Ahh, I think, understanding the creature's escape plan. But will it work?

The monster leaps a potted plant, throws its head up, and lunges at the tinted window. The window resists the monster's head but bends. Then the creature's ma.s.sive body adds its weight to the impact, and the window explodes outward. The bull rolls out into the night.

I pick up my pace, machete in hand.

I can reach it. I can- An alarm sounds. Small LED lights blink above the broken window. Just seconds before I'm through, a sheet of black metal slides down, blocking my path. Through the next window over, I see the spectral brute limp off into the darkness.

A loud ding whirls me around, machete raised. Elevator doors open. Allenby, Katzman, and four members of Alpha Team step out.

"What happened?" Allenby asks, looking around. "Is it still here?"

I point my blade at the sheet of black covering the broken window.

"Dammit!" Katzman shouts.

"I can track it," I say, but the man is shaking his head before I finish the sentence.

"Too dangerous," he says. "They'll know about you now."

"How could you track it?" Allenby asks.

"You're standing in its blood," I say, and, with a flick of my wrist, clear the green goo from the blade. Allenby looks down, and for a moment I see the floor the way she does-white, polished, and sparkling clean. She can't see it. None of them can.

I slip the machete into the scabbard on my back. "I want answers. All of them. Now."

"Not possible," Lyons says. He sits behind his office desk, elbows resting on the mahogany surface. The room, like the living quarters, looks more like a cozy home office than something in a vast corporate, black budget headquarters. The only real aberration is that there are no windows. The office is located on the fourth floor, perfectly positioned at the building's core. I glance around the s.p.a.ce, looking for something expensive to destroy. And there is a lot to choose from. Ancient weapons from cultures around the world cover the walls, desktop, and shelves. It's like a "history of warfare" museum. And it's all tied together by a framed quote behind Lyons's desk chair: The opportunity to secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.

-SUN TZU "Please don't break anything," he says. To show that he doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does-even though he does-I listen and take a seat across from him. Allenby, behind me, breathes a sigh of relief. Katzman stands beside the desk, not taking sides in what started as a request for answers. And yeah, you could probably call the kicked-in door, my loud voice, and thrust index finger a demand, but I was holding back.

"Why isn't it possible?" I say.

"Because..." Lyons thrums his fingers over the desktop, three strokes of four. He stops and looks me in the eyes. "Telling you the truth now will set you on a path I'm not entirely convinced you can handle."

"From what I've seen today, it's not something you're capable of handling, either."

He nods slowly. "Setbacks are to be expected. Every war has its risks."

"War?"

"War," he repeats, nodding just once. "Did you know that this world has never really known peace? Not once? At every point in history, somewhere around the world, war has raged. Even today. Especially today. Here in the States, the population is insulated from this reality. We read about it. Watch it on the news. But only a select few really get their hands dirty. Men like you. And me. It becomes a part of you, mingling with your DNA, changing you from the inside out. When war rears up again, men like us see it coming before anyone else. And we can react first. Fight and win. It's what we do."

"I thought you were a scientist," I say.

"In the modern age, science is capable of killing far more people than brawn." He leans back, supporting a grim, heavyset brow. "War isn't coming. It's here."

"You make it sound like Neuro is fighting this war alone. What about your bosses at the CIA? The government will-"

Lyons picks up a TV remote. Aims it at the flat screen mounted to the side wall. "I don't suppose you've watched the news this morning?" He hits the power b.u.t.ton and the TV comes to life, already tuned to a news channel. There are no pundits talking, just a news ticker at the bottom, scrolling tidbits of violent clashes around the world and clips of recent events. Soldiers in an eastern European city I can't identify open fire on a crowd, gunning them down. Instead of fleeing, the mob rushes through the bullets, swarming over the men while armored units roll in. These are soldiers fighting the people they're supposed to protect. The video changes to a studio. A tired-looking reporter with disheveled hair sits solitarily behind a desk like the last bastion of cable news. "That was the scene in Kazakhstan earlier today. We now take you to the White House, where the president is making a statement already in progress."

