I wish I could ignore my bladder all night. I can't sleep and it's obviously a contributing factor. Unfortunately, there's no way to get to the bathroom unless I pass by my stepfather's office.

Last time I checked, the light was still on in there, the door was still open. There was evidence of an active fireplace, flickering across every wall in my view.

An hour later, nothing has changed.

If he's working late or resorting to the couch because of a bad night with my mother, the door would be closed. It usually is closed and locked. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I'm under the radar enough to remain on the outside and can go about my business, quickly and quietly, without incident. But, for the times I've failed at that, I'm painfully aware of what an open door could mean.

It is late—after midnight—and the day prior was tense and strenuous, starting early and ending late, with a long drive in between. I wasn't found anywhere near Norfolk. Or Winchester, for that matter, either. I was by Virginia's southern border, just to throw everyone off, including me.

Overall, there's a fair chance Amos forgot to close the door or fell asleep waiting for something and didn't realize it.

Everyone else in the house is undoubtedly asleep by now. I don't know what he could possibly be "waiting for" other than me.

He's been uncharacteristically quiet ever since we left the hospital. Expecting a sermon, the whole way home, I took this as a good sign. Because of my injuries and the trauma of it all, I thought, maybe, I'd be spared the tirade and fury, at least for the night.

Maybe he's just patient, trying to catch me alone, knowing he's been blocking my passage to the bathroom for hours. I've been filled with fluids all damn day, to the point I'm almost bursting. I've been holding it since dinner. He's been in there since dinner.

Although I've certainly been in cruder circumstances, I'm not at a place where I'd relieve myself anywhere other than where I'm supposed to, but I'm almost at that place, and will be at that place if I don't move now.

Suck it up, bow to fate, grin and bear it, however you want to say take the chance and deal with the consequences...

The wood floor has been recently polished. With bandaged feet, regular socks, and wearing my sister's oversized flannel pajamas, I slip and slide down the hall, though I somehow manage to get to the hallway runner without falling or crashing into the wall.

To get to the bathroom, I'll have to span the whole rug. Amos's office is in the middle. I don't look in when I go by. And I feel like I surface from underwater when I get to the bathroom without hearing my name.

I lock the door and don't hurry when I'm inside. Maybe he's sleeping or preoccupied. Maybe he'll lose interest and forget he saw me.

I'm riding a little too high on that hope when I dart past on my return. Sure enough, as fast as I may be, I'm not more than a step beyond his view when that hope crashes and burns.

"Samantha..." He pauses for effect. "Please come in here."

I can't run—I'm not well enough yet. I can't hide—my room is sparsely furnished, and the door doesn't lock. My sister's room is the same way, and it's the only other room down here. I can't turn the other way and leave the house—I have no car, no phone, no clothes other than a few church dresses from high school and the borrowed pajamas I'm wearing. My friends all left. My acquaintances, if I could even find any, would probably be a bit too smug about the state I'm in, and too drunk to hide it at this hour. The closest neighbor is half a mile away and they never liked us for now obvious reasons.

We're too fucked up to realize how fucked up we are. My appreciation for this has finally settled in, but, of course, it's too little, too late. Thanks to the curse I now bear, I'm at the far other end of the nutcase spectrum and won't have much luck appealing to anyone in the middle.

I have no choice but to step inside the office, and hope, plead, and pray that this will be quick and relatively painless.

"Sorry if I disturbed you," I say, pausing beneath the doorframe.

"The noise isn't what's disturbing me at this hour." He makes direct eye contact. "Close the door. Have a seat."

He continues to watch me, absorbing every detail of my forward motion. His look is calculating and dismayed, like I'm a project that's repeatedly failed that now needs some outside-of-the-box thinking.

When I pause behind the chair, he's more insistent, gesturing to the seat across from him like I'm an idiot and I've forgotten what it's for and how it works.

As soon as I slip into it, he pours me a glass of "water" from a carafe that was only about an eighth full. He has no glass of his own and doesn't save any for himself.

I peer through the liquid. I'm too curious not to—he's never offered me a drink in his office before. But I don't reach for it. Even a true idiot would be suspicious.

"I couldn't sleep," he informs me. I don't ask why, but he goes on as if I had. "I couldn't sleep knowing . . . what lies in wait." His gaze slashes down the front of me and lands on my side.

Amos never saw my brand in the flesh. He only saw it on TV. Something tells me that's about to change. He won't only see it. He'll want to do something about it.

Knowing what I now know—dark magic exists, it burned me, and put something evil inside of me—he may have the passion for this war, but I can't say I have much faith in his skillset. He may think he has a direct link to God to the same extent that Ivy does with the devil, but from what I've experienced, this is more of a personality disorder than anything of actual substance.

"Have some water." He pushes the cup closer to me. "You look thirsty."

I look toward his fireplace and the active, well-fed fire within. I've only seen one in there a few times in my life. He's a neat-freak and it's usually too messy for him to bother with.

"I'm good," I tell him. "I'm trying to cut down on trips to the bathroom."

He detects that note of sarcasm and smacks his hand on the desk, making both me and the glass jump. "It wasn't a question. You will do as you're told!"

"And what if I don't?" I take a stand, literally and conceptually.

He stands, too. "I'm trying to make this easier for you. You're not leaving this room until I'm done with you, regardless."

I cross my arms, a weak declaration of my autonomy, and shift sideways to refresh my memory, reviewing all the things that have been warped in my nightmares.

The closed office door on my far right. The single wood pillar a few steps within. Straight ahead of me, there's the coat closet where he stores his belt collection and gun cabinet. The three-seat leather couch is behind me. Then there's the antique office chairs, his being the most intricate and imposing, and the solid mahogany desk, behind which Amos is still standing, now livid.

It didn't take him long, did it?

I've met vampires, witches, and werewolves with more patience and emotional stability.

"You've never offered me drugs before. What's the occasion?" I pick up the glass and swirl the contents around. There are tiny white chunks at the bottom that will hopefully dissolve a little better.

It's a silly question. He's done his share of beating the devil out of me, but this is meant to be an actual exorcism. It's going to hurt like hell on a scale that neither of us can appreciate yet, and he expects a lot of resistance, from both me and it. He wants to make his job easier, keeping at least one of us calm and compliant.

I want him to answer. I need to hear him say it, even though I know he never will.

Like always, he's the only one who gets to ask hard questions.

For my audacity, I'm surprised he hasn't taken off his belt and whacked me with it already. In its place, he's giving me a look that says now and take it or leave it and this is your last chance for some medical assistance.

My, how he's grown.

"You know what?" I gag down the whole glass, an increasingly loud part of me pleading for darkness and silence that doesn't ever end. "Do your worst. I'm past the point of caring."

I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and just that motion makes me realize how unsteady I already am on my feet.

"You're making the right choice, and God is . . . gracious and merciful, and will not turn away His face from you, if ye return unto him." Amos is suddenly beside me supporting me by the elbow and one hip. "We'll have you lay down on the couch until the medicine takes full effect. I'll handle the rest."

I walk with his assistance and collapse on my stomach without argument. Yes, I'm sure you will...