“It’s a precaution,” I said. “Ghastek isn’t about to jeopardize his rise to the top.”

The most skilled navigators were known as Masters of the Dead. There were seven of them in Atlanta, and two of them, Ghastek and Mulradin Grant, were currently scheming and plotting, trying to gain control of the chapter. My money was on Ghastek. We had cooperated before out of necessity. He was smart, calculating, and ruthless, but he was also reasonable. It was his turn to attend the Conclave.

“Maybe a war with the Pack is exactly what he wants,” Jim said. “I don’t want to take chances. Hold on.” He peered at the far end of the hallway.

A man with pure-white hair turned the corner and sped toward us. Stick-thin, he moved at a near run, holding a stack of books to his chest. His jeans sagged on him, and his turtleneck, which would’ve been tight on most people, had a lot of spare fabric. Christopher occasionally forgot to eat. Sooner or later Barabas caught it and made him consume three meals a day, but Christopher never seemed to put any meat on his bones.

Jim turned and watched him close in. No love lost there. Jim viewed Christopher as a puzzle box. It could open to reveal a treasure or a bomb, and Jim didn’t like not knowing which it was.

“Remember all those bodyguarding jobs we used to run?” Jim asked.

“I remember. Are you trying to tell me I’m being a difficult body to guard?”

“Something like that.”

Christopher reached us. His blue eyes were opened wide. Some days they were like a clear summer sky, not a thought in sight, but right now they were focused with a single-mindedness bordering on obsession. Some idea had grabbed hold of him and driven him off a cliff. He probably didn’t even know he was carrying books.

“Mistress!”

I had given up on telling him to call me Kate. He always ignored it. “Yes?”

“You can’t go!”

Jim’s eyebrows came together.

“Go where, Christopher?” I asked.

“To that place.” Words came tumbling out of him. “I’ve been trying to be in my right mind.”

“Aha.” When in doubt, stick to simple words.

“I know what I used to be, but I cannot be that anymore. I try. I try so hard. But my mind is unraveled and the threads, they’re too tangled. There are pieces of me floating. I’m shattered. He broke me.”

“Who broke you?” Jim asked.

Christopher looked at him. His voice was a mere whisper. “The Builder.”

My father. The Builder of Towers. Anger spiked inside me. I wished I could reach across time and space and punch Roland in the face.

Christopher turned to me. “If I had known what it was like to be shattered, I would’ve rather died.”

Oy. “Don’t say that,” I said.

“It’s the truth.”