"The difference between the two groups is simple. Psychopaths are born. Caleb and Ivan have always been the way they are now. Sociopaths, however, must be made."

"How do you make someone a sociopath?" I snort.

"There's more than one way, of course. The most effective is to find a child who's been neglected, traumatized, or abused. Then you force him to fight for his own survival. You give him no option but to kill or be killed. You tell him he must survive by any means necessary-and offer him a prize if he does."

"Sounds a lot like the Mandel Academy."

"And that's no coincidence. My mother perfected the recipe I just recited, though I don't think she knew what she was making. But I've been studying the academy's students since I was your age. It didn't take me long to realize that those who managed to graduate were either psychopaths or sociopaths. Some had been born that way. Most Mandel alumni, however, had not. But they were raised in environments that offered no sense of safety or hope for the future. That experience, along with the training they received at the academy, turned them into sociopaths. By the time they graduated, none of them possessed a conscience. Their sole concern was their own survival."

"You made them monsters," I say.

"Not monsters," Mandel corrects me. "Predators. That's the term we use here. The alumni hate being labeled sociopaths or psychopaths-and they'd be furious to hear you call them all monsters. They don't want to be thought of as mentally ill. And they're not. No one at the Mandel Academy is insane. Psychopaths and sociopaths are not defective humans. As a matter of fact, I'm convinced they're superior beings."

I feel like we just took a detour into sci-fi land. I do hope extraterrestrials are involved. If Mandel turns out to be barking mad, he might as well be entertaining, too. "Superior beings, you say?"

"That's the theory I'm testing. I believe that, at some point in history, the human race split into two different species."

It's not quite as crazy as it could be, I guess. "How?"

"A mutant gene evolved. Those who inherited the gene were smarter, stronger. Better. They became predators. Those without the gene were weaker, less intelligent, more prone to illness. They were the predators' prey. That's what psychopaths and sociopaths share in common. Both possess the mutant gene."

"Wait a second-you said sociopaths seem totally normal at birth. How is that possible if they inherited some kind of predator gene?"

Mandel smiles. He loves playing professor. "Science has shown that many of our genes can be switched off or on. Psychopaths are born with an active predator gene. But they're a very rare breed-perhaps less than one percent of the population. A much larger percentage of people are born with a gene that isn't switched on. But if they're placed in the right environment, the gene can be activated, and they'll become sociopaths."

I don't want to ask. "What does this have to do with me?"

"You have the mutant gene. There's little doubt that you inherited it from your father. But you haven't been exposed to the conditions that will make your gene active."

"You're saying I have the predator gene, but it isn't expressed."

Mandel claps. "You know the proper term! Very impressive. That's right. You're what I call a hybrid."

"A hybrid?"

"When predators mate with prey, the offspring inherit an inactive mutant gene. Hybrids look like predators but behave like prey. However, over the years, the Mandel Academy has proved that it's possible to turn hybrids into full-blown predators. That's what my mother did to your father. He arrived at this school a broken, battered little weakling. He left as a sociopath. My mother activated his predator gene. And that's what I intend to do to you."

Shit. Shit. Shit. "And that's going to be your big breakthrough? You just said your family's been 'switching' hybrids for decades."

"Yes, but we've been terribly inefficient. This school recruits eighteen students a year. Only nine ever graduate. Our success rate is low because we're forced to recruit students we hope can be predators. We've been relying on guesswork rather than science. Half of our recruits never become sociopaths, and that's why we must expel so many students. However, if we find the predator gene-and develop a test for it-we can recruit only genuine hybrids and produce twice as many graduates each year."

"That's what you're searching for in the lab downstairs? The predator gene?"

"Yes, and when my scientists finally find it, we can test every potential student and admit only those who possess it."

"Gee, that sounds awesome," I drone.

"I think so," Mandel says. "Unfortunately, your father and his supporters claim my research is far too expensive. The board of directors has threatened to close my lab unless I can prove that the mutant gene actually exists. They've given me a single year. But great discoveries cannot be rushed. I knew we might not locate the gene in time-so I offered to show it in action instead."

"I have a hunch this is where I come in."

