The world swam into focus as Suzi blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. Her throat felt dry as sandpaper, but at least there was no pain—a welcome change. The familiar scruffy face of Phineas hovered into view, his crooked smile doing little to ease her annoyance at being conscious.

“How are you feeling?” Phin asked, his tone too cheerful, as though she hadn’t just been dragged through hell.

“Not feeling much of anything,” she muttered, wishing the grogginess would drag her back under. It was better than facing this sterile reality.

The surgeon bustled in, full of clinical detachment, rattling off instructions. Stay off the leg. Overnight observation. Move to a standard room once recovery cleared. Blah, blah, blah. None of it mattered. Her body’s rapid healing would betray her soon enough, and she couldn’t afford the scrutiny.

“Phin,” she said, her voice low, urgent. “I need out of here. If they figure out how fast I heal, I’ll be some medical marvel. You know what that means. Labs. Experiments. Fucking dissection.”

Phineas nodded, already slipping into his ‘fixer’ mode. “Tell me everything, and I’ll see about getting you released to my care. Maybe transfer you to a different ‘hospital.’” He added air quotes, as if that would soothe her mounting panic.

“No. Get me out first. Then I’ll talk.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You drive a hard bargain, Pinky.” With a sigh, he turned on his heel. “Let me go chat with the good doctor.”

From her vantage point, Suzi could see him gesturing wildly during the conversation—flashing his badge, pointing her way, hamming it up like some B-movie cop. It dragged on far too long for comfort, but eventually, he returned.

“Grab your shit. We’re leaving.”

She snorted. “They cut me out of my jeans, Phin. Destroyed my boot. My coat, phone, shirt—everything was left at the fire. What ‘shit’ exactly am I grabbing?”

His grin didn’t falter. “Becca’s on her way with clothes. Rick brought your truck around. We figured if you had to hole up in a hospital, you’d want to be near Aiden.”

She eyed him skeptically. “Then what was with all the hand gestures back there?”

“Theatrics,” he repeated, smirking. “Had to sell it.”

Becca arrived soon after, thrusting a bundle of clothing into Suzi’s lap. “Sorry, no Docs. Mall’s closed.”

“Thanks, Becca. This works.” Suzi winced as she tugged the jeans over her bandaged leg, the fabric scraping her tender skin. She forced herself upright as Phineas pushed a wheelchair her way. The doctor appeared with discharge papers, which she signed without reading.

Tom and Rick waited outside as Phineas rolled her toward Aiden’s pickup.

“No amputation, huh?” Tom drawled, his humor as dry as ever.

“Amputated at the hip. This is a prosthetic,” Suzi shot back without missing a beat. The startled look on his face was worth the ache in her leg.

“Thanks for coming to my rescue. Again,” she said, glancing at them all.

Rick waved her gratitude away. “You’re family. It’s what we do.”

Tom grumbled, “She’s your family. Why am I here?”

Suzi scooped a handful of snow and lobbed it at him. It smacked his elbow as he flinched, a laugh escaping her lips despite herself.

Phineas drove in silence for a while, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel of Aiden’s truck while Suzi spilled the information she had on Dr. Adamson.

“So,” he finally said, “what’s a Limbo Skipper?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Suzi replied, staring out the window. “She can step between places—Chicago one moment, New York the next.”

“So, she’s fast?”

“No, not fast. She... shortcuts. It’s like opening a door here and walking out somewhere else entirely.”

Phin frowned. “That’s how she ambushed the doc?”

“Yeah. It explains why she wasn’t there one moment, then suddenly she was.”

“And why shoot him? She had some heavy firepower. Point-blank should’ve killed him, but now they’re buddies? Doesn’t track.”

Suzi’s stomach churned. The memory clawed its way up—gunpowder, blood, the impact of Adamson’s body slamming into hers. He had died that day. She was sure of it. But celestial beings like them didn’t stay dead. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t had the chance to ask.”

Phineas glanced at her, doubt flickering in his eyes. “And that facility? What the hell was that about?”

“I got a text with coordinates. Thought it was from Dr. Everett.”

“Who’s Everett?”

“Adamson. It's his new name. It’s an immortal thing, I guess. He can’t keep the same name forever, so he reverts his age and changes his name to start over.”

Phin digested this, his jaw tightening. “Can you do that? Reverse your age?”

“I’ve already reversed twenty years. Isn’t that enough?”

He snorted. “Thought it was just makeup. Some women can shave decades off.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’ll give you that. I’ve only been doing this for two weeks, so I don’t know all the ins and outs yet, but yes, I’m told I can concentrate and change my appearance.”

“That’s handy. Okay, I can try to pull your phone logs and find out where that number came from that sent you those coordinates. If it was Adamson, or Everett, or whatever he calls himself now, he’s not your friend. If it was someone else, then, well, they aren’t your friend either.”

“Phin,” she hesitated, unsure if she should continue. “There was a demon at the fire. I think it orchestrated everything.”

He stiffened. “Did you see it? Capture it?” He tapped his temple.

