Haunted Frost

John Wayne Gacy’s cigar box.

And this is what it comes to, maybe what it always will come to: Sam in the Cage, standing alone before an archangel.

Rowena outside is holding the door cracked, ready to slam shut, and Jack and his mother and the other Charlie are shielding the witch from the hordes of Hell who are just discovering their invasion. Jack’s used up most of his hard-earned juice, and Charlie’s almost exhausted her repertoire of newbie spells. They don’t have much time.

That’s all right; Sam didn’t come here for any protracted negotiations. “So will you do it?”

Michael tips his head to the side, too far to look natural. In this projection of the Cage he looks like Sam’s father, but younger than when Sam knew him, and gaunt, cheeks hollowed, tendons standing out on the back of his hands. “You’re not made for me,” he says, seemingly calm, but there’s a shaky edge to his voice that makes the hair stand on end. “I won’t be as strong. Not hardly.”

“I know,” Sam says. “Will you do it?”

Michael tilts his head in the other direction, clamps his teeth together and pulls his lips back to bare them. His tongue flickers behind their gravestone-white. “This other—this other me. He stole my Sword. He murdered my little brother. I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Sam says. Lifts his chin and squares his shoulders, ready. “Then, yes.”

AAAAAAAAAH