Darkness like a swarm of locusts devoured the tavern as the idiot American tackled Daniel. He tried to pull away, but the harder he thrashed, the thicker the shadows grew. It was like trying to swim through oil. At least it sounded like the Nazis were suffering even more. Their screams, sweet as a Schubert ballad, were the screams of men being eaten alive, and for a moment, Daniel felt the old hitch in his breath from when he played, finding the rhythm in their melody before remembering he might be the next course.

The American—Liam, if that was his real name—wrenched Daniel to his feet. He glanced where Junker’s body had fallen, but instead of a corpse, there was only a seeping lump of blackness like charred flesh. The whole world was bathed in indigo, and everything in it—the tavern, the Nazis, the chairs and tables and bottles—were only echoes of themselves, like images projected onto smoke. It was as if they’d stepped through a tarnished mirror into a forgery of the room where they’d just stood. The sweat running down Daniel’s spine turned icy.

“You can stare later,” Liam said. “We need to leave. Now.”

Liam tried to yank him through the tavern door—actually through it, the wood evaporating around him—but Daniel tugged back, hard as he could. Bad enough he’d almost ruined Daniel’s shot at Junker. Staring at him like he knew him, that little twist of sympathy and confusion on his lips. He’d been bound to expose Daniel as a fraud at any second. But now there was this—this darkness. It had come from Liam somehow, poured out of his hand and from all around him to swallow them both in its inky net.

Rebeka. If any Nazis survived this, they were sure to search the woods. He had to get back. He broke free from Liam’s grasp and barreled through the door.

“Wait!” Liam shouted. “It isn’t safe—”

Daniel stepped out of the tavern and into a world on fire.

Deep violet embers smoldered where the buildings should have been; instead of squat Bavarian homes, there were only battered, vine-choked ruins. The air itself was burning, sparking inside his lungs and stinging his eyes. A low rumble drowned out the hungry crackle of flames. Had the Brits firebombed the town? Surely they would’ve heard it. He turned back around, only to find the tavern completely gone, a thicket of brambles and gnarled trees in its place.