“No. I saw its aura, but he was too far away. But demons can’t be on this plane without exerting massive amounts of energy unless they are in a human host.”

“So, someone is possessed and attacking you.”

“That is how it feels, yeah.”

“So, what did they look like?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see them.”

“You just said you did.”

“I saw the demon’s aura. I didn’t see their host. They weren’t in the room, but I think they were outside.”

“You saw them through the wall?” Phineas asked in disbelief.

“Sort of, yeah.”

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“You have x-ray vision too now? I am so jelly.”

“Jelly? Really, Phin? Are you a teenager now? And it’s not x-ray vision. Aura’s are just light. It’s hard to explain and a pretty worthless ability. Don’t be jelly.” Suzi laughed.

“Still jelly,” he muttered, smirking. The tension eased, if only slightly.

As they pulled up to her building, Suzi spotted the scratches marring Becca’s Charger. Tom leaned out the passenger window, faux British accent in full force. “Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?”

Phin groaned, exasperated.

Suzi laughed, waving them off. “Good night, guys. And thanks again.”

Suzi hesitated at the entrance, the muffled echoes of her friends' parting words still clinging to her ears as the heavy door clicked shut behind her. The air inside was thick, carrying that faint metallic tang of her building’s old fixtures. She had intended to head straight to the fire escape stairs, but the nagging thought of the mailbox tugged her steps sideways.

The cold metal handle bit into her palm as she unlocked the box, its creak cutting through the silence. She shuffled through the usual junk—circulars, credit card offers, a coupon for a haircut she didn’t need. Her fingers froze on a postcard. The Holy Name Cathedral in downtown Chicago stared back at her, the spires almost piercing her gut with an unshakable unease.

“Dusk or Dawn,” the back read. Two words, ominous in their simplicity. Suzi’s stomach knotted as her gaze dropped to the stamp—Saint Joan of Arc. Her breath hitched. Darcy had sent this. The realization hit her like a punch to the ribs.

“Damn it,” she muttered, the words leaving her lips like a hiss as she shoved the postcard into her pocket. Her chest tightened, her pulse quickening with questions she didn’t have time to answer.

By the time she reached her apartment, the digital clock on Alexa blinked 2:13 a.m. Mocking her. Less than four hours until her alarm would shatter whatever restless sleep she could claw together. She shook her head, forcing herself to push through the exhaustion. She couldn’t sleep—not now. Not with her thoughts roaring like a freight train.

Dumping the manila envelope’s contents onto the bed, she squinted at the jumble before her. Keys, their tarnished surfaces glinting faintly under the dim light. One key stood out—a large green one, ancient and out of place, yet strangely captivating. Next to it, a simple golden ring gleamed with quiet significance, as if daring her to touch it. Deeds and property descriptions were strewn across the pile, the ink blurred slightly as her vision swam. And then, there was the envelope with her name etched in Mr. McGillicuddy’s familiar scrawl.

Her fingers hovered over it, the air suddenly feeling heavier. She didn’t pick it up. Instead, Judas’s voice cut through her hesitation like a whip. “The Ring of Eae.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “The Ring of Eae?” she repeated, her voice cracking slightly. “What does it do?”

Judas didn’t hesitate. “Once we can wield it, it mimics the abilities of any celestial, angel, or demon we touch. This is a highly sought-after relic.”

Suzi’s brow furrowed. “Is it blessed or damned?” The ring sat cold and unassuming in her palm. She waited for a spark, a shift in energy, anything. But there was nothing. Just the faint weight of the metal against her skin.

“Eae was the angel responsible for assigning jobs and abilities to other angels. When he was cast out with Lucifer, the ring would’ve fallen with him. It’s hard to say.”

Her mind churned. “Why would John have had it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Silence. Judas offered no answer this time.

Swallowing hard, Suzi set the ring down and forced her focus back to the envelope. Breaking the wax seal, she pulled out the letter. The paper trembled slightly in her grip as she unfolded it.

The words blurred as tears pricked at the corners of Suzi’s eyes. She shook her head, willing herself to focus. The story unfolded with every line, each sentence sinking its claws deeper into her chest. By the time she reached the end, her breath was ragged, and her hands trembled, the weight of his confession pressing down on her like a lead blanket.

Dear Suzi—

If you are reading this, then I have passed on. I want to express to you just how much I loved and appreciated your visits. You made this old man feel young again, and I enjoyed telling you my stories of growing up. Thank you. You are a dear friend, and I hope you remember that as you read the rest of this letter.

I want you to know everything I told you was the truth. I’ve never lied to you, except when I had to, but now I must come clean.

I am not John Quincy McGillicuddy.

My given name was Robert Stanley Edwards. I served with John in Vietnam, and we could have been twins. People often mistook us for one another, but we had vastly different upbringings. You see, I joined the Navy to avoid the Feds, who were looking into me for a few bank robbery jobs I did in ’65. Back then, they didn’t look too hard at someone if they were healthy and could shoot a gun, even if he were a backwoods hillbilly like me.

John was drafted. He was well-to-do, educated, and on his way to becoming an engineer at a fancy college in New England. He had a young wife back home.