Somewhere in the White House Frank Paisley, the president of the United States, standing behind a podium, appears on the screen. "... have taken all possible steps to prevent domestic casualties, but no promises can be made if civil unrest continues. Make no mistake, in the defense of innocents, who are peacefully residing in their homes or places of business, the National Guard has been authorized to use lethal force. If you are in one of the twenty-three counties currently under martial law, please obey the curfew, and the property and personal rights of your neighbors. On the matter of international tensions, we are doing our best to quell fears of an imminent attack. While Russia has invaded many of its former Soviet states, we maintain a strong alliance with our border countries and are working to maintain the longtime bond with our fellow NATO members, despite unproductive rhetoric. On the subject of China, we stand behind our j.a.panese allies and have urged China to stand down its aggressive naval-"

Lyons turns the TV off. "The United States government currently has more tangible threats to manage. Civil unrest. External threats. Global strife. We're at the tipping point of World War Three." I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up his hand. "And the powers that be can't be fully trusted to act accordingly. They, like the rest of the world, have already been affected and influenced by the Dread's prodding fear, directing humanity towards a precipice like a herd of panicked cattle. Further exposing men like the president to the Dread could spiral things out of control even faster. Ultimately, involving outside government agencies is Winters's call, but I have made my case to her as well, and she agrees. Neuro was tasked with handling what we call the mirror world and its residents and that's what we're going to do. We're the front line in this war, and you will either be part of finding a solution or wait the crisis out from the confines of your apartment upstairs. Or SafeHaven if you'd prefer. But I can't have you punching any more holes in my building. You could undo everything."

"That possibility exists whether you answer my questions or I start looking for them," I say. "I can see them now."

"And they you from what I've heard."

I nod.

"You won't last long on your own," he says.

"Can we please stop with the bravado?" Allenby asks. "I expect it from him, but not from you."

With my back to Allenby, I'm not sure who "him" and "you" are, though I suspect I am the "him" in question.

Lyons takes a laborious breath. "I will answer your questions. All of them. But first, a request."

"What?" I say.

"Clean up your mess."

"My mess?"

"Security was compromised because of your paranoia-fueled egress yesterday." He motions around the room with both hands. "This building's natural defenses-"

"The tinted windows." I guess. It's the same odd tint I noticed in the ice creambulance.

He nods. "The gla.s.s is laced with oscillium particles. Not impenetrable, but solid in either world. Several of them were shattered and have yet to be replaced. The Dread typically try not to be noticed. They prefer subtlety. They won't force their way through the windows, but the breaks already made in floors not protected by the shielding you saw on the ground level must have been too tempting. And we didn't antic.i.p.ate a situation where a window higher than the second floor could be shattered."

"Cracks or no cracks," Katzman says, "it was brazen for the Dread. We're running out of-"

Lyons holds up a hand, silencing the Dread Squad leader. "I want you, Crazy"-he has to force himself to use the nickname-"to track down the injured bull and kill it before it can relate what it found to the colony."

"On his own?" Katzman looks equal parts surprised and offended.

Lyons swivels around toward Katzman and, with something close to a growl, says, "You have other matters to focus on."

Katzman just purses his lips and nods.

Lyons's chair squeals as he swivels back toward me. "The bull has a fifteen-minute head start, but I'm told you wounded it. The nearest colony is an hour south, on foot. If it's moving slowly, you'll be able to catch it in time."

"And if I don't?"

Lyons's face grows dark. "You have cost this organization a great deal. Never mind the dead men lying in the stairwell. You've exposed us to the enemy. Provided a c.h.i.n.k in our armor. Even worse, you have given our enemy advance warning."

"Of what?"

He raises a single eyebrow and points a finger at me. "Of you. Imagine if j.a.pan had advance knowledge of the atom bomb. Do you think the B-29 bomber would have reached Hiroshima unscathed?"

"You're ... comparing me to an atom bomb?" I'm seriously starting to wonder what kind of a man I was before losing my memory.

He shrugs. "Perhaps closer to the Enola Gay, the B-29 that carried the bomb. Either way, the choices you make will have an impact on a war that most people aren't aware of but are feeling all around them. There is no insulation from what's coming. We will prevail and live or lose and die. That is the nature of war, and your actions will have very real and long-reaching consequences. I need you-we all need you-to take this seriously."

I look to Allenby, knowing she'll give it to me straight. "Is he serious?"

She looks from me to Lyons and then back to me. "There is no doubt that the Dread are attacking the human race. What I would like to know is why. I would prefer a peaceful resolution, but that doesn't seem likely, and if they continue on track, with no resistance from us, it's going to be an easy victory."