"Yes. Like all genes, the predator gene is passed from one generation to the next. In order to prove its existence, I needed a subject who was likely to have inherited the mutant gene from one of his parents-but showed no sign of being a predator. It had to be someone particularly unpromising-a young person the academy would have never dreamed of recruiting. Then I would expose the subject to the kind of conditions that I believe can activate the mutant gene-and turn the hybrid into a first-class predator."

My blood has been drained and my veins pumped full of poison. "And you chose me for your experiment. How flattering."

"You weren't an ideal choice. I appealed to the alumni first. Most of their offspring are likely to possess the mutant gene. I only needed a single hybrid for my experiment, but I quickly realized that no graduate would ever willingly enroll a child in our school."

"I bet. They wouldn't want to risk their own kids getting killed."

Mandel chuckles. "It would be a difficult thing to explain to one's spouse, that's for certain. But I think most alumni were more concerned that their children might graduate. Predators don't enjoy competition inside their own homes. Eventually I had to insist that your father volunteer one of his sons. He wasn't terribly fond of the idea, but at the time he could hardly refuse."

"So you've been trying to prove your theory by activating my gene?"

Judging by Mandel's smile, he thinks my question was naive. "No, we haven't reached that stage yet. You see, thanks to your stellar performance in the Incubation Suites, some of the alumni argued that you must have been born a predator. I had to take a step back and prove that your gene is not yet expressed. Last night, you showed the alumni how weak you still are. A true predator would never have acted in such an illogical manner. But that's why I gave you a room next to Lucas. Cowardice is contagious. I knew he would scare you into acting rashly. Now it's time for the second stage of my experiment to begin."

I can't imagine how life at the academy could get any worse. "Fabulous. What do you have in mind for me?"

"Whatever it takes to flip the switch, Flick. And when I do, you'll be my masterpiece. A super-predator like your father. You're smarter than the rest. Physically stronger than most. And you'll have something that students like Caleb and Ivan will never possess-a profound understanding of your prey."

"And you'll get your name in the evil scientist Hall of Fame, right next to Hannibal Lecter and Dr. Frankenstein."

"This is not about my own personal glory!" Mandel almost looks hurt. "My work will benefit all of mankind!"

"How is turning kids into sociopaths and training them to be white-collar criminals going to help mankind?"

He's been expecting this. There's more to his theory. And I can see it on his face-he truly believes he's going to single-handedly save the world.

"Nature doesn't make mistakes, Flick. There's a reason humankind split into two different species. Once humans reached the top of the food chain, our fellow carnivores stopped keeping our numbers in check. So nature created a new predator, and a delicate balance was maintained. A small group of human predators culled a large group of prey. Without the predators, the population would have exploded. And do you know what happens when there are too many prey in an ecosystem?"

I'm about to answer, but Mandel beats me to the punch. He's on a roll.

"They eat everything! They consume all of the natural resources, and famine follows. So long ago, a cycle began-a cycle in which hybrids played a key role. Whenever the prey group grew too large, life became difficult for everyone. The harsh conditions activated the mutant gene in some of the hybrids. They became predators, and they helped reduce the prey population until balance was restored. That's how it was for millennia. But here in America, the cycle has stopped-and one group is now threatening the existence of the others."

"The predators?" I ask, just to annoy him.

"The prey! There's no longer enough hardship in this country to turn the right number of hybrids into predators. Meanwhile, the prey keep breeding. The weak, the sick, and the feeble-minded are growing in number at an almost unimaginable rate. If they're all allowed to eat their fill, there will soon be nothing left for any of us.

"When my mother ran this school, the Mandel Academy was a profit-driven organization. But now we must serve a much higher purpose. In order to preserve our ecosystem, the prey must be culled. If I can find an error-proof way to identify hybrids, we can increase the predator population and restore balance."

"By helping a bunch of psychopaths and sociopaths get into Harvard?" I snort. "If you really want to 'cull' the herd, you're going to need an army of serial killers, not a bunch of politicians and investment bankers."

"You're thinking too small! Even successful serial killers only dispose of two or three dozen people at most. But the academy is producing politicians who can start wars that will eliminate thousands. Investment bankers who will plunder the nation's resources. Our businesspeople will build factories that will pollute the prey's water. We will sell them food that poisons their bodies. We will coat their children's toys with toxic paint-and put chemicals in their toiletries that will leave them sterile. We will do whatever it takes to ensure that our species survives."

This is real. It is not hypothetical. I'm actually standing beside a mass murderer. A lunatic who believes that he can play God.