We got put on the same boat, where he was a quartermaster, and I was a deck scrub. Shortly after, we started playing pranks on others, as the only noticeable differences between us were my mannerisms, which I learned to hide, and a tattoo I had on my arm, which was covered by my shirt sleeve.

We were deployed to Da Nang and, in April of ‘68, sent up to fight in the Tet Offensive. When they say ‘War is Hell,’ they usually have no clue. There is so much chaos and confusion that no one knows what the hell is going on, which way is up, or who the enemy is.

In ’69, our boat was hit, and we had to swim to shore. Only about half of the men aboard made it. Some of them were taken captive, but not John and me. No, we huddled in and tried to radio in, but the comms were down. We were lost, and the Vietcong, we would swear, could see in the dark. After about a week, six of us found the camp where they kept the rest of our crew, and we made a plan to rescue them and get the hell out.

We mounted the rescue, and it went off without a hitch, except that John didn’t return with us. A few of us went back for him and we found him in a cold sweat, standing on a land mine. He tried to explain to me how to deactivate it, but as I was doing it, the Cong hunted us down. I was shot in the arm, and John was shot in the back. Of course, when he fell on me, the mine went off and killed the Cong that was chasing us but killed him too—ripped him to shreds. I took some shrapnel to the leg. He died in my arms.

John was a good man. Much better than me. There was no reason I should have lived, so I decided there that I would die, and he would live on. I switched tags with him, cut out the bullet in my arm, disfigured my tattoo, and hiked it out of there.

In almost 60 years, I’ve never told anyone that story. Of course, when I got back home, his wife and family suspected I wasn’t him. I wasn’t nearly as smart or educated as him. They wrote off a lot of my differences as Shell Shock, Battle Fatigue, or Post Vietnam Syndrome—not that fancy STD everyone has nowadays. His wife had a few kids with me but eventually took them and left as I was not the man she fell in love with.

John was awarded for his bravery, and I was delighted to hear that I was awarded posthumously. His parents passed in ‘78 and left him everything, and honestly, I didn’t know how to live on the money. I was a hillbilly at heart. I returned to Colorado, built a cabin, and trusted the rest of the money with a guy at the bank.

I found a couple of women along the way, but they never took kindly to living with me long-term. I tried to keep in touch with the kids, but I guess I was not a great parent either.

Finally, in ‘99, I started working for an outfit that bought up a bunch of land next to mine. They called themselves the “Light Bringers.” I really didn’t know what they did until much later, but I got in good with them and quickly became a taskmaster, doling out jobs and duties and such as they built their compound. I only got to meet the owner one time. He wasn’t American and talked funny. I was never given his name, but he said he liked what I was doing. Gave me this wedding band and asked me to sign up with them as a leader of some faction. After years of trying, I still cannot get rid of this ring, so now it’s yours.

I agreed and signed everything they put in front of me. A couple of years later, they brought in a new group of people—all youngster and new-age kids. They didn’t know where they were going or what they were getting themselves into, but then, neither did I. This group promised a path to give them the life they dreamed of and a community of love and understanding. They were all given photos of the owner, who they called “The Harvester.” Each meal was dedicated to him, and three times a week, they prayed to him. This quickly turned into some Jim Jones-type shit that I didn’t want to be a part of.

I left and feigned being sick for a week or so when they started knocking at my door. I avoided them as best I could, but then they started leaving notes, which turned into threats. I came home one night to my cabin on fire, so I knew it was time to book it.

I met with the guy at the bank and told them of my plan. I left enough in the bank to cover fees and taxes on my property for 50 years and signed the property over to the bank to hold until the person made their claim on my behalf. I wanted the rest in cash, but they said I couldn’t take that much. They suggested I diversify, and I paid some thumb sucker to make a ‘portfolio’ for me. I don’t know what all that means, but all the paperwork is included here. John’s pension was enough for me to live on, so I don’t know what is left for you, if anything.

I’ve got a few kids running around. None of them talk to me much. I wasn’t a great father. If there is anything left, please share it with them. It might make up for a lifetime of neglect from me.

The keys are to my footlocker, which holds some military memorabilia and a few grand in cash, and a safe deposit box at the Naperville Branch of Chicago Metro Bank (box 9012009), which has Robert Stanley Edwards’ last effects. The fancy green key goes to an old clay jar buried in the cellar of my burned-down cabin. I’ve left you a map. It’s an old clay jar that the ‘Light Bringers’ were very protective of. When they were threatening me, I snuck out there and took it from them as some bargaining chip, but after they torched my cabin, I just buried the sucker and left. The land in Colorado is probably overgrown, but it’s 200 acres for you to do with as you please.

I hope you don’t think too much less of me after all this.

Sincerely,

RSE

Her eyes darted back to the green key. A clay jar buried in the cellar. Her jaw clenched as determination burned away the lingering disbelief. Whatever secrets Robert—or John, or whoever the hell he had been—had left behind, she would uncover them.

Her gaze shifted to the ring once more. It caught the dim light, its gleam like a sly smirk, daring her to slip it on.

She didn’t.