Some of the familiar faces from Tila’s sketchbook come to greet me, and I smile and kiss them on the cheeks, greeting them by name, all too aware that the hands gently resting on my shoulders have killed people. All these polite guests are hardened criminals, many with hits under their belts. It’s almost like I can feel the ghosts, a press of the invisible, cold corpses these people are responsible for, crowding the room with the revelers.

I shake my head, which feels fuzzy. I eye the scented fog in suspicion—have they put something in it, like the way they release extra pheromones in the casinos? Was there something in that glass of champagne—real champagne!—I drank far too quickly?

I have to keep my wits about me.

I understand a lot more than I did before, but there are still so many gaps. Tila came into the Ratel from a different direction than Nazarin. She may have run errands briefly, but as soon as she proved that she could lucid dream, she worked her way in deeper without going through the official steps. Until now. She’s close enough that they want her to do something more important for them, if she just passes this Test. If I just pass the Test.

I force myself to stay calm, to smile at the guests as if nothing is bothering me.

What did the Ratel think, when Vuk disappeared? Do they think he went rogue, or do they know that something happened to him? Tila wasn’t supposed to be working that night, but surely someone at the club noticed her. Sal saw her. Did he change his colors and decide to turn her in to the Ratel? There is a chance that this is all an elaborate trap. Nazarin said that the hitman, that Adam-turned-Vuk, wasn’t after her. I’m not sure if I still believe that.

I look around for Nazarin again, my mouth dry. I drink more champagne to wet it, though the bubbles are going to my head already. It all just seems so very, very stupid. We’re here with essentially no backup because any type of surveillance would be instantly recognized by the scanners we passed at the gate. There’s plenty of cops seconds away if we can manage to call them, but the odds of that in here are next to nothing—all signals are blocked.

I’m beginning to panic, sweating beneath the silver fabric. Where is Nazarin? He wouldn’t leave me, would he? I keep saying hello to strangers, fudging conversations, my mind working in overtime not to step in the wrong place. Nobody mentions a thing about the Ratel. They comment on the decor, how amazing this building is, the champagne, the salty caviar blintzes. I want to scream.

Be Tila. She’d know how to react. None of this would faze her.