I could feel two vampire minds behind us. They were about a mile and a half back and not moving. Most likely an observation post that got staffed after we passed through.

We passed a rusted wreck of a truck. Ice slicked the road. Probably an overflowing sewer or a busted waterline that spilled water over the street before it had frozen solid. Up ahead a hole gaped in the pavement, about five and a half feet wide. A manhole cover lay frozen in the ice. Looked like something tore out of the sewers and pulled a good deal of soil with it. If some mysterious mole people cornered us, I’d point them toward the Casino and tell them that’s where our leader lives.

A man in dark clothes walked out into the middle of the road and blocked our way. He was lean, with short dark hair. He raised his head and looked at me. I developed a sudden urge to check for the quickest exit.

“That’s the bastard who shot me. Well!” Desandra cracked her knuckles. “Let me just take care of this . . .”

“Wait,” I told her.

“What? Why?”

“Yes, why?” Robert asked.

“Do you remember the Red Stalker thing? The serial killer who collected and tortured women and ate vampires?”

“Yes,” Robert said.

“He ate vampires?” Ascanio asked.

“Before your time,” Derek told him.

The Red Stalker also killed Greg Feldman, my legal guardian and the knight of the Order who took care of me after Voron died. It was my first time interacting with the Pack, my first time meeting Derek, and the first time, but not the last, I had felt an irresistible need to punch Curran in the arm. “During the investigation, the Pack captured a crusader.”

“I remember,” Robert said. “He smelled like rotting food. I think we had to dip him. He had lice.”

I nodded toward the man. “That’s him.”

Robert squinted. “It can’t be.”

Back then Nick looked like a hobo. He wore a filthy coat smeared with trash and old food, had greasy hair down to his shoulders, and cultivated the kind of hygiene that guaranteed him loads of personal space from anyone with a nose or a pair of eyes. Cleaned up, he looked fit and athletic, but average. The man in front of us now looked hard and mean, stripped of all softness. His hair was cut so short, it was almost stubble. His triangular jaw was clean shaven. He looked like a soldier or a fighter, clean, spare, and hard.

“It’s him,” I said. “I’ve seen him before with Hugh at the Midnight Games.”