“Why do we always get the—” “Don’t even think about finishing that statement,” Rylee warned. Marcus couldn’t see her face behind the mask of her vac suit, but he could imagine the expression of stern disapproval he’d seen a thousand times before.

Thunder rumbled outside the soccer stadium: a deep roar as storm clouds gathered in strength, the prelude to a ferocious storm.

“What the hell does that mean?” Another gun barked, this time from behind them near the stairwell. Abigail pushed Haatim farther into their hiding space, rounding a corner out of sight of the stairwell. She leaned over the top and fired back, forcing their pursuer to retreat.

The trip back to reality was difficult. The first part of it was sheer pain, agonizing and overwhelming and enough to make it clear to him that he wasn’t dead yet. Or, at least, if he was that he was in hell.

Arthur moved quietly in the direction of the screams. His arm and side were wet where the bullet had struck him, and it was getting harder to keep his footing, but he knew he was getting close now. The voices were louder and the words more recognizable.

Arthur stepped out of the courtyard and into an empty dining area of the manor that looked mostly unused. It was dusty and filled with broken chairs and tables that had deteriorated with age.

Frieda stopped the car along the road about two kilometers from their destination, parking out of sight along an old access road. Their target was an old manor built in the mid-nineteenth century that had long since fallen into disrepair.

Arthur Vangeest ran a wet sharpening stone down the edge of his sword, feeling it glide along the razor-sharp finish. It was a brilliant weapon with a deep history, a gift from Frieda Gotlieb many years earlier.

“Complicated how?” Haatim asked. The intensity on Abigail’s face had just gone up dramatically. Anything that unsettled her, he realized, was definitely not good for him.