“Mircea—”

“—never did. Anjo de sangue—blood angel—to the Portuguese; Levengever—literally life giver—to the Dutch; Băiat de Aur or Fata de Aur—golden boy or girl—in Romanian, because they are prized, you see—”

“Mircea! Try to focus,” I said desperately, which felt surreal, because he was nothing if not strong minded.

Except for today, it seemed.

“I am trying,” he said, and to be fair, he sounded like it. There was tension in his voice, and he appeared to be sweating.

A vampire.

Was sweating.

The world really had gone mad.

“What the hell did they put in that bomb?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know who ‘they’ are. The bomb went off, filling the small area we were in with smoke, and when I woke up, I was caught in a metaphysical trap of the kind the Circle likes to use.”

I shivered slightly in sympathy. The traps he was talking about looked like a shoebox on the outside, just a shiny black rectangle. But inside was an undefined space, a totally black prison cell with no doors or windows or any other way out.

Physically, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Mentally, it was a complete mind-fuck. Especially the longer you stayed inside.

Mircea seemed to agree, because he jerked Pritkin up by the collar at another sound, while looking frantically in both directions. I didn’t say anything, as I wasn’t sure what would help. I’d never seen him like this.

Then the noise came again, more clearly. And, this time, it wasn’t the sound of booted, running feet, indistinct shouting, or gunfire. This time, it was worse.

“What was that?” I said, as a stuttering roar echoed off the walls, loud enough to make my flesh think about separating from my bones.

“A cave troll?” Mircea suggested, and laughed again, a high pitched, somewhat crazed sound.

“What?”

“From The Lord of the Rings. You remember—when they were in Moria?”

I stared at the wall in front of us, in complete shock. “My God, you’re high.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying! I cannot throw off the effects of the potion. I tore through their flimsy trap, rescued this lump,” he shook Pritkin, harder than technically necessary. “And escaped into a maze that never ends, pursued by men in black and a monster I cannot see, but who is hunting me. Hunting us, do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said. “I get it now.”

Mircea somehow grabbed me by one shoulder, even though I wasn’t there. And shook me hard enough that I almost fell off the stairs. “I need you. I know you are not fully healed, and I apologize for that. But the mage won’t come around and I am having difficulty using my own powers, much less yours—”