An hour early, the first of Rasputin’s outriders dart past, three of them, their signals weaving through the birch grove on the north side of the clearing as they check the terrain. They look for me, but I’m not worried; they won’t see me until I want them to. When they’ve completed their scouting mission, they retreat—and when the appointed time arrives, their golden eyes flicker to life in the gloom festering among the trees. Two by two more eyes appear, like fairy lights, as a small army of shiftless undead soldiers secure the field for their general.

“August Pfeiffer?” Wind shakes the branches, and traffic whooshes by on the main road, just out of sight, but Grigori Rasputin’s heavily accented voice still sounds loud and clear across the picnic grounds. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

“I want to see my parents,” I call back, and the golden eyes neither blink nor waver at my demand. There are seventeen sets, but I sense twenty-one vampires hiding in the birch grove. “Show me you complied with my terms, and I’ll come out.”

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” His taunting voice circles the clearing like a boomerang, the source impossible to determine. He’s using magic. “This little scene is more public than I care for, August Pfeiffer. Too unprotected. I do not wish to walk into a trap.”

“Neither do I.” We’re all at risk here, and that’s the point. The Syndicate and the League will do anything to stop me from making a deal with Rasputin—and the Brotherhood wants to see me dead no matter what. A meeting at Colgate Woods leaves everyone vulnerable … but there are dozens of escape routes, and few ways to rig the playing field. “The second I come out there, you’ll probably grab me! And how do I even know you still have my parents? How am I supposed to know they’re okay?”

“If you don’t come out, how am I to know you did not lure me here to be killed?” He counters, his singsong voice still making eerie rounds over the clearing. “But if you insist…”

A moment later, another voice splits the night, ragged and heartrending. “Auggie, whatever he wants, don’t give it to h—”

The warning cuts off abruptly, plunged into silence … but not before it has its intended effect. My throat closes, my vision wobbles, and for just a moment I’m six years old again. “D-Dad?”

“You will see your parents once I see you, August Pfeiffer.” The Mad Monk’s voice contains a wicked smile.