For a few seconds, nothing but a dull hum filled the dank basement air. Then the space between the two oscillator posts stretched apart, like taffy being pulled. Moments became separated by the rotating thud of the ultradense sound waves. Liam felt his body stretching and contracting with each oscillation, atoms realigning, his thoughts syncing with that grim metronome. Between the two oscillator posts, the air shimmered and warped. This was as close as he’d gotten without attempting the blood offering Pitr had mentioned before, this fogged-glass glimpse at the other world: no real hint of what lay on the other side.

Pitr’s face contorted with a hideous grin that made Liam’s stomach flip over. How had he ever had feelings for this monster? He was seeing Pitr for the first time now, all his scholarly airs and sly confidence flensed away. All that was left were the cruel sinews of his ambition, an ego that couldn’t be satisfied.

“Yes.” Pitr’s smile was oil-slick. “I knew you’d figure out how to reach it eventually.”

Liam took a step back, hand fumbling behind him for his tools, but Pitr wasn’t as distracted as he looked. The gun’s barrel followed his every move.

“Don’t get clever. It doesn’t suit you.”

Liam held his empty hands in front of him. There had to be some way he could get the gun out of Pitr’s hands—but every time he latched on to the beginnings of an idea, the oscillators rolled over again with an agonizing thump, chasing all the thoughts from his head.

Pitr yanked the dolly closer to the line of air between the oscillators and kicked at the flimsy pine boards. “Now for our sacrifice.”

Even knowing what was coming, Liam’s head swam, revulsion and terror and hatred hitting his bloodstream all at once like poison. And just a little, despite himself, the sweet hint of anticipation.

Pitr ripped the torn boards away to reveal the crate’s contents. Kieran Doyle was curled up inside, densely bound with rope, attempting to shout through a tight gag. The stench of alcohol and sweat hung around him in a thick miasma; Liam could barely see his face between the filthy chunks of strawberry-blond hair. But it was him. The monster in Liam’s nightmares. The tyrant who almost turned their room in Hell’s Kitchen into a slaughterhouse. The hateful coward who’d robbed the light from his mother’s eyes.

And here he was—just a sad, pitiful lump, dirty and destitute, bound and gagged in a basement. Suddenly, all Liam wanted to do was laugh—at this sad, miserable fuck and at himself, for letting the man rule his thoughts and life for so long.

He wasn’t worth the shit stains their landlady’s dog left on the carpet.