The Radical wrapped the fingers of one hand around Lena’s throat and slowly lifted her to her feet. The pain was almost enough to send her spiraling into blackness—and his strength was uncanny for a portly man. It’s not his strength, she realized. When she was upright, he pressed her against the wall by her throat. “Fancied a peek at Chaos, did you? Curious to see what I was like?”

Lena tried to say something—anything—but she couldn’t speak. His hands were greasy and smelled of blood. She met his eyes defiantly. And then, as if in surprise, he released her. She relaxed against the wall and gasped for breath, but the Radical lifted her chin and stared again into her eyes. His eyebrow rose. She found herself transfixed by the swirling colorful pools, her magic stirring inside her, her fingers tingling as if she were about to shoot lightning from the tips. She felt sick. “Why, hello … ,” the Radical murmured. “Who are you?”

“H-hello,” Lena managed. “I’m … Lena Grey.”

“I was Lord Aster until this evening, but I’ve made some excellent improvements since then.” He smoothed down his coat, which Lena noticed was spattered with dark stains. Blood. Over the Radical’s shoulder, she saw confusion passing over Emris’s face.

“You’re not like those others dressed in gray, are you? You’re different. Are you like me?” The Radical sounded playful, and the childlike voice didn’t suit him.

“Um—no,” said Lena, rubbing her throat, her voice harsh. She risked another glance behind the man. Emris was creeping forward, slowly, slowly. He waved an arm. The other huntsmen spread in a semicircle around the room, blocking the exits. Keep him talking, Lena thought, catching on to the plan. “Or … I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Not yet, perhaps? Let’s have a look at you,” he said, and he clapped his hands together. Lena found herself raised up a foot into the air, her stomach turning at the sensation. Her arms spread out—and when she tried to struggle, she found she could not. Invisible bindings, ropelike, tied her in place. She felt like a pinned butterfly, suspended.

She could see the fear on Emris’s face—but he didn’t even hesitate. He crept closer, and closer.

“Just a girl from the outside,” the Radical was saying, peering at Lena from one side, then the other. “A girl with an ugly mark.” He prodded her cheek, his overlong fingernail scratching her skin. “But on the inside…” He peered into her eyes again, close this time, so close she could smell his breath—alcohol and meat. He pried apart her eyelids, and her eyes stung furiously. She desperately tried to edge her head away but found her neck pinned into place. Her stomach roiled. “The stink of a god,” said the Radical, sniffing and releasing her eyelids. “But not as strong as usual. What are you?”