“… just kill her now. Phaedra will want to keep her. I want her dead.”

And that must be Graeme’s girlfriend, I realized.

“Phaedra will kill us if we kill her. Be patient.”

“But I want her dead,” Kaya (or Kaori) whined.

And I wish I hadn’t moved, I realized, as the burning, sword-sized cousins of pins and needles crept up my now-very-much-awake arm.

I gritted my teeth against the pain, trying to eavesdrop. Unfortunately, it was mostly about how, not if, I would die a terrible death. The one sister was demanding the horrible death now, while the other sister assured her twin that the horrible death would be even more horrible if only they waited till I was in “his” hands.

Curiously, I was as yet unfazed by their discussion. In my discombobulated state, I clung to the idea that this was all part of the plan, that Julian knew where I was and that Anyan would crush heads when he came for me. On that note, I shifted about even more so the side of my belly that had the chip was pointed to the ceiling, beaming out its data for all and sundry to collect. The position was extremely painful, and I knew I didn’t have to do so, that I was being silly. But as I became more conscious, I could feel an edge of panic start to flood over me…

Not least because, at the thought of the chip came other memories: those of the women we’d talked to in Rhode Island. I felt the panic creeping faster, and I prayed not to be implanted with any extraneous body parts before Anyan got to me.

Anyan, I thought, focusing on the barghest. I thought of his strength, his resolution, his fierce protectiveness.

He will find me, he will find me, he will find me…

Repeating this mantra to myself while envisioning the barghest’s solid-black doggie-form, I rolled over till I was flat on my stomach and no longer squishing anything. Then I went ahead and pushed myself into my hospital-honed hypnagogic state, knowing I was going to need my wits about me whenever we arrived where we were going.

A long while later, I was jolted to full awareness by somebody opening the hatchback at my feet and pulling me out roughly by the ankles. My hood was dragged up as I came out and, for a split second, my light-dazzled eyes made out a few fuzzy black shapes. But then the hood was pulled down and all was black again.

I was breathing hard, fear flooding my system. Now that I’d rested a bit and had time to absorb what I’d just done, our “brilliant” plan was showing its flaws.

What if somebody just shoots you in the head, moron? But I shook myself, unwilling to believe that would happen.

Julian and I have thought this through. I’ve gotta be worth something to somebody. At least to keep alive until somebody who really wants to kill me can come down and do it themselves… And worth even more as bait for the others.

So I stilled my trembling and forced myself to breathe, hearing people shuffle around me. I was led forward roughly, then dragged up a few steps, which of course I tripped and nearly fell over.

Whatever caught me before I could face-plant had very strong hands tipped with very, very sharp claws. Those hands raised me up, with disquieting gentleness, until I was standing solidly again on my own two feet.

Then the hands raised to my neck, the sharp claws grazing my jugular, as the hood was pulled from my head and discarded.

I stood there, blinking and willing my eyes to adjust. Finally, the black shape in front of me focused, revealing the identity of my captor.

The Healer, I realized, for the being in front of me could only be that infamous goblin-halfling.

We were standing in the bright sunshine on a low stoop in front of a grand old house. There was absolutely nothing else around that I could see, although my freedom to look around was hampered by both my stiff neck and the fact I was being held so close to my captor.

As for the Healer, human eyes stared at me from a neat, bland human face. Except the human flesh ended right along his jaw, up in front of his ears, and at his hairline. From there on he was all goblin: green scales, pointy ears, and so on. Except that his scales started tapering off again right along his forearms, which became pale, slightly freckled human flesh. On the tip of each otherwise human finger gleamed thick, black, wickedly sharp claws.

“Jane True. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the Healer murmured in an incongruously lovely Scottish accent.

I nodded my head, trying to appear unfazed.

“So many people wanting to get their hands on such a wee lass. Makes me wonder what all the fuss is about. Still, we must take precautions… Avery?”

With that, another goblin stepped close, only this one was a pureblood. And unlike the Healer, who was wearing a button-up dress shirt and slacks under a lab coat, Avery was wearing medical scrubs.

