Slappy sat calmly at the head of the table. Jed had found some clothes he'd outgrown—a basketball sweatshirt and sweatpants—for him to wear, but the clothes still hung off Slappy. The ends of his hair were singed and still smoked slightly.

"So let me get this straight," Amy groaned, rubbing her temples as she fought against a brewing headache, "you turn human when you come in contact with human blood. It takes a year to wear off."

"If that's true," Jed blurted, leaning over the table, teetering dangerously on the edge of the chair, "Why hasn't this ever happened before?"

Slappy squinted at the boy sharply, his eyes burning.

"It's simple."

He folded his long, graceful hands.

"It never has." His voice was low and calm, a note of steel threading the words. At their confused expressions, he elaborated. "For all these years, it was a wives' tale, something to tell us when we were younger, fascinating those eager enough to listen. Kind of like an urban legend, if you will." His smile was small and tight.

"An urban legend," Jed repeated dimly and leaned back. The table rattled when he set his hands blindly onto the tabletop.

Slappy nodded as though it should've been the most obvious thing on earth.

Amy twisted her fingers, digging her nails into her skin. The pain pushed everything into clarity so she could think. "And my blood got on you and now you're…this," she said. Absently, she waved her hand at his now very human visage.

"Outside I look human. Inside I'm still me." He held his arm out to her, and she stared at the light hair dusting his forearm, at the veins protruding from his skin.

Tentative, she reached out and her fingers grazed the soft surface, milky and smooth aside from his millions of freckles. She could feel the map of his veins but no heat emitted from them, no thumping of blood.

He blinked a few times for theatrics, she was sure of it. For a demon, he certainly loved drama.

Go big or go home, she thought bemusedly.

"Why are you here?" Mrs. Kramer asked as she stared down the counter, wiping it with a wet rag. She hadn't looked at anyone since they came downstairs and had sequestered herself in the kitchen, throwing herself into stress-cleaning.

The puppet-turned-man looked up. "I don't know," he admitted.

Attention swiveled to Amy, and she looked up, confused and angry. "Don't look at me! I was just trying to do the right thing, right, Mom?"

"Hm."

Why had she brought him back? After everything he'd done to them when she was twelve—she should've left him for dead, but she couldn't. It was as though someone else was controlling her, compelling her to pick him up and care for him.

"Why would you bring him back?" Mrs. Kramer demanded, slapping down the wet washcloth onto the counter. As skittish as she was, she was even worse when she was angry.

"He nearly tore us apart! He ruined Sara's beautiful masterpieces and got Jed in trouble," she raved, her eyes narrow.

Of course her mother would be angry about Sara's "masterpieces" and, since Jed was the baby of them, be super protective over him but where did Amy fit in? Was she not important enough to be acknowledged as well?

Amy struggled to breathe, twisting her napkin fiercely between her fingers. It was like all thoughts flew from her brain, leaving only a huge panic. She clenched her jaw.

"Answer her, stupid! I thought Dr. Palmer fixed you," came Sara's annoying lilt from beyond the living room.

Amy's lip ached as she bit it hard, tasting sharp, hot blood.

Something cool and smooth touched her chin, tilting her head up. Slappy's familiar aquamarine eyes stared back at her, his face carefully smooth but a hint of sympathy in his gaze.

"Don't you touch her," shrieked Mrs. Kramer.

"I'm simply calming her. In case you hadn't noticed, she's on the verge of hysteria."

Amy glanced at his thin lips, her stare lingering and then she pushed away from the table, her chair screeching.

The tableware rattled, Jed's glass teetering back and forth, milk spilling over the edge of the rim. He stared at her, obviously confused. Sara was still shrieking.

Mrs. Kramer was yelling at Amy now, rounding the corner of the counter, and her bony fingers dug into Amy's arm, squeezing passed the muscle and hitting the bone.

Slappy rushed to his feet and snapped his fingers, once, and the sound bounced, echoing as though they were in a canyon.

Time crawled to a slow standstill for a split second then Mrs. Kramer stumbled away, her eyes glassy, expression blank.

Sara had fallen quiet.

Jed dropped his fork onto his plate and the sound jarred Amy's ringing ears as Slappy sat back, a triumphant look dominating his face.

Her teeth chattered as she escaped to her room, black hair swinging behind her. Her hands shook as she struggled with the doorknob, the cool metal shocking her burning skin. She managed to pull it open, wedging it with her foot and then her knees gave out; she hit the floor hard, scarcely missing her open closet door.

In the back of her mind, she knew Slappy had caused that.

But, oddly, it didn't frighten her; if anything, it calmed her.