"So my dad knows all about this theory of yours?"

"Of course!"

"And he doesn't share your desire to 'save the world'?"

"No," Mandel says with the sigh of a misunderstood genius. "I think it's the very idea of a gene that upsets him most. Men like your father need to feel like they're in control at all times. He refuses to believe that he's just a part of something much bigger." Mandel turns to me. "That's another reason why you're so important, Flick. What better way to humble your father than to take the son he's always despised-and create a predator who's more powerful than he'll ever be?"

"I appreciate your confidence in me. But there's still one thing that I don't understand," I say.

"Yes?"

"Why you'd tell me all of this. Do you just like to share?"

"There's a reason for every action I take. I leave nothing to chance. You should know that by now." With Mandel's piercing blue eyes trained on me, I feel like a beetle that's been pinned to a board. "I offered you a reward for graduating from the academy-the information that could send your father to jail. I still intend to honor our deal, but I can see that incentives are no longer enough. I shared my theory with you because I want you to understand that you have no control over the outcome of this experiment. There is no way to leave the academy. The switch is inevitable, and you will remain at this school until it's complete. There are no decisions for you to make. Your body will function the way it was intended to function. One day, the gene will be activated, and you may not even notice the difference."

"It's funny you say that I have no control. I could put an end to your experiment right now."

"How?" he asks with a smile. He's certain I'm joking.

"We're up here alone. You think you could stop me if I decided to scale the drainpipe on the side of your tower and jump over the fence?"

"You're talking about killing yourself?"

"Sure. I'm not going to, but I could."

"And your point is?" Mandel plays it as cool as ever, but I know I've surprised him. Which means he hasn't thought of everything. A tiny flicker of hope is still burning inside me. I need to find Gwendolyn right away.

"The point is, I want to stay. So maybe my gene was activated last night."

"Maybe it was," Mandel says. "It's a hypothesis that I'm fully prepared to test."

"Give me everything you've got," I tell him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

RUSALKA.

One day, when I was ten years old, my school held a special assembly. Every student between the ages of seven and thirteen was in the auditorium that afternoon when a pair of police officers took the stage. We all knew what they'd come to say. Over the previous month, two townie boys had been kidnapped on their way home from school. A monster was loose in Connecticut.

They never used words like pervert or scum, but I heard the disgust in the officers' voices when they warned us to keep an eye out for "strange" men. A grown-up lurking around the school playground or lingering too long in a public restroom. I left the assembly feeling certain that I'd know the monster the moment I saw him. And when his mug shot made the papers a few weeks later, he looked just like the loser I'd sketched in my head. A pale, skinny shut-in type. They said he showed no remorse for the horrific crimes he'd committed. One of my teachers called him a psychopath. I heard a television reporter refer to the guy as a sociopath. Years later when I finally learned what the terms really meant, that man's picture was still lodged in my head.

I never would have used the word sociopath to describe my own father. When I was a little boy, he seemed like a god. Six foot three, a full head of chestnut-colored hair, a brilliant mind, and the dimpled chin of a movie star. Wherever he went, people gravitated toward him. He was worshiped by ladies and lesser males. As I grew older, I saw how he toyed with them. He fired loyal employees-then destroyed their reputations for sport. He seduced most of my mother's friends and never attempted to hide his affairs. Humiliating his wife and the other women's husbands must have been part of the thrill. When boredom set in, his mistresses were cruelly cast aside. I remember arriving home one afternoon to find a woman weeping on our doorstep while my own mother attempted to comfort her.

In the world of business, my father's coldness was legendary. Even the Wall Street types who most admired him said he was a man without blood in his veins. But every act of professional sadism was rewarded by a bump in his company's stock price. My father was a leader-a man who did what had to be done. He didn't have a heart to hold him back, and that's why he always won.

If only his colleagues had seen him at home-when the party was over and the ice sculpture started to melt. He'd stalk into his study and slam the door. An hour or two later, he'd emerge. My father never showed any outward signs of drunkenness. He never stumbled, slurred his words, or got red in the face. He'd be quiet for hours. And then he'd explode. Jude was the only one who could cool him down.