"That's enough for now. Time is short." Lyons says. "If you want answers, they will be given when the bull is dead, and only if you decide to grace us with your presence."

"And if I decide to leave?"

"You can watch the world burn on your own."

I have no idea what that's supposed to mean, but if these Dread are behind the turmoil around the world, they need to be stopped. Though I don't fear them myself, I've seen the effect they have on people. If they can turn three trained soldiers against each other, they can turn a crowd into a mob or a protest into a riot. Maybe even a misunderstanding into a war.

I stand from the chair. "I'll kill it."

"You'll try," Lyons says.

"And when I do," I say. "No more secrets?"

Arms open wide, he says, "I will be an open book." He turns to Katzman. "See about the windows. I want every crack, ding, and scratch repaired within the hour. We cannot afford another incursion." Then to Allenby, "Get your nephew whatever he wants. I expect him out of our doors in five minutes."

"He's sustained some injuries," Allenby says.

Before I can wave off her concern, Lyons says, "Pain focuses the mind. He can heal if he comes back."

"When," I say. "Not if." But as I turn to leave, a strange sensation washes over me. It's not fear. It's a lack of confidence. For the first time in my short memory, I've just talked straight out of my a.s.s, and everyone in the room knows it.

Four minutes later, after a stop at a first-floor armory, I'm fitted with black body armor; have a new, sound-suppressed P229 handgun holstered on my hip-for all the good the last one did; and what I've begun to think of as my machete over my back. The new addition to my jet-black a.r.s.enal is a compound bow and twelve arrows with wide hunting tips. A bullet will punch a hole in a target, but these arrows will carve two one-inch-long slices deeper into the target's flesh than a bullet can puncture. Unlike a bullet, which fragments on impact, the arrow will slide straight through. And it will barely make a sound. Even without a kill shot, a target will quickly bleed out. Last is the up-close and personal weapon of last resort, or perhaps first resort. Nothing kills as efficiently or quietly as a garrote wire. The thin oscillium cable has a handle at each end and, once wrapped around a target's neck, can kill quickly and quietly. No one has ever tried using the device on a Dread, but it's an a.s.sa.s.sin's best friend when subtlety is called for. Or, at least, I think it is. I have no memory of ever using one, only that I know how. I loop the wire around my hand and pocket the weapon.

The bow and arrow clip onto the back of my ride, a jet-black ATV, the perfect vehicle for navigating the woods of New Hampshire.

"I'd offer you the helmet," Allenby says, holding a matching black helmet in her hands. "But we both know you won't take it."

When my hand grips the key already in the ignition, Allenby puts her hand on my arm.

"Last advice from my aunt?" I ask.

A glimmer of sadness makes a brief appearance but is chased away by hardened eyes. "From your doctor. The ... changes your body is undergoing. It will let you do more than see them. Much more. If that happens, the pain you felt before, when you were just seeing them-"

"Got it," I say. "It's going to hurt like a b.i.t.c.h."

She smiles. "Like the mother of all b.i.t.c.hes."

"It's rewriting my DNA or something like that, right?"

"Something like that, yeah, targeting your senses."

I nod slowly. "I've heard them."

"Good," she says. "Just remember that you're in control. You can turn it on. You can turn it off. Just like they can."

There's a hint at something in what she's told me. Something I don't like. But I can't figure it out, don't really have time, and there is a more pressing question on my mind. "You said the Dread world was like another frequency. Separate from ours."

She nods.

"So how was that creature, that bull, able to be intangible to me yet in contact with the stairs and walls?"

"There is a third frequency that is neither A nor B, but also both, where parts of each physical reality overlap. Inanimate, nonliving matter vibrates at a slightly different frequency than actively animate, living, moving matter. This zone of overlapping frequencies includes some natural elements such as older trees and man-made elements like roads and structures, with the older, st.u.r.dier variety being more common. In contrast, a human body, even when standing still, is always in motion. Muscles, lungs, heart. We are in perpetual motion. Our frequency, like those of most living things, remains rooted fully in A with no overlap. This allows the Dread to interact with the inanimate, physical elements of A-like the staircase-while avoiding contact with the animate life that resides here-such as you. It's a physical place with elements of both notes, but lacking the distinct life of each."

