The car winds south toward the river. Somewhere near the inner city, before we have even crossed the bridge, the hunter in the passenger seat points toward a road and murmurs. The driver responds in Hungarian, irritated, but then pulls off onto a side road toward a park. Because of course I won’t be allowed to die without some kind of abuse or molestation first. I steel myself for the fight to escape, to reach the river with my dignity, at least, intact.

The minute the passenger removes his mask, I know that possibility is gone.

I recognize that profile from nightmares. And now that I’m looking at him, the shape of that ear.

Rolan.

Before I can grab the door handle, he lunges across the front seat for the driver. Bashes his head against the window with a sickening crack. The car careens toward a grassy lawn and crashes up a curb, the driver’s head bouncing against the steering wheel. I shove myself across the seat as Rolan grapples for control of the car. The instant it slows I heave the door open, pitch onto the lawn so hard it knocks the breath from my lungs. The ground tilts. I crawl to my hands and knees, fight to stagger to my feet.

“Audra!” He grabs me by the shoulders. I twist away like a wild animal, claw at his face.

“I’m trying to help you!” he shouts, shaking me.

“Killer!” I spit. “You killed Ivan!” A hysterical sound rises within me, and my feet come up off the ground, kicking at nothing.

“I did not kill Ivan.” He shakes me again, drags me back several feet until I notice the form of the driver sprawled on the ground. His face is covered in blood. So much blood—so much like Luka’s. Like Nino’s. I have seen too much blood, too many killed for one lifetime, let alone the space of these short days.

“Get in the car!” he says, but I’m struggling to break free—until his next words stop me cold.

“If you want to save Luka, get in the car now.”

*  *  *

It’s like the tendrils of a nightmare that will never end. Death at every signpost, blood on the pavement. Rolan at the wheel.

“I saw you on television. You were there. You killed Ivan!” I am beyond composure, if not logic. The curse, perhaps, of my Progeny brain.

“I was on the ferry when his hunter killed him. I didn’t get to him in time. I tried to revive him,” he says tightly.

“To take his memory!”

“If I killed him, would I have been anywhere near the body by the time the police arrived? Think, Audra!”

I squeeze shut my eyes, press my palms tight against them. It makes the swelling on my face hurt even more. I welcome the pain. It gives me focus.