I glanced back down the street. Barrons was nowhere to be seen.

I didn’t like this one bit. We shouldn’t have split up. That was always when bad things happened in the movies, and that was exactly what I felt like at the moment: the ingénue, standing on a horror set. No lights, alone in a city of monsters, with an ancient, sentient receptacle of pure evil somewhere in my immediate vicinity but no longer detectable by me, and with no clue what to do next.

I turned in a circle, stone in one hand, spear in the other.

“Barrons?” I hissed urgently. There was no reply.

Just as suddenly as it had disappeared, the Book was back on my radar. But it was behind me now!

I called for Barrons again. When there was still no answer, I tucked my spear under my arm, whipped out my cell phone, and punched up his number.

When he answered, I told him it had moved and where.

“Wait for me. I’ll be right there.”

“But it’s moving. We’re going to lose it. Head east.” I thumbed End and took off after the Book.

I was rushing toward it, trying to catch up, when the Book suddenly stopped, and I could feel that I was closer to it than I’d initially thought. Way closer. All my readings on the thing were wonky tonight.

I froze.

It was just around the corner, maybe twenty feet away from me.

If I walked to the edge of the building and poked my head around it, I would see it.

I could feel it there, perfectly still, pulsing with dark energy. What was it doing? Was this its idea of cat and mouse? Was it … amused?

It began moving again. Toward me.

Where the hell was Barrons?

It stopped.

Was it trying to spook me? If so, it was working.

What if Ryodan was wrong? What if the Beast did have substance and could shred me? What if whatever was carrying it had a gun and could blow my head off? I was afraid if I retreated, the Book might take it as a sign of weakness, in the way a lion can smell fear, and come after me for all it was worth.

I put on my best bluster and took a step forward.

It moved, too.

I flinched. It was all the way to the corner now.

What was carrying it? What was it doing? What was it planning? Not knowing was killing me.

I was a sidhe-seer. I was an OOP detector. This was what I was made for.

I set my jaw, squared my shoulders, marched to the corner, and came face-to-face with a pure psychopath.

He smiled at me, and I really wished he hadn’t, because his teeth were chain-saw blades that whirred endlessly behind thin lips. He gnashed them at me and laughed. His eyes were black-on-black, bottomless pools. Tall and emaciated, he smelled of dead things, of coffins with rotting lining, of blood and insane asylums. His hands were white and fluttered like dying moths. His palms had mouths, whirring with silvery blades.

Beneath one arm was tucked an utterly innocuous-looking hardcover.

But it wasn’t the Sinsar Dubh that held me riveted.

I stared at the psychopath’s face.

It had once been Derek O’Bannion.

I had the spear and O’Bannion had been eating Unseelie, so stabbing him would maybe kill him. But if I killed him, what would the Sinsar Dubh turn its full attention to next?

Me.

Abruptly, he stopped laughing and yanked the Book out from beneath his arm. He held it with both hands at the farthest possible distance from his body, and for a moment I thought he was offering it to me.

We were so close that, if I’d wanted to, I could have reached out and taken it. I wouldn’t have reached out and taken it for anything in the world.

Then he jerked and spun the volume around, as if the text—if there was anything inside it that remotely resembled text—was upside down and unreadable.

From his mouth came the whine of metal grating on metal, and he opened and closed his lips as if trying to form words, but nothing came out.

For an instant, I glimpsed whites around his pupils. Was that horror in his eyes? Had he just ground out “Help” with those metal teeth? I wanted to run. I couldn’t stop looking.

Then his eyes were pure black again, and his body was jerking convulsively, as if he was being ordered to perform and resisting every step of the way.

His fingers closed on the edges of the Book, and it was no longer an innocuous hardcover. Before my eyes it had morphed into the massive, ancient, deadly black tome with intricate locks, and they were all falling away, and the book was opening in O’Bannion’s hands, and I knew that whatever was left of Derek O’Bannion inside the psychopath did not want the Book to open. It wanted nothing more than to die without ever having glimpsed so much as a single page. Not even one line.

Yet he was being forced to open it.

His fingers began to burn, then his hands were ablaze and he was screaming.

The flames licked up his arms, spread down his chest and legs, and engulfed his face, and suddenly Derek O’Bannion flared white-hot and erupted into ash that exploded ten feet in every direction.

I scrubbed frantically at myself, clawed ash from my hair, and spit it from my lips.

An icy gust scattered all trace of what had been O’Bannion.

The Sinsar Dubh whumped to the pavement at my feet.

Open.

Growing up, I knew my parameters. I was pretty enough that one of the class jocks would always ask me to prom, but I’d never score the quarterback.

I was smart enough to squeak into college, but I’d never be a brain surgeon.

I could lift my own aluminum-framed bike off the ceiling rack in the garage, but I couldn’t budge my dad’s bike that he’d had since law school.