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shinobi cocktail. If anyone came to murder me, I’d be prepared.
    Yet nobody did. For a few days anyway.
    On the fourth night of my recuperation, though, something weird went down.
    I was torn from a dead sleep by a voice blaring, “Augustine!”
    My eyes snapped open and I bolted upright in bed. Pain bowed my torso into a shape like this—)—and a dozen stitches frayed on my back. I grabbed the shinobi off my nightstand, heart racing, fingers tingling. I gaped around. It was dark, but not so black that someone could hide in the shadows. I was alone.
    I squinted at my door’s security chain. It was latched. Looked at the motion detector. Its on light glowed green. The voice could’ve been The Committee, but never before had one of its messages been directed at me. Must’ve been a dream.
    I put my head back to the pillow, closed my eyes, and—
    â€œListen!”
    Definitely The Committee. Instructing me to eavesdrop. On who, I had no idea.
    Better obey the voice, I thought. Could be God. Calling to apologize about my mom and allowing my dad to leave us before I could even walk.
    Took me a minute to tune out the static of the thousand sounds that were always in my head. When I finally managed it, two voices bubbled to the surface. I’d never done this before, and there was no explanation for how I knew what The Committee wanted me to hear. Somehow, I just did.
    Honing in, I heard:
    Voice One: “He will come soon, Smiler, and I will knock him!”
    Voice Two: “Yes. I too have seen it. Yet knocking him, my friend, may not prove the most prudent course of action. There are…alternatives.”
    Voice One: “He killed the dogs of Chool! I will knock him!”
    Voice Two: “Easy, my dear Knock, easy. A physical encounter will always remain an option, yes, but far from the only one. Consider that he is young, easily swayed. Consider that a more precious reward may be won by turning him rather than by knocking—”
    A high-pitched buzzing, like an army of halogens, marched into my ears. I doubled my efforts.
    Voice Two: “Let us be cunning, Knock. Wise, patient. Let us win him gently. And then, when the boy turns, he will believe it was of his own volition.”
    Voice One: “He is of the Mighty. The kin of Jashobeam! He will not turn!”
    Voice Two: “With time and persistence, my friend, we shall convince him to join the legions of Azazel. And the Master’s reward will be ours to share.”
    Voice One: “If he resists?”
    A long pause.
    Voice Two: “Shhh.”
    Another pause.
    Voice Two: “Someone listens.”
    And they were gone.

Chapter Nine
    Ever wake up and just know it’s going to be one of those days where everything sucks? Even a glass-is-one-quarter-full guy like me has to admit that certain days are cruel. Bible says they’re trials to test our faith and endurance, to build character. Maybe.
    I believed good character could just as easily be forged by paying attention to life’s nicer things. Relishing the smell, texture, and every bite of a pizza with onions, bacon, and extra cheese. The way it yielded to your teeth and lounged on your tongue before diving down your throat. Flavor so sunk into your cheeks that you could still taste it ten minutes after the last slice was gone. I believed that watching a cloud morph from dragon to bear to clown taught as many lessons as taking out the garbage or weeding the yard.
    It was seven days after the Battle of the Boneyard, and I hadn’t seen Chool or Amos Booth since, thank God. I was stiff and sore, but healing fast. Yesterday, I even felt healthy enough to leave a note on Amos’s pillow suggesting we talk. I’d also convinced Merryn to snip away most of my stitches, leaving only a couple dozen in my back.
    I rose early to do some light training. Pushups, dumbbells, kicks, jump rope. When Chool time came again, I’d be ready. Though Plan A