THE JOURNEY TO DENVER IN THE TRUCK WAS A HAIR-RAISING affair, because Ted Blitzer insisted on “learning you how to drive proper,” as he put it. The road was rough, and the car bounced like a frantic mare, wearing a blister in Johnis’s right palm. He found himself yearning for a Chevy. At the very least, a good stallion.

Ted jabbered like a monkey, but Johnis’s mind was on Silvie. And the books. And Alucard. And the Roush ordering him into the Black Forest to meet Teeleh. Honestly, he had difficulty remembering exactly how he’d come to this place, bucking down the road in a Ford truck, listening to Farmer Ted talk about how the government was conspiring to steal all the land from rightful owners.

A war is brewing, Ted insisted. He couldn’t know how little any war meant compared to what would happen if seven ancient, leather-bound books got in the wrong hands. It could all be over in just a few hours now. In a day or two the whole world would know just how critical the words they’d heard Silvie speak from the stage at Tony Montana’s concert really were.

They’d all seen her hold up three books and cry out her challenge to Alucard. The earth hung in the balance of those three books, the three in Alucard’s lair, and the one inside his belt.

The farmer took over when they neared the city, and Johnis stared ahead, pretending to listen. But his mind was gone, and his hands were sweaty, and his heart was breaking for Silvie.

Ted dropped him off in front of a towering glass building with huge red letters that spelled out SPARTAN HOTEL and left to find his brother.

The moment Johnis stepped past the double glass doors, his worst fears were confirmed. The main atrium was closed off with yellow tape, behind which a dozen police officers worked over several bodies on rolling beds.

“Silvie?” He leaped over the tape and sprinted to the first body. A white sheet covered the victim’s head. “Silvie?”

He ripped off the sheet. A man.

“Hey!”

He bounded to the second body, discovered it was another male.

“Hey! Hey, you can’t do that!”

As was the third victim.

He whirled to the approaching office. “Where’s Silvie? And Karas?”

“Out!” The officer jabbed his flashlight at the door. “This is a crime scene, buddy.”

“Please, I need to know if Karas . . . Kara Longford is one of the victims.”

“Out!”

Another policeman stepped in from his right, grabbed Johnis by his arm, and escorted him past the yellow tape.

“Please,” he whispered, begging. “Just tell me if there were any women among the victims. I have to know.”

“Are you a relative?”

“To whom? One of the victims? How would I know unless you told me who they are?”