Then light flooded the corner of Tom’s vision. Tom gaped for a moment, unable to believe it: Vengerov had relented. He’d opened the door again!

Of course. Of course, he couldn’t strand Tom out here and let him freeze. It was a game of chicken and Tom had won. Tom sprinted back toward it, but it took even longer now, getting back to where he’d come from. His legs were so clumsy, he tumbled again and again, numbed hands and knees scraping the snow. His limbs were unfeeling blocks by the time he reached the door, and he felt the tantalizing blast of warmth from inside the building—and then the door swung closed again.

“NO!” Tom screamed, hurling himself at it, but it was too late. “N-NO!” He punched it with his unfeeling fists. For a moment, he felt like his chest was going to split open. His throat seemed to be jammed. Then he reeled back with an insane laugh spilling from his lips. The camera was still fixed on him.

“OPEN UP! OPEN THE D-D-DOOR! OPEN IT! I’LL K-KILL Y-YOU F-F-FOR THIS!”

Some part of his brain warned him that death threats weren’t very enticing reasons for anyone to open a door for him, but Tom didn’t muse on it for long.

An emergency alarm blared in his vision center. Warning: Low body temperature detected. 93.3º F. Transmitting emergency beacon.

Tom’s heart soared. Would this work? Would someone get it? And then he screamed in frustration as he read the words: Frequency unavailable. Emergency beacon not sent. Automatic retry in twenty seconds. Nineteen seconds. Eighteen seconds. . . .

He stopped clawing his way forward, his eyes stinging as they focused on the distant window. Too distant.

He could die here.

The thought spliced through his head, sharp like a razor. A vivid image of his own body frosted over with snow filled his brain and Tom couldn’t banish it from his mind.

Vengerov wasn’t messing around. This wasn’t a game of chicken. He could really die out here. He grew wild with rage and fear, and whirled back toward the window, knowing it was his best chance. His throat felt numb. When he fell, he clawed his way forward, the wet snow plastering his clothes to his limbs. He sprinted ahead, but before he knew it, he’d plunged back into the snow. Panic tore at him. He wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t focus on anything other than the cold.

So cold, so cold . . . He couldn’t fight it now. His body contracted into a shivering ball, but nothing warded off the terrible ice. He felt like he was being erased, everything human and deliberate vanishing from his mind, replaced by some nameless, tormented creature that knew only frost and could understand nothing else, and he became numbed all over, all sense of where he was, what this was, receding from him.