“No.” I can’t look at him. “And … yes. I think a part of me did.” He doesn’t have to ask which part. “I didn’t … It’s not why I made him come back. I just wanted some answers.”

Reaching for something on the floor beside the couch, Gunnar says, “Lucky for you, then—William dropped what he was trying to steal when you made him explode.”

The edges are singed, but when he unrolls the heavy sheet of paper, I recognize it immediately. It’s the sketch I did the day I met Jude. “This is mine.”

I’m not exactly surprised—there isn’t much else Rasputin would be after in the Fulton Heights High art room. For days, I’ve been assuming it was locked in a Brotherhood vault somewhere … but, then, Mr. Strauss told me he wanted to take pictures of it. Watching me, Gunnar asks, “What does it mean? Who are these three women?”

“I don’t know,” I say, avoiding his eye. “I’m, like, ninety percent certain all these people are watching the Corrupter get executed in one of his lifetimes? But I don’t know when or where—and I don’t know why Rasputin would want it.”

Self-consciousness heats my face as I carefully tell the lie. For the first time, I think I do know who those ladies are supposed to be. My mind is fixed on Ximena’s account of the three undead witches who faced Azazel in the past, who have supposedly tracked him from life to life ever since.

Maybe Rasputin wants my practice sketches because he’s a Corrupter fanboy, and this will be a great exhibit in his private collection someday. Or maybe he wants any information he can get about the sorceress coven that might stand between him and his dreams. The witches could be Azazel’s worst enemies … or his biggest groupies—and until I know which it is, I can’t afford to share what little I know about them.

“I can’t wait to see the look on that gangly bastard’s face when I make him combust.” Just imagining it warms the cockles of my heart. He kidnapped my parents, terrorized my best friend, slaughtered people … I’m glad the only ability I have to stop him involves an incredibly painful death. “Wait till he finds out I’m not as helpless as he thinks.”

Gunnar sits back. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” Gesturing out the window, trees and rooftops taking shape against the sky, I state, “The sun will be up soon, and wherever he’s hiding, he’ll be stuck there until sunset. I’ve got all day to find and torture henchmen until one of them gives him up.”

“Auggie, you need to listen to yourself.” Gunnar is emphatic. “This is a bad plan.”