“Dr. Avery here is going to give you a little shot. I’m afraid it does sting a bit.”

The Healer’s hands pulled down on my forearms, holding them against my sides even as he held me still. I realized, then, what was about to happen…

They’re going to give me that shot that takes away magic.

For a second I nearly panicked. The thought of being powerless, stripped of my only weapon, horrified me.

Easy, girl, I reminded myself. You’ve had magic for about eight minutes of your life. And it’s not your only weapon. You survived a hell of a lot before you learned about your powers; don’t underestimate yourself.

So again I stilled my body, calling on every calming technique I’d learned during my stay in the mental hospital. I stared into the Healer’s average brown eyes as the goblin, Avery, raised a needle to my neck. After a moment, I felt a sharp pain right near my collarbone.

When Avery pressed down on the plunger, it felt like he was shooting fire into me. The pain was so sharp that I did cry out then, jerking away even as the goblin withdrew the syringe, causing my skin to tear around the exit wound. Blood ran down my neck and into my shirt as the Healer tsked. Pulling a pristine white handkerchief out of his pocket, he pressed it against my neck.

“Such delicate skin… We don’t want to mar it, Miss True. Not yet, anyway.”

The Healer smirked, and his otherwise normal brown eyes met mine. What I saw buried in them was so evil that, finally, I lost control and struggled. He laughed, clamping his arms about me along with his magic. Reflexively, I tried to raise my own shields and do what I’d thought about doing to Anyan in the park: use my defenses as a wall to force the goblin-halfling away. But nothing happened; it was like reaching into an abyss.

My magic is gone, I realized. With that final defeat I stopped struggling.

“Aye, that’s it. Good lass,” the Healer said, running the back side of his claws down my cheek. “You’re ours now, hen. No point in fighting it. Now, come inside, where it’s warm.”

Is he going to offer me a cup of tea? I wondered, marveling at how such a monster could be so very… British.

When we walked inside the beautiful, sprawling mansion, it was like walking through a door to another dimension. One minute everything was all manicured lawns, lovely ornamental trim, and clean white wood. The next minute we were in some medical lab from Auschwitz.

The windows had been covered in heavy black material, and what had no doubt once been chandeliers had been replaced with caged fluorescent track lighting so that everything was cast in an overly bright, eerie glow. The room to our left, which might once have been a formal dining room, now contained a blood-spattered gurney to which was strapped the remains of… something. Whatever had been lying there was now just a flagellated bundle of limbs. That sight was bad enough, but when the limbs moved and I realized that whatever was lying there was still alive, my gorge rose and I nearly vomited.

To the right of the once grand entryway was another large room, now serving as some sort of break room. Various supes in medical gear sat or stood about, chatting as if they were in a hospital cafeteria rather than a factory of death.

I was hustled through another series of stately rooms, all stocked with instruments of torture posing as medical devices. Here and there I saw victims in various states of disrepair. In one room, tied to a chair, sat a naked woman whose gaping eye sockets stared blindly at me, crying wordlessly from a mouth that no longer held a tongue. Two young boys—both apparently human, although it was hard to tell—whose hands had been amputated and their limbs sewn together at the wrist, stared at me with exhausted eyes from the doorway of one of the rooms we walked through. As we passed I could smell the rot in their wounds so strongly I again nearly vomited. In what had been a huge kitchen, a stack of heads sat next to a stockpot bubbling on an expensive stove, and the opened refrigerator held arms packed into it like cordwood—their fingers sticking out like obscene sticks. The freezer contained a similar stack of amputated legs.

Through the kitchen was a door, next to which sat a table. On the table lay a woman’s body, spread-eagled and naked from the waist down. Her throat had been cut.

The kitchen is what did, finally, make me puke. Pulling away from where the Healer held me on my right, I leaned over to my left and heaved my guts out. At the same time, the Healer pulled up on my arms so that pain whizzed through me, causing tears to form in my eyes as I retched.