All of this Johnis saw in a blink. But it was the scar on her cheek that his eyes settled on. His heart jumped.

“Darsal?”

Her eyes scanned the street as she hurried to his side. “Come with me.”

“What . . . how’s this . . . I thought—”

“You thought what they think. That I’m dead.” She took his arm and guided him down the sidewalk, glancing around nervously. “Do I look dead to you?”

“What . . . what happened?”

She spoke in a rush, quickening her steps. “I just flew in from Turkey, where I’ve had my head buried in the caves for two weeks. And what do I see? A news story of Silvie, standing on a stage, holding up three Books of History. I got here as soon as I could.”

Darsal looked at him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“We all thought you were dead.”

“Karas made herself known. I made myself dead. They have the three books?”

“How long . . . ?”

“Ten years, just like Karas. Where are Silvie and the books?”

“But Alucard had your book!”

Darsal stopped. “You . . . you’ve seen him?”

“They took me.”

“Miranda. To Romania.” She walked again, practically dragging him now. “I had to let them have the book to complete the illusion that I was dead. I’d arranged for a doctor to confirm it, take my body, but the book left no doubt. One book by itself was no use to me anyway.” She paused. “Where is Silvie?”

“They have her.”

Again Darsal stopped. Fear spread through her eyes. “And the books?”

Johnis took a breath and looked at the book in his hands. It shook slightly. “Six of them.”

Her eyes dropped to his hands. Then back up to his face.

She spun and began to run. “Hurry!”

Johnis gripped the book tight and ran after her. “Where?”

“They’ll be coming! We can’t let them have that book!”

He sprinted after her, around a corner into an alley. And then she began to run, really run, like the wind.

As did he, feeling a surge of confidence with each step.

They flew by an old drunk, who must have wondered what had been slipped into his drink. She came to a puddle and took to the air, leaping twenty feet, with Johnis in the air behind. They landed lightly and sprinted on without missing a step.

Darsal’s car waited on a corner a mile from the Spartan. She vaulted over the roof, threw the door open wide, and spun in. Clearly she’d had plenty of experience.

Johnis slid in beside her and slammed his door. “It’s a Chevy?”

“As a matter of fact”—she jerked the car into gear and it surged forward—“yes.”

Johnis looked at her. “A good choice.”

“You’re the expert?”

“Granted, I’m useless in most things here, but I know a thing or two about Chevys.”