Cover

Dedication

For Saana, Katie, Meghan, and Steph

Hamaan tappiin saaka

SEPTEMBER 1942

CHAPTER ONE

LIAM

Liam staggered through the storybook village with a fistful of shadows and a mouthful of lies. The whitewashed cottages glowed in the darkness, weak lamplight seeping around the boarded-up windows, and tire tracks carved the dirt road like scars. Trucks rumbled in the distance, but no one came here on purpose unless they were on their way to somewhere better. Or unless they were like him: more monsters in his head than sense.

The shadows buzzed as he stepped onto the tavern’s porch. His palm still stung, blood drying; he should be better at this by now. It had seemed so easy in Princeton’s labs five thousand miles away, once he’d figured out the key. The right frequency to dip into the shadows, draw out what he needed, and retreat, the rift closing behind him. He’d balanced every equation in his plan, rehearsed his approach a dozen times—he hadn’t gotten where he was by doing anything halfway. But in most of his experiments, he’d controlled every variable, calculated every possible result. This time felt more like crossing himself, amen, getting ready to jump.

Now or never. Liam let the shadowy energy rush through him and steeled his nerves as he recited his cover story one last time. No sense facing these monsters unarmed.

“We’re closed,” the barkeep called in German from behind the dark oak counter as Liam entered. “Private party.”

Liam smiled, his dimples popping, and raked dirty fingers through his crew cut. His face was perfect for this mission—honey-blond hair, light skin, eyes that shifted from gray to blue, depending on the time of day. He was more than a little rumpled from his journey, but it only added to his ruse.

“Oh. Sorry about that.” Liam didn’t even try to hide his American accent as he answered in German. “It’s just—I’ve been on the road for a while and need some food.”

A clutch of senior Schutzstaffel officers looked up from their drinks and turned his way.

Liam worried his tongue over his teeth as he surveyed the cramped dining room. Five officers. One bartender, almost certainly hiding a shotgun or hunting rifle beneath the bar. Two SS guards were posted against the back wall. The tavern barely fit three tables; the rest of the squat Bavarian building must have belonged to the inn. Only one of the electric lights was turned on, unevenly painting the peeling brocade wallpaper and heavy wood paneling with a greasy glow.

“You are American?” one of the officers asked, his English sharp as glass.