“Then why are we crucifying him?” Cornelius turned to the two agents. They didn’t breathe.

“Get out of here.”

They swiftly left the presence of the Dragon Master.

“Help him up,” Cornelius said to Xandria.

“I’m always available to help,” she said, stroking her hand against his arm. She walked over to August and helped the groaning man rise to his feet. He leaned against the side of the limo. “I’m sorry that happened,” she said. He didn’t reply.

Cornelius approached him. “Look at me,” he said.

August strained to lift his head.

“Look at me,” Cornelius said again, grabbing August by the chin.

August peered into an intense glare.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” Cornelius reached into his pocket. “Lucky for you, I’ve got something that should help you be a little more cooperative. Sodium pentothal, sodium amytal, and pure adrenaline. Basically, truth serum with a kick. You won’t sleep for a week. I’m told that it’s a bit unstable, but it should do the trick.”

August felt something sharp pierce him on the left just below his jawbone, but he didn’t have the strength to fight it. A second later the pain was gone, but in its wake he felt, or imagined, a tiny flame coursing through his veins. He thought he was going to black out when suddenly the reverse happened: he was wide awake, more alert than he’d ever been in his life. His heartbeat doubled, maybe tripled. He became hyperaware of his surroundings: a fly buzzing in the distance, a bead of sweat collecting on the edge of Cornelius’s hairline, a faint shadow of fear on Xandria’s face. And there were voices. Hundreds of them. But where were they coming from?

“He’s ready,” Cornelius pronounced. “Take him inside.”

The warehouse was an empty shell. August heard his own footsteps reverberate between the concrete floor and the metal surroundings, a steady tap-tap-tap that reminded him of the sound he heard in his head when he read Poe’s “The Raven.” “I sold a first edition of Edgar Allan Poe’s Tamerlane for three hundred thousand dollars,” August said.

“What are you talking about?” Xandria asked.

“I made a killing on that one,” he said. “I bought it from a kid working for his mom at an antique store. He didn’t know any better. He sold it to me for fifteen dollars.”

“That’s robbery.”

“I know,” August said. He felt as if some lock inside his head had been broken open, and he was scared what might come crawling out next.

They walked toward a room, which resembled a giant white gift box, in the middle of warehouse. It looked strange situated there, and August wondered if had been constructed expressly for him, specifically for this purpose.

“What is this place?”