I hated my father, but I would have argued to the death with anyone who'd called him a sociopath. Because sociopaths don't have any feelings. And I was always convinced that my father loved Jude. Which meant that, as much suffering as he may have inflicted, he wasn't inhuman. That was my first mistake. My father never really loved anyone.

Mandel's theory makes perfect sense to me. Not the loony crap about preserving the "ecosystem" and saving mankind. But I have little trouble believing that there are two types of humans. It doesn't matter what labels you give them. There are monsters in this world. The Mandel Academy used to train them. But if Lucian Mandel proves there's a gene, it could soon be a factory that makes them. And if he's right about me-if I'm really a hybrid-there's no telling when the switch might take place. It feels like I'm blindfolded and strapped to a bomb. I can hear the timer ticking away, but I can't see how many minutes are left on the clock.

I can't stay. Mandel knew no reward could keep me here. I don't care about his "proof" anymore. So he tried to take away all hope of escape. But he didn't succeed. There may be a way to break free, but I'll need to act fast. And if I get out, I'll take down the academy, just like Lucas would have wanted.

Mandel escorts me back to my room. I can see he's done a little redecorating. The yearbook page that I've kept in my drawer has been framed and hung on the wall. Peter Pan is pointing his sword at me. It gives me an idea. I look down at the clock. It's twelve fifty-five. Five minutes to lunch. Perfect. I can get started immediately. As soon as Mandel's out of sight, I grab a pillowcase and begin filling it with supplies. The first thing that goes into my bag is the electric razor that's been charging in the bathroom. Then I use a pair of blunt-tipped "safety" scissors to cut the cord off my alarm clock. That's dropped into my bag as well-along with a red Sharpie and the two bottles of water that the invisible cleaning people always leave on my bedside table.

I sit at my desk until a quarter past one, and then I strip the bandage off my arm. There's still blood seeping from between the three stitches.

The crowd in the cafeteria greets me with reverential silence. I have returned from the underworld. They don't know what I've seen or how it has changed me. They don't know what I'll do. I have a mysterious bag in my right hand. Three thin streams of blood are trickling down my left arm. Everyone can see that my tracking chip has been removed. I'll let them draw their own conclusions.

I head straight for the Wolves. Just as I hoped, they're all sitting in their regular spots. I walk between the two filled tables. One is occupied by lesser beasts. The elite have all gathered around the other one. And as luck would have it, Ivan is sitting on the stool that would have been mine. I'm going to do my best to make this my last day at the Horror Hotel, but there are a few people who deserve to be punished before I check out.

When I reach the wall, I turn to face them. Gwendolyn leaps up and wraps her arms around me. "What happened?" she whispers. "They said you were with Lucas when he slit his wrists."

"Sit down for a second," I tell her. "Not there," I order when she begins to return to her seat next to Leila. "At the other table." Something in my tone makes her obey.

"What's in the bag, Flick?" Caleb drones. "Did you bring us some souvenirs?"

"It's a surprise," I tell him. I take out the two bottles of water, remove the caps, and place them both on the steel table. Then I crouch down by the electric socket on the wall between the two tables.

"What in the hell is he doing?" Austin drawls.

Leila sniggers.

I plug the alarm clock cord into the socket and stand up with the frayed end in one hand-and my electric razor in the other. Then I knock the two water bottles over, flooding the stainless steel table.

"Don't move," I tell the Wolves as I dangle the electrified cord over the wet table. "Or I'll fry all five of you." I have no idea if it would actually work. But neither do they. And that's all that counts.

"Flick?" Gwendolyn says.

"In a moment, darling," I respond without taking my eyes off her friends.

"Cute," Caleb sneers. "What do you want?"

"A little silence if you don't mind," I say. "I need to concentrate here. I've never given anyone a haircut with one hand before." I turn on the razor and take my place behind Julian.

"You're not going to let him . . ." Julian starts.

"I wouldn't fidget if I were you," I say. "You might make me drop the cord."

"Sit still," Caleb orders Julian. I doubt he'd bother to help if he could. At the Mandel Academy there are no friends. Just competitors. "You needed a trim anyway."

The guy has a lot of hair for a pixie. It takes almost a whole minute for the razor to cut its first path through. The rest goes more quickly. When Julian's head is covered in nothing but stubble and the table looks like it's grown a fur coat, I hand him my pillow- case bag.

"I've got a present for Caleb too," I tell him. "Take it out and pull off the cap."