look of someone who had done hard drugs, and lots of them, and could be anywhere from 25 to 45. As she stood against the door jamb and held the door open arm’s width, needle tracks were plainly visible along the inner crook of her elbow.

“You here for a reading?” she asked, and Mae nodded. “Twenty-five up front. No refunds.”

“Sounds like a bargain.” Mae slid some bills out of her back jean pocket. She handed over a twenty and a five, and the woman snatched them and stood back to let her in.

The apartment didn’t exactly fit Mae’s image of a psychic’s lair. A beat-up leather sectional took up most of the tiny living room, wrapped around a vintage rattan coffee table that had seen better days. An attempt at Boho decor might have looked nice and homey if it had been well kept but layers of dust, clutter, beer cans and empty take-out containers ruined the effect. Mae’s host pointed her toward a table in the dining nook and went to grab a crocheted shawl from the back of the couch. Draping it around her bony shoulders, she came over and cleared dirty dishes and more take-out trash off the table before instructing Mae to sit across from her.

An opening between the living room and kitchen led into a little hallway through which Mae could see an open bathroom, the state of which convinced her to keep any calls of nature to herself. A closed door next to it had an inch-wide gap between it and the floor, through which Mae saw shadows moving. She heard a low murmur that sounded like a child’s voice. Glancing around for toys or other signs of children and finding none, she asked, “Do you have kids?”

The woman glanced up sharply. “No.”

“Oh. I just thought—” Before she could finish, a child’s plaintive cries came from behind the closed door.

The psychic’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “I’m babysitting. They’re supposed to be napping. Wait here.”

She got up and went into the room. The crying stopped abruptly. Mae heard more low murmuring—the woman’s voice this time—but it didn’t sound gentle or caring or any kind of tone Mae would want a babysitter using on her kids. Then, after a moment of silence, the woman returned and took her seat without another word.

“Everything okay?”

“It’s fine.” She reached for a small wooden box in the middle of the table, raised its hinged lid and removed a deck of cards. “It’s best if you stay quiet for this,” she said, holding out the deck. “Think about what you want to know, and hold the question in your mind as you shuffle the cards.”

Mae felt her face tighten and pull down into an involuntary grimace. This was no game of Hold ‘em. Those were fortune teller cards. She couldn’t recall their proper name, but the remnants of her church upbringing made her viscerally uncomfortable at the sight of them. I shouldn’t be here, she thought, and not for the first time since that night Wade showed up.

Her host sighed. “This won’t work if you don’t even want to be here.”

Mae blinked, surprised and a little spooked that the woman actually seemed to read her mind. Or maybe it was just her body language. “Sorry.” She shifted in her chair and accepted the deck. “To be honest, I don’t really know why I’m here.”

“Then maybe that’s the question you should focus on.”

Mae repeated the question in her mind as she shuffled the cards. But it was hard to focus. Other questions popped in there, as well. Who was Ziggy, and what did it want with her? What was up with the kid in the back room? Was this all a bunch of hogwash? Her stomach growled. What should she pick up for dinner?

She bridged the cards and straightened the deck. “That’s enough,” said the psychic, holding out her left hand. Mae placed the deck in her palm. She turned over a card, covered with pictures and symbols that looked to Mae like illustrations out of a sinister fairy tale. She spoke as she studied it.

“Your past is filled with chaos and pain.”

Sure, Mae thought, but whose isn’t?

She turned over another card. “There has been a recent change, brought about by your own hand.” Another. “Darkness and death follow you.” And another. “You’re seeking freedom. And purpose.”

So far, the shoe fit pretty well. Mae felt pain in her left palm and realized her nails dug into it. She took a deep breath and unclenched her fist as another card was laid down. The woman would’ve made a terrible poker player. She stared at the card like a scared rabbit. Then she licked her lips and smoothed out her features. “There’s a guy. An old flame.” She laid down a final card. “I see the flame kindled. An end to the chaos.”

Well, that’s clearly bullcrap, Mae thought. What did she really see? Or was she just a con artist, telling Mae what she thought she wanted to hear?

The psychic gathered up the cards and smiled for the first time. “Would you like some tea? Some chamomile might be calming.” Without waiting for an answer, she got up and went into the kitchen.

“Um, no thanks.” Mae got up. “I should probably just go. Thanks for…” She waved her hand over the table and turned for the door.

“Wait, I have something for you.”

As Mae turned back toward the kitchen, the woman drew a kitchen knife from a wooden holder on the counter and raised it over her head as she flew at Mae. She swore, raising her arms and stumbling backward as the knife sliced through the air, cutting through the outer layer of her down jacket and raising a cloud of goose feathers.