"B-flat," I offer.

"Exactly. What we do know is that to make real physical contact, you and the Dread have to be in the same frequency. You might be able to see and hear between A and B, but to interact physically, you can't just be sensing other frequencies, you need to move fully between the frequencies."

"Out of A and into B. And maybe B flat."

"In theory. Good enough?"

"For now," I say, "And Allenby ... If I don't make it back, I'm glad we're family."

Her smile is the most genuine I can remember seeing. "a.r.s.ehole," she says, wiping tears from her eyes. She shoos me with her hands. "Go."

I start the ATV, give Allenby a last, quick nod, and tear off across the nearly empty parking lot toward the woods where I last saw the bull. Upon reaching the gra.s.s, I slow to a stop. The green lawn is neatly trimmed and greener than any gra.s.s has a right to be. But there is no sign of the bull, either in the gra.s.s or the dark woods beyond.

See what's not there, I think to myself, willing my vision to shift.

And it does. Painfully. I grind my teeth as an imaginary Jack the Ripper stabs my eyeb.a.l.l.s.

My vision flickers between worlds: one bright and colorful, the other shades of black striped in green and cloaked by a purple sky. It's like night vision, I think, still recognizable as the world but in strange shades of color. Is this the Dread's B world? Or is it B flat?

Muscles behind my eyes twitch, each snap sending a fresh pulse of pain into my nervous system. But I can see both worlds now-the tree line has changed, a mix of recognizable trees, now leafless and large; sagging black trunks, held back by a fence; and the paved, inanimate parking lot-and the trail of glowing green blood left by the wounded bull. The bright plasma against the bleak background shines like reflective road markers, s.p.a.ced every five feet, when the bull put weight on the wounded limb.

I'm about to gun the engine when a sound like whispering rises up around me. It's from nowhere, and everywhere, ambient like the wind. As I try to ignore the rising din, a smell tickles my nose.

It stings like ammonia and is foul like death, but is new. And heinous. I breathe through my mouth but can taste it, too. Fresh agony swills through my core as my other senses are ... What? Changed? Expanded? Twisted? Whatever is happening, Allenby was right. It hurts like the mother of all b.i.t.c.hes.

Despite the foulness of the scent and the pain of detecting it, I know it's not harmful. It's always been there, in the air, in my lungs. I just couldn't detect it before. This whole new world was just beyond reach. And if Allenby is to be believed, I came to understand that on my own once, without Lyons's help. These things are real and apparently observable to those not afraid to look. The problem is, that's pretty much just me.

I glance back at the building. Allenby is there. The staggered pyramid behind her is like an obsidian megalith, a sheet of impenetrable black, except for two squares of light marking my escape route and the failed attempt to stop me. There are men inside, trying to position new squares of tinted gla.s.s.

Attuned to the world just beyond our own but still physically present in the real world, I gun the throttle and follow the long drive out to the security gate, past the fence. The guards must be expecting me, because they just wave me past the newly repaired gate. Beyond the fence, I speed into the woods. Happily, the scent of crisp pine needles, which carpet the forest floor, still exists and helps drown out the foul tang. The pain eases, too, diminishing to a dull headache. It's the shifting of senses that hurts. Maintaining the shift is easier.

The forest, cast in shades of gray shadow and purple light, is strangely beautiful. There are pine trees, but they're intermingled with other, strange black trunks rising up to empty branches. Some of the trees occupy the same s.p.a.ce, twisting in and out of each other. Some stand solitary. Green veins, like those on the Dread bull's hide, but not nearly as bright, cover the ground, connecting everything. Am I just seeing both frequencies at once, or is this a separate place? I can't tell, but I'm pretty sure I'm still physically located squarely in my home frequency, not in Lyons's mirror world.

I follow the trail of blood for twenty minutes, crushing a path through dense forest. While the many streams, saplings, and fields of ferns don't stand a chance against the ATV, I have to navigate around fallen trees, two ravines, random granite boulders, and a hundred-foot cliff, which, if the blood trail can be believed, the bull scaled.

The beast fled in a straight line, due south. According to Lyons, it was headed toward a colony. While he didn't explain what that is, I get the implication. If I don't catch the bull before it reaches the colony, I'm going to be facing more than just one of these things.