He doesn’t even sound like Ward. If Manning is the puppeteer, then Vanik is the ventriloquist. Together, they have taken over complete control of Ward. He might as well be a machine. A robot.

One that’s still coming toward us.

I throw out my hand and repeat my earlier command. “Stop!”

Nothing happens.

“Sleep!” I try.

Again, light flares, but Ward just continues to walk toward us. “Trip!”

It’s no use—no matter what I say, his ability protects him from me.

We didn’t factor this in. We didn’t factor in just how untrained I am, especially against someone like Ward, who can counteract my power as easily as breathing.

“My master has unfinished business with you, Alyssa Scott,” Ward says. “He tasked me with giving you a message.”

My master.

I shiver at the phrase, at how repulsive it is.

“Where is he?” I ask. “Where’s Vanik?”

An alarmed squeak comes from Cami and I glance over my shoulder, only to see that we’ve reached the lab wall. That we’ve trapped ourselves against it.

“My master wants you to know that he’s looking forward to seeing you again soon,” Ward says, coming to a stop only a few feet in front of us. “And he wants me to pass along his gratitude. Without you, his plans never would have succeeded.”

… his plans never would have succeeded.

I don’t allow myself to consider what that means—not here, not now. I have to keep my mind on the present, on the current threat.

On Ward.

“And there’s one last thing my master wants me to pass along.”

I’ve been waiting for him to make his move, so I’m ready when it comes.

My words might not work against him, but I spent two and a half years training with Enzo, learning how to defend against an opponent—and how to attack one, too.

So when Ward lunges toward me, when he reaches out to grab me, I duck under his arm, pivoting around him, and raise my hands in front of me. He’s now in between me and Cami, but she might as well be invisible, his back turned to her as if she’s not even there.

“You don’t want to fight me, Alyssa Scott,” Ward tells me, a warning in his voice.

“You’re right,” I agree. “But I will if I have to.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes. An ember of genuine emotion—pain, regret, sorrow—there and gone again so quickly that I wonder if I imagined it. It’s enough to have me lowering my hands and whispering, “Ward? Are you—are you in there?”

A harsh laugh leaves his lips and I know that whatever I just saw, it’s gone. If Ward is fighting the compulsion, he’s losing.