Kiera Sparrow braced a hand beneath her aching, bruised ribs as she slowly turned off the overhead faucet and jets in the walk-through shower. She glanced over her shoulder at the steamy bathroom window and nodded: She had hung her thick terrycloth robe over the alcove’s ornamental ironwork on one of the decorative knobs, and that had concealed the majority of the bathroom’s interior. Then, under the cover of rushing water and Johann Sebastian Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G-Major, the music pumping through the speakers, she had managed to open the window, remove the screen, and loosen all the remaining bolts to the iron bars with her hidden tuning fork. In addition, all the sheets she could safely shred had been torn into strips, knotted together, and fashioned once again as ropes—they were safely tucked away in the bottom of the linen closet and stuffed between off-colored, folded towels—hopefully, those used the least by Owen. She could only hope that he would pull fresh linens from the top of the stack and never peer at the pile toward the bottom.

Her breath hitched as she shrugged into the heavy white robe and slid the tuning fork back into the pocket. The pain in her sides, her cheeks, and her stomach was unrelenting. Xavier had certainly done his damage in the lab: slapping her whenever she looked at him sideways; kicking over her chair whenever she flinched away from an unwanted kiss; booting her in the gut and ribs as she scrambled to place the chair upright and sit like a good little lab rat, once again, hoping to avoid his correction.

It had all been a cruel, sadistic game to the Head Hunter.

To the maniacal lycan general.

And Kiera was still surprised—as well as grateful—that she had escaped without being strangled or butchered…or raped.

Still, she knew her days were numbered.

It was just a matter of time before Xavier went too far, before he grew tired of playing with his lab rat and decided to end it all. She could only hope that he would wait until Sunday, give her a chance to climb out the window on Saturday night.

Kiera had overheard Owen speaking to Travis about an upcoming gathering, a group meeting of vampire-hunters planned for eight o’clock P.M., in two days’ time. They were buying liquor, repopulating the heavy-metal playlist for the digital surround-sound system, and ordering catered food—that meant Kiera would likely be locked in her room, ignored for the duration of the meeting, and the noise would be sufficient to drown out the racket of her escape.

Or at least she could hope.

What she really needed was to convince Owen Green to allow her to take another shower, or better yet, a bath; to lock her in the room without tying her to the bed or a chair. She only needed five minutes to knock out the screen, tie the ropes to the window frame, and overcome her fear of heights. Come hell or high water, Kiera was climbing out that window.

And if she fell or got caught?

Well, then at least she’d die trying.

She ran her hand over the hazy glass above the vanity to clear away the steam, shrinking back in alarm at the reflection of her black-and-blue eyes, at the swollen knots above her bruised right cheekbone. Despite her best efforts at valor—her determination to remain focused and strong—she choked back a sob and shivered.

What the hell was going on?

The entire universe was topsy-turvy.

Nothing made any sense!

Vampires and werewolves…

Sadistic generals…

Humans who hunted creatures from gothic-fiction novels.

Her sister being involved in it all.

As her tears fell freely, her attention turned to another implausible subject: Saxson Olaru and Xavier’s cryptic words: “She is a vampire-hunter, Kiera, and she has taken your place with Saxson. She delivered you to me in order to achieve that goal.”

Kyla took Kiera’s place with Saxson—just what the hell did that mean?

Kiera stared once again into the foggy mirror as if the answer might come out of the glass.

Who was this Saxson, and what was his role—in the past, in the present, or going forward?

A part of Kiera wanted to crawl into a hole and hide from the entire nonreality: It was all just too fantastic. Another part of her almost wished it were true, at least the part about Saxson being a vampire. After all, if anyone could conquer a lycan general, it would be another supernatural creature…

Her head throbbed and she winced, partly at the pain, partly at the absurdity of her thinking: There were no such things as werewolves and vampires, and the only humans who hunted the latter had to be on drugs, demonstrably psychotic, or acting out some demented role-playing game.

Nothing—absolutely none of this—made any sense!

A brisk knock on the door brought her back to her current circumstances: reality or no, she was a prisoner in Owen’s warehouse. “Kiera!” His caustic voice reverberated through the panel. “What the hell are you doing in there?”

Kiera cleared her throat and glanced once more at the window, double-checking to ensure that everything was neat, tidy, and back in place. “Nothing,” she said, sounding innocent. “I was just coming out.” She heard him curse on the other side of the door, and she balled her hands into fists.

Not so much out of anger or resistance, but to steady her racing heart.

To channel all the desperate energy.

Glancing upward, toward the heavens, she whispered a plaintive prayer: “Dear Lord, please…please get me out of this. Help me somehow. Give me strength and courage. Help me make it until Saturday night.”

What happened next could only be described as an auditory—or visual—hallucination.

Perhaps a stress-induced delusion, conjuring mental impressions of a sea monster, much like the mysterious design on the occultist tattoo her captors had stamped into her wrist.

But it was as if a cosmic force answered back: a deep, rumbling, celestial chime that didn’t sound altogether human, a thunderous echo originating from within, resounding from the tarnished cavern of an overwrought mind.

“Try to reach Saxson. Your bond is strong. He may be your only hope.”

* * *

Owen Green retrieved the stylish smartphone from his front hip pocket and prepared to draft a text. He was disgusted with Kiera Sparrow and her whole princess routine—the untouchable captive taking baths and showers, playing her violin and her classical music—the off-limits property of the Head Hunter, Xavier. She needed to get her ass out of the bathroom.

Obviously, Xavier didn’t give a crap about the female—he’d beat her black and blue—and he obviously didn’t love her music that much because he’d given The Society the thumbs-up. Apparently, the tyrannical Head Hunter had gotten all he needed from his trip to the lab on Wednesday…

A cruel, iniquitous smile curved along the corners of his lips as he pressed the microphone icon and began to dictate his text in a muted tone of voice:

“Travis, it’s O, and I’ve got good news. This Saturday’s meeting will be more than a get-together, more than a catch-up assembly. Xavier gave us the go-ahead—we can get rid of Kiera! And to my way of thinking, we can make this a party for the ages. An opportunity for the newest recruits to finally slay a vampire, however indirectly, by taking out its destiny. We’re gonna do it old-school, Travis. Ritualistic killing. Slow. Methodical. Painful. And full of gothic symbolism. By the time we’re done, the bitch will wish that Xavier had killed her”—he actually inserted a smiley face. “So get here early, because you and me, we need to prep. Oh, and delete this shit the moment you finish reading it. Here’s to The Society! Here’s to the demise of the undead.”