Something about him—the way he moves and speaks, the way he looks at my sword—sends a thousand warning signals flashing up and down my spine.

“Fonzie,” I tell him.

Fonzie Rebecca Buckler, aka Tank Girl. I was obsessed with Tank Girl comics in my early teens, way back when the world was normal—and singular. I mean, what’s not to love about an anarchic, goggle-wearing girl living in a tank in an apocalyptic desert, dating a mutant kangaroo called Booga?

“Interesting name,” he says.

“And you are?”

He bows elaborately. “Rodolfo Graziani, at your service. In some circles, the Marchese di Jöve. A humble Pathfinder myself.”

Without understanding why, the name tightens my gut.

“That sword,” he says. “Might I have a closer look? I am…an enthusiast.”

The request, and the ease with which he steers the conversation, frightens me. Despite every cell in my body screaming at me to run, I can’t do anything but comply. He smiles sweetly, with an odd warmth, and I find myself holding the weapon out to him, hilt first. Perhaps I’ve been overly cautious. He did chase away those men. If they were even human at all.

But as soon as he removes the sword from my hands, I feel it.

I’ve made a terrible mistake.

“Si,” he says, grinning wickedly. “It is certain. You received the sword from Mother, did you not?”

An alarm bell peals, faintly, far away.

“My sword,” I demand, holding out my hand.

“What providence is this?” he says, eyes alight. “The one we have been hunting across worlds and years is finally at hand. She, who gifted you this weapon of weapons, is close. Si, I feel it.”

“The sword,” I repeat.

“You want it?” An edge in his voice now. “Then why let it leave your grasp?”

I look beyond him to the alleyway entrance, uneasy, pulse quickening.

“But the real mystery here,” he says, “lies not in the sword, but why Mother would entrust a mighty blade to a girl with not one observable skill.”

I look at the sun-blade in his hand and say nothing. My brain runs through my options, but choices are slim.

“So, tell me,” he says. “Who are you really? And where is Mother?”

“Before I answer,” I say, stalling. “Let me ask you a question.”

Graziani holds the sword horizontal to his face, shuts his left eye and, with his right flush to the metal, he examines the flat length of the blade. “You believe your position is one of bargaining?”

“Those men,” I say, taking a step away from him. “The ones from earlier, they weren’t really…people, were they? They were Reapers.”

He smiles and swings the sword. “Were?” He points the tip of the blade into the dark now. “They are still here. In the shadows. Waiting.”

Fear pours over my heart.

“Then you work for him?”

“Him?”