“And Bran’s not here to help you settle.”

“You are. You’re steady, Sawyer. It’s your compassion. You have so much of it.”

Annika raced out of the house well ahead of Riley. “I can run to the village, very fast, and find Bran.”

“No, he’ll be back soon.”

Riley set down a large bottle of water, opened it, then poured some into a glass. “Hydrate, level off. We’re all fine here, and so are Bran and Doyle. You’d know if they weren’t.”

“Yes, you’re right. I just panicked for a minute.” Slowly, she sipped water. “I was painting. It felt so good, just so good to paint. Not to worry about anything for just a single day. I wanted to paint the hills, and the green, the way the light washes over the land. Not the sea this time. I prepped the canvas. I’d done some sketches before, and I set them out, organized my tools. I started to mix paints.”

She paused, looked down at the smear of sage green on her thumb.

“Then I turned away from the canvas, picked up my sketchbook. That wind,” she said to Sawyer. “It was blowing through me, so fast and fierce. I could barely catch my breath.

“I started to sketch.”

Setting the water aside, she opened the sketchbook to the first page she’d used.

“Malmon. In black tie,” Riley observed. “And Nerezza. But that doesn’t look like the room you saw them in before.”

“No, I think this is before. I think this is his house, in London. She went to him. And here.” Quickly, Sasha turned the page. “He went to her, and it really began. This is a kind of progression. Flashes, there were flashes of them. I could barely keep up.”

She turned the next page to a series of sketches.

“His arms,” Annika noted. “They have changed.”

“You see how the veins are so prominent. And they pulsed. And here.” With a fingertip, Sasha traced along the shoulder of one of the sketches.

“It looks like . . . scales.” Riley leaned closer. “A patch right there, of scales.”

“The light burns his eyes. The whites turned a pale, sickly yellow. And I know it’s subtle, but can you see the change?”

“The shape of his eyes,” Sawyer confirmed. “Longer.”

“He starts to wear dark glasses, all the time. Even in sleep. And every night he goes to her, and she puts more of this into him. She puts blood in wine, little by little, until she’s putting wine in the blood. He drinks. He drinks,” she repeated as she turned the page. “She rules him now. Some of the blood is hers, so she rules him now. My pet.”

Sawyer saw Bran come out, put his finger to his lips.

“He’s her creature, not fully changed, but hers. Through him she’ll have what she wants, what belongs to her. Perhaps she’ll keep him when it’s done. My pet. Until he no longer amuses her.”

Gently, Bran laid a hand on her shoulder. She breathed in, breathed out.

“Here he meets with the men. The torturer, the soldier, the assassin. He meets with others who will do what he says for the money he pays. He’s no longer bored, but he feels different. His mind gets clouded. He gets so angry. He kills a prostitute and gloats. His nails. Clip, clip, clip, every night, every morning. Is he losing his hair? But he’s so strong. And she’s promised him more, more strength, more power. Life eternal. She’s his god now.

“Now at the villa—he’ll have a palace soon, but this will do. But his skin, it feels so tight on his bones, and the light sears his eyes. See his eyes.”

“Changed,” Riley said, glancing over as Doyle joined them. “Reptilian.”

“He can see in the dark. He craves the dark. Together, they’ll extinguish the light. All the men, working, guarding. Helicopters bring in what’s needed, but he goes at night, only at night, and he runs. He’s so fast, fast as a snake. But she rarely comes to him now, not enough. He craves her like the dark.

“She’ll come now. Two enemies captured. She’ll come now, give him what he wants. What he needs.”

She turned the page to the sketch of the cave, of Sawyer bloodied and battered, hanging from chains. Of Annika trapped in the tank.

“He wants the compass, its power. He nearly had it once, and won’t be denied a second time. The traveler must pay for denying him, for defying him. She wants the stars, his queen. With the compass, he’ll have what they both desire. Kill them both, kill them all, but first, take what’s his. Find what’s hers. Oh, their pain thrills. Give them more.

“The light! The light! It burns beyond bearing. The heat scorches. He screams for her, but she doesn’t come.”

“Jesus Christ.” Despite everything, when she turned to the next sketch, Sawyer stared at it with horrified pity. “That’s Malmon?”

“He’s still between, but more beast than man. Trapped in the dark, the pain—the burning—terrible.”

“Mephisto demon. Lower demon,” Riley continued. “Often enslaved to a ruler demon or dark god. A shunner of light. Mythologically speaking.”

“There’s an actual name for this?”

“There’s a name for everything,” she told Sawyer, “if you dig deep enough.”

“She comes to him.” Again, Sasha turned a page. “He weeps bloody tears. She could destroy him, such is her rage. And there’s a madness in her, as in him. But she’s still canny, and he’ll be useful. She makes him beg, grovel, supplicate himself, but she gives him back his sight, and she takes him to her palace inside the mountain, to a chamber already prepared. It didn’t matter if he’d failed or succeeded, this was always his fate. The mother of lies promised riches, power, eternal youth. Instead he’ll live as she wills, as long as she wills, and have only what she wills.”