And if some part of Verrick was beginning to break through, it was possible my father was also.

I had felt a glimmer of him, that night on Harlow Tower. Just the slightest sense, at the edge of my perception. He was still there, somewhere. Hidden away.

Sealing one had meant sealing the other, I thought again.

The opposite was true as well. If Verrick became unsealed, so would my father. The sleeping heart would wake.

But Gideon would be lost in the process.

I closed my eyes. My father had made his own choice. Gideon was innocent in this. And he needed help.

Sonja’s house was a little yellow square at the end of the street, fringed with flower beds and a tall hedge that hid the yard from view. A lattice archway set between the bushes had vines of morning glories climbing skyward, and beyond it a path of red and brown brick, lined with marigolds, zigzagged its way to the door. The windows were dark, I saw, but Sonja had told me to just keep ringing the bell if she didn’t answer.

Halfway down the walkway, I paused again.

The front door was ajar.

The gap was slight, almost unnoticeable. It could’ve been eased open by the wind. Nothing else in the yard looked awry. No broken windows, nothing disturbed or out of place. The lawn was recently mowed, the smell of the grass mingling with the strong scent of the marigolds. A bumblebee was humming among the rosebushes tucked close to the house. The wind chime hanging nearby sent soft notes into the air. I retreated a few steps, gazing at the street around me. Everything was quiet, serene: a warm summer morning, sunlight filtering down between the passing clouds. A sleepy neighborhood just beginning to rouse.

But something stayed me. I lingered a moment, considering. I could ring the doorbell. I wouldn’t step inside—I’d seen enough horror films to know better than that—I’d just ring the doorbell and wait.

Or I could call Leon.

Mom had instructed me to call him if I felt anything amiss. The problem was, I wasn’t entirely certain I did. My Knowing was silent. If there was some menace here, it had slipped beneath my radar—I didn’t sense a threat, or even a change in temperature, the way I’d always felt a slight chill whenever I’d neared Susannah. There was just that door, the tiniest sliver of space between it and the frame. And calling Leon might require me to explain what I was doing here. Not to mention that it would be rather embarrassing if it turned out nothing was wrong, and Sonja was just sitting inside, playing solitaire and drinking iced tea.

I stared at the door.

I took a step forward.

And then I called Leon.

He had a shift at the bakery, but he hadn’t yet taken his morning break. I heard him tell his supervisor he was going for a quick walk down the street. A moment later he appeared in front of me, still wearing his apron, a faint dusting of flour in his hair.

Though I felt relief at seeing him, I also felt a bit self-conscious. The smile I gave him was wobbly. “Apologies in advance if this turns out to be a big waste of time, which is kind of what I’m hoping.”

He gripped one of my hands, swinging it between us. “It’s not a waste.”

“It’s probably nothing. Maybe you shouldn’t have come.”

“If it’s nothing, then I can be back well before anyone starts to miss me. And if it’s not, then we need to know.”

“You don’t think I’m being paranoid?”

“I find caution incredibly hot,” he teased.

I laughed. “You would.”

He grinned, dropping my hand. “On that note: stay here,” he said, and vanished.

“Leon!” I hissed into the empty air, crossing my arms and turning to face Sonja’s house.

So much for caution, I thought.

I tapped my foot against the brick of the walkway, listening to the wind chime and the traffic from down the street. I couldn’t see into the house at all, or get any sense of Leon’s movements. I was trying to think of precisely how I was going to explain sending him in to spy on an unsuspecting woman when, all at once, my senses began screaming.

It didn’t come just as Knowing. It was much stronger than that, like a physical blow almost. It filled my every perception, the open space around me, the air I breathed. It was the sudden taste of blood on my teeth, the odor of decay. My skin felt clammy, my throat dry. Around me, the marigolds appeared to droop on their stems. The roses wilted in the bushes, their petals dead and brown and crumbling; I blinked, and they were blooming once more, lush red and white, no hint of rot within them. Noises flashed through me—a cacophony, harsh and strident at first. I heard the screech of nails against a smooth surface and a long, thin wail rising. Then softer: a rustle of breeze, the flap of bird wings. From far off, the sound of a sob. And then a deep and terrible silence.

I had felt all of this before, somewhere. In some moment just out of memory. It was familiar, echoing. A dread that took root within and climbed inch by inch up my flesh, keeping me frozen where I stood.

And it wasn’t accidental, I realized. It wasn’t a glimmer of insight caught by chance. It was a message, something transmitted. Both warning and beckoning. Something here Knew me. Something here wanted me to Know.

Within the chaos of my senses, another thought surfaced. Leon.

He had gone into the house. And whatever it was that I felt—it was in there, waiting.

I found myself in motion and discovered that I was running, running toward the door, throwing it open, stepping inside without thought or direction. The house was dark and quiet, but I Knew where to go. Glass crunched underfoot as I hurried forward. My eyes adjusting to the gloom, picking out edges and angles: the corner of the wall, the arm of the sofa pushed askew. The blood I smelled now was real, not Knowing. Its coppery taste tinted the air. My pulse pounded in my ears.

Then I was there. It was a small room tucked in the back of the house, filled with bookshelves. Most of the books were on the floor when I entered, thick hardcover volumes and paperbacks scattered on a circular rug, others strewn haphazardly across the bare wooden floor. A teacup was smashed at my feet, broken into tiny shards of white porcelain with lilac-colored paint.

Sonja Reimes was dead.

She was crumpled near the far wall, soaked in blood. The only wound I saw was a long, ragged slash across her front, but I didn’t need to see any more than that. Her head was twisted at an awkward angle, her arms curled up against her chest. My stomach knotted. Nausea gripped me, and I fought against it. My gaze went to Leon.

He lay on his back a few feet from me, near a bookcase. Several of the books had spilled over him, and the shelf itself looked unsteady, as though it were about to topple. Like he’d been thrown against it. With considerable speed and force.

My hand went to my throat. I choked out his name.

I ran to him, kneeling and shoving the books aside as I searched for signs of injury. He was unconscious, but breathing. The only blood I saw was a trickle at the corner of his mouth. There was a glow of Guardian lights at his wrist and fingertips, faint but pulsing.

“Wake up,” I urged, shaking his shoulder gently. “We need to get out of here.”

Keeping one hand on him, I turned, scanning the room for the Harrower I knew had to be there.

All I saw was Shane.

He stood in the doorway, as though he’d followed me in. He stepped over the shattered teacup and moved to the wall across from me, leaning back against it and folding his arms. He wore the same green Drought and Deluge shirt he’d had on the last time I’d seen him—there was that smear of red paint—but it was torn down one shoulder now, three long gashes that caused the fabric to hang loose across his chest. His blond hair didn’t look perfectly tousled anymore; it just looked unkempt. He was watching me intently.