He shrugged genially. “I’m a student.”

“Your President Roosevelt recalled all the American students from our country,” Junker countered.

“Well, maybe I wasn’t ready to leave.”

Junker considered him, eyes steely. Even if Junker believed him, Liam still had a long way to go—but it would be something. All he needed was an opening. If Junker didn’t, though—

Well. Liam flexed one hand beneath the table and let the shadows thicken around it. He had other options, even if they’d make a bigger mess.

“It is dangerous for you to be traveling alone,” Junker finally said. He motioned to the bartender. “Someone might think you’re a spy.”

Liam smiled, watched the bartender scurry over to refill the Sturmbannführer’s brandy. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Junker shared another laugh with his officers, this one tinged with malice. The lightning-bolt patches on their collars flashed silver in the grimy light. As Junker tipped his glass toward Liam in a toast, Liam let the darkness stored inside him thread through his thoughts. Might as well let it feed on his terror, keep it awake and ready. It could savor its host for now, but he was always in control of it.

“We are playing a card game.” Junker gestured to the strange mix of cards, drinks, and betting chips on the table. They were using everything from bottle caps and Reichsmarks to spent bullet casings and Death’s Head rings to wager. Junker’s ring, though, stayed firmly fixed on his right hand. “Doppelkopf. Do you know it?”

“I think my classmates tried to teach me.” Liam rubbed his chin, the lie flowing easily. “We’d been drinking a lot, though.”

Junker collected the cards from the other officers, shuffled them once, then handed the deck to Liam. “Let’s see what you remember.”

Liam smiled back at him, letting his dimples shine. He’d always been a master at scraping by.

“I think I deal . . . twelve cards each, right?” He shuffled again, then started passing out cards to all of the officers, three at a time. “And then the point value . . .”

Liam let his mouth go on autopilot. Inside his head, the darkness was throbbing, leaching into the air around him, warping and twisting emotions, feelings, fears. It was intoxicating. He couldn’t blame Pitr for craving it. The shadows’ promises were sweeter than the milkshakes at Lexington’s soda counter—the power to right so many wrongs. All they needed was a suitable conduit.