The crazy bitch raised the knife again, but Mae recovered enough to shove her, and then raised a foot to kick her in the midsection with the heavy sole of her second-hand Dr. Marten. The woman stumbled, her shawl sliding from her shoulders and pooling on the floor. Mae groped for her pepper spray. She got it up between herself and her assailant and aimed it at her face as she lunged again with the knife. Mae let loose with the spray.

The woman screamed and dropped the knife, grabbing her eyes. In the back room, the children began to scream and cry. Torn between helping the children and fleeing to safety, Mae hesitated too long. With an animalistic growl, the woman sprang at her, knocking her over and pinning her to the floor with surprising strength. Squinting through red and puffy eyes, the woman’s face contorted, her smile growing uncannily wide as she lowered her face to an inch within Mae’s own, laughing as she struggled to move.

“Assassin,” she said in a voice that wasn’t hers, hissing the word and drawing it out. “Puppet! I would kill you, but I want you to take a message back. Tell Azaroth to cease his petty games. His aspirations are futile.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Mae squirmed beneath her and turned her face away, but she—or whatever was driving her—gripped Mae’s jaw and forced her to look.

“In that case, I have no use for you.”

Hands locked around Mae’s neck with an iron grip. She bucked and kicked and clawed at the hands, reached up and scratched the woman’s face. She didn’t even seem to feel it. Mae turned all her energy to trying to suck air in through her crushed windpipe, but it was useless. Her vision swam and grayed out at the edges. Everything sounded like she was under water.

She knew she was dying. Jesus, she thought. Please no!

A flash of bright light cut through the growing darkness. Her assailant looked up, her rictus grin twisting into a mask of outrage. She screamed as her body suddenly jerked back and fell away. Mae didn’t take time to question what was happening. Sucking in breath, she rolled over and pushed up to her hands and knees. Glancing back, she saw the woman writhing on the floor, her body contorting at impossible angles as her screams joined those of the children. With as much haste as she could muster, Mae crawled to the door. She reached up to grip the knob and used it to pull herself to her feet. She opened the door and staggered into the hall, stumbling into the opposite wall and using it to support herself as she made her way to the stairs.

She didn’t look back to see if she was being followed. She could still hear screaming coming from the apartment. Focusing on staying upright as her knees threatened to go out, she gripped the rail with both hands and lowered herself one step at a time.

As she reached the second floor, still filled with its smokey miasma and pulsing music even louder than before, the screaming abruptly stopped and a door slammed shut. Trembling, Mae picked up the pace. Listening for the sound of feet on the stairs above her, but hearing none, she made it to the bottom floor and stood there a moment, steadying herself. When she felt she could walk without support, she crossed the lobby to the front door. A man met her on the stoop as she pushed it open, grabbed it and shoved his way past her. Mae’s heart flew to her throat as she recognized the goon who had followed her to the church the day before, but he seemed to take no notice of her as he strode toward the stairs and started up them.

Not waiting around to be noticed, she hurried down the front steps and speed-walked to her car. Once safely inside with the doors locked, she dug her phone out of her pocket and started to call 911, but stopped herself. They’d be able to trace her phone. If she used it for this, she’d have to throw it away and get a new one. Muttering curses under her breath, she put it away and started the car.

She drove until she spotted a gas station with a pay phone out front. She pulled up to one of the pumps and then got out and jogged over to the phone, hoping it wouldn’t require change for emergency calls. It didn’t. She gave the 911 dispatcher the address of the apartment and told her about the children, that she believed they were in danger, leaving herself and her own assault out of it. She hung up before they could ask questions and returned to the car. The phone rang while she filled up the gas tank, but nobody coming or going from the store’s entrance bothered to answer it.

By the time the gas nozzle clicked off, Mae felt marginally calmer, and had stopped shaking. Back in the car, she rubbed her neck and examined it in the rearview mirror. It was already turning purple. Wade had strangled her, once, but he hadn’t actually been trying to kill her. Those bruises had lasted for a week. This bitch had squeezed so hard that it hurt Mae to swallow. She wondered how long that would last.

She focused on the bruising because it was something familiar, something that made sense. It kept her from having to think about the things that didn’t make any sense whatsoever, like why that psycho had tried to kill her. And who the hell was Azaroth? Was that Ziggy’s real name? What the hell was he, really? And why had she been sent there?

She also didn’t want to think too much about how she had made her escape. It seemed like nothing less than a miracle, but she wasn’t ready to give credit to divine intervention. Had Wade been her invisible rescuer? She didn’t like that idea, either. Maybe Mae had simply gotten lucky and the witch had had a seizure.

Too many questions. Too much uncertainty, and way too many brushes with people trying to murder her. One thing Mae knew for certain as she started her car and pointed it toward home was that it was time to start getting some answers.