“Rasputin has my parents, and one way or another, I’m going to save them. If I have to take an oath to the Order of the Northern Wolf, then so be it,” I declare. It’s a stupid threat to make. The Syndicate might disagree internally about whether the Ascension should be celebrated, but Jude wants to stop it, and he’s already divulged the only effective plan he’s got. “I have until Thursday to decide.”

Jude studies my face, and I school my features into a deadpan glare. I don’t think he believes I’ll go through with it—my poker face is bullshit—but he gives me a nod anyway. “I’ll see what I can find out about Rasputin’s operation and where your parents might be. Give me a day or two, and we can talk about a plan to rescue them.”

It takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying. “Just like that?”

“Unfortunately, no.” He rises to his feet again with a funerary air. “I had to report last night’s attack to the Syndicate. It was a serious breach of our protocols, and they’d have learned of it regardless. They’re sending reinforcements, and in a matter of days I’ll lose the advantage of being able to make decisions and justify them later.” His eyes travel over my face, my lips, and he looks away. “Hecuba wants to bury the Corrupter forever—even as a rumor, it’s caused nothing but trouble. Supposing you died, August … all it would do is reset the same conditions. She hasn’t given up on looking for some way to stop him permanently, and I haven’t, either. I’ll do everything I can, for as long as I can, to keep you from having to make this choice. You have my word.”

With a final, sober nod, he turns and leaves me at the table, disappearing from view while I try to figure out if I’ve just moved forward or backward.

It looks like the Brotherhood actually wants me dead, and that Daphne defied them by protecting me. It’s chilling, because even if I can’t figure out why, I’m less safe than ever now that she’s gone. Conversely, Hecuba apparently wants a way to stop the Corrupter that goes beyond just executing me like vessels of yore—and as one of the original Syndics, she clearly has a lot of influence. That doesn’t mean she cares about keeping me alive, of course, or that a way to thread that particular needle even exists … but at least she doesn’t want me dead. Yet.

The chair beside me scrapes the floor as someone joins me at the table, and when I look up, I freeze all the way to my marrow. A familiar face, a familiar voice, a familiar smile. “Thank God; I thought he would never leave.”