“I’ll not give her up,” I said. “Not now, not ever.”

“The lake,” he wheezed. “Erik . . . she’s . . . the lake . . .”

At once, his meaning occurred to me. Stephanie had gone silent after crying out. And Rastin was now insinuating he could sense Stephanie’s whereabouts on the grounds. But . . . this must be a distraction. A ploy. For what reason would Stephanie have to go to the lake? The lake that, on my side, was sheeted by ice.

Without another word, I departed, leaving Rastin there, gasping and bleeding on the floor as I hurried to the front door that returned me to my realm.

I left the porch, my gaze fixed upon the white-hazed horizon that held no sign of either movement or silhouette. My boots crushed the fallen snow that continued to barrel in currents from the sky, hurrying to fill the tiny grave-like prints left by a smaller set of feet.

The prints led away from the porch and from me, trailing across the grounds in a straight line that terminated at the trees.

The lake. Rastin’s voice, full of warning, rang through my skull.

But . . . why would she go there?

There was only one reason I could think of.

And it was a reason that made me run.

FIFTY-SIX

Lucas

I hadn’t even finished shifting the Dart into park next to the empty black Beamer when we heard the shout. Someone inside the house calling out for—

“Stephanie.” I pried off my seatbelt, leaving my keys in the ignition and my friends in the car.

“Lucas, wait!” Charlotte called from the front passenger’s seat. But I charged straight toward the house and the open front door, not bothering to look back.

“C’mon, man, I thought we had this talk,” growled Patrick, his steps along with Charlotte’s and Wes’s now pounding the pavement in time with mine.

As my feet thudded up the porch steps, a blast of frozen air slammed straight into me. I ignored its warning, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape before bursting through the door and into the darkened foyer.

Arcs and splatters of crimson slashed the floor. Two sets of footprints tracked the blood this way and that, and there—in the center—knelt a man.

He gripped his chest with one blood-soaked hand. Reaching toward me, he beckoned with the other.

“Ho-ly man on the TV,” Wes said from behind me as I rushed to the man’s side, not recognizing him until his outstretched arm took hold of mine. His eyes. I had seen them countless times before. I’d even spoken to him once. At that convention. And there was the email I’d sent. Did this mean he’d gotten it?

“You have got to be kidding me right now,” exclaimed Charlotte, her voice emanating from the door.

“I knew I’d seen him on the cam!” shouted Patrick. “I figured it couldn’t be, but—”