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mental vitality than he showed in the present. That mental vitality was as fleeting as his dream world fixation on the beautiful demon-spawn known as Sheila Clarke, something others never saw. They saw only a man who talked to himself.
    But he wasn’t talking to himself.
    He couldn’t remember a time without the Voice reverberating inside his head. The sudden buzzing in his mind, as if connecting two mobile phones over extreme distances, signaled him that the Voice would speak. Wesley couldn’t initiate those connections. It was one aspect of the many he detested about that arrangement.
    Middle-of-the-night wakeup calls were another. He wished the Voice had a silent mode he could activate.
    Wesley.
    He ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes?”
    It is time for you to act .
    He glanced at the clock. “At this hour? It’s quite dark outside.”
    It is the ideal time to act for that reason. Dress, and inform me when you are prepared to speak once more.
    He wondered if he could just go back to sleep. If he didn’t respond, would the Voice think he struggled with clothes selection? Speaking of which… “What should I wear?” He didn’t know what “act” the Voice had in mind; best to dress appropriately.
    Dress in your work clothes.
    Wesley rolled his eyes. “My work clothes? My shift doesn’t start for another nine hours, though. If I’m just going to work, I should just go back to sleep and—”
    The high-pitched shriek inside his head was like fingernails on a chalkboard, but far more potent. He screamed and grabbed his head with his hands and forearms, squeezing. This was the worst aspect of the arrangement. The Voice could activate a painful sound only Wesley could hear, and that pain delivery system meant the Voice could make Wesley do anything .
    The noise lasted just a few seconds this time. It was enough. Wesley found his work clothes and dressed without further protest. “I’m dressed.”
    You must pack supplies in order to complete your mission, Wesley.
    He felt his pulse quicken. Annoying though the Voice might be, he—or she—had proved useful in getting him the information he needed for his podcast and for the personal education sessions like the one in the restaurant the day before. “What supplies will I require?”
    Did you receive the package sent to your home?
    He felt a chill trickle down his spine and sucked in a breath. He’d thought the box had been delivered as a prank, for there’d been no sender name, no return address, no markings of any kind. He’d tossed the package into his trash bin. But it was salvageable. He wondered what the Voice would do to him—and for how long—if he’d discarded the box or rendered it unusable for his mission. “I got it.”
    Take the package, along with a flashlight and your lock picking equipment, and enter your place of work. I will be in contact with you again at that time.
    “But what am I supposed to do when I get there?”
    He heard nothing but full silence. The Voice had severed the connection.
    Wesley sighed. He found a backpack, dug a flashlight out of his nightstand drawer and tested the rechargeable batteries, and then located the lock picking kit he’d gotten… well, he wasn’t quite sure when he’d gotten it or how he’d learned to use the tools. It didn’t matter. He knew, and the Voice would make use of his talents.
    After a quick snack—for all he knew, the Voice would lead him directly into the hands of the police and he’d be detained for days without food—he set the alarm systems and locked the exterior door. He then headed to the trash bin and pulled out the package. He tested the weight. Then he tore the paper off the package and opened the box.
    Wesley sucked in a deep breath.
    The surface was smooth, a metallic material he didn’t recognize. But it was the digital readout and the activation button mounted flush with the surface that helped him understand what he was holding, and what it was he’d be asked to