“It’s a covenant—a ritual, where your blood binds you to your word. You make a pledge, and magic forces you to honor it.” Her hands squeeze the wheel so hard her knuckles pop. “If Jude gets you to swear your allegiance to the Syndicate, and seals it with your blood, you’re theirs forever, Auggie. It doesn’t matter who or what is in charge of your body—as long as the same blood flows through your veins, you’re on a mystical leash until the end. If there is one.”

Her meaning sinks in, and I grip my seat belt. I’ve got no idea what this entity will want when it busts me open and spreads its wings—but it won’t be good. After generations of Rising and failing to Ascend, surely the Corrupter will have its own plans for what to make of its glorious return. But if any of these vampires can compel me to sign some mystical contract in blood, I’ll tie the Endless One to their agenda for a literal eternity.

“What if I take an oath to the Brotherhood?” I blurt. “Then the Corrupter’s hands are tied, right? Even … even if it Ascends, the world would still be safe.”

She opens her mouth to speak but doesn’t have a chance to. At that exact moment, something crashes down onto the roof of the car, the impact sending us out of control. I gasp as Daphne jerks the wheel, our tires slewing over rain-slicked pavement, and we spin for a sickening moment. Then she hits the brakes hard, and I lurch forward against the resistance of the seat belt.

The thing on the roof tumbles over the windshield and slams onto the hood, just as Daphne hits the gas again, yanking the wheel and veering into the oncoming lane, trying to dislodge it. But it spears a set of black-tipped claws through the car’s metal skin, holding on tight as we swerve back and forth. My eyes reel as I make sense of what’s right in front of me, nothing between us but a sheet of glass—the mantis-like limbs, the scraggly beard, the eyes that glow ferociously when they meet mine.

For the second time tonight, I’m face-to-face with Rasputin.

20

The photos I found of the Russian cleric were freaky, but none of them prepared me for the terrifying thing crawling across the hood of Daphne’s Saab, vampirism turning an already frightening figure into a nightmare on steroids. His face is gaunt, his hair tangled by the wind, but his eyes are dazzling—deep and golden, they move without moving—and as he drags himself closer to the windshield, one handhold at a time, my vision tunnels on those two bright spots of light. The car swings from side to side, but the motion is lulling, the air warm and pliant.