A plan that made loads of sense-up until now, anyway.

Despite my late start, I never once considered a scenario where I'd be greeted by a bouncer doling out single-sided job applications.

Still, I decide to go with it and see where it leads. Carrying my form to one of the tall round tables surrounding the dance floor, I take in the mob of job seekers, most of them middle-aged, all of them wearing the same tired, glazed look. Other than dragging themselves here, no one appears all that motivated to do anything more than wander around in a daze.

"Numbers one through twenty-come this way!" I turn toward the voice shouting from behind me. My gaze landing on a man I've never seen, but who definitely bears the dark swarthy look of a Richter, scrutinizing the group he just summoned as they slowly file past.

I stare down at my slip, the hand-scrawled 27 in the upper right corner placing me in the next group to be called.

Should I go?

Should I fill this thing out and see where it leads?

Will I live to regret it?

Will I live?

I bury my face in my hands, unsure what to do. Comforting myself with the thought that at least I don't have to worry about Dace and Xotichl. Even though they probably ignored my protest and came here the second I left, I'm sure they turned back the instant they saw this.

My thoughts interrupted by a woman asking to borrow a pen. Her eyes so tired and with wrinkles so deep they seem to recede into her skull.

I dig through the contents of my bag. Locating a pencil, I hand it over and say, "Not exactly a pen, but I doubt they'll care."

Without a word, she takes it from me. Her hand shaky, jaw clenched, as she concentrates on the simple task of writing her name.

"So, what kind of jobs are they offering?" I ask, desperate to get a handle on what I'm about to get myself into.

"Dunno." Her voice is as flat as her gaze. Returning the pencil, even though, other than adding her name, the remaining boxes are blank. "Heard it offers free room and board. 'At's all I care about."

She slumps toward the stage where she waits for the next group to be called. And while I'm still no closer to knowing what this is about, it's safe to a.s.sume that this so-called job fair is not what it seems. The Richters aren't exactly known for their altruism-there's always something in it for them. Still, there's only one way to be sure.

I fill out my form with a false name and address. Having a little fun with the ruse until I reach the part where the questions start to get weird, asking things like: Any diseases? List them here.

And just under that: Maximum weight you can easily lift?

Though the one that really disturbs me is: This job requires you to be gone for an indefinite period of time. List the names of all those who might miss you. If necessary, feel free to continue on the back of the page.

What the heck kind of job is this?

A moment later, when my group is called, I unzip my hood from its hiding place in the collar and sling it over my head. Then I slump my shoulders, crumple my application into my hand, and join them. Giving my best impersonation of a lonely, defeated, downtrodden person with a talent for weight lifting and no serious diseases. Which is not nearly as easy as it seems.

I merge with my group. Shrinking deeper into my hood when I pa.s.s the stage where the Richter with the microphone studies us with a sharp eye before waving us down the hall that ultimately leads to the demon-guarded vortex beyond.

Shuffling along with the rest of them, I manage a few covert peeks at my fellow job seekers. All of them bearing the same glazed look, reminding me of the patrons who sat at the bar the first time I came here. How they looked like they'd been teetering on their bar stools for the better part of the day-if not the better part of their lives. Numbed from the endless stream of alcohol pickling their brains.

A new group of applicants join us, and it's not long before several more are told to follow. Too many years spent under the Richters' control have left these people hopeless, desperate, and all too eager to trade the h.e.l.l they know for one they can't even imagine.

A m.u.f.fled sound comes from the front, and while I can't quite make it out, its tone is familiar in a way that sets me on edge.

I rise onto my tiptoes, straining to see over the tops of too many heads. Getting a glimpse of yet another undead Richter, before the bodies surge forward and I'm forced to slouch along with the rest of them. Bearing the sort of poor posture Jennika sought to break me of as a kid, I slip the pack of cigarettes into my palm and shove the athame up my right sleeve. Ready for any number of possibilities, since I have no idea where this might eventually lead.

We trudge down the hall, heading straight for the wall that disguises the vortex, where we're stopped by that same undead Richter I glimpsed a moment ago. From what I can tell by peering over several rows of shoulders, he's in charge of inspecting the applications and deciding who gains admittance.

But after watching a bit, I realize it's really just a ploy intended to heighten the tension. Make people yearn for admission, then breathe a sigh of relief once they're in. From what I can tell, no one's rejected. No matter how they fill out the form, the Richters will find a way to squeeze 'em dry before they discard them.

When it's my turn, I hand over my application and stare blankly ahead, trying not to cringe under his scrutiny. All too aware of the sound of warning bells ringing in my head, urging me to run-to ditch this place and never look back. Imagining all the horrible ways this could blow up in my face.

My heart begins to race. My weight instinctively shifts onto my toes. Driven by my most primal instinct to save my own skin no matter the cost, I'm just about to flee when that creepy undead Richter grabs hold of my chin and tilts it toward his. His gaze probing mine while his dry, papery, undead fingers squeeze so tightly it hurts.

I can't breathe. Can't speak. Can't run. Can't do much of anything but meet his stare with my own. Overcome with regret for the situation I find myself in.

I shouldn't have come here.

I've completely underestimated them.

And now, because of it, I'm just seconds away from being conquered and crushed.

His gruesome lips tug at the side, but otherwise, his expression remains so unreadable there's no way to guess what he's thinking. All I know for sure is that I have to get the heck out while I still have a sliver of a chance of surviving.

I turn my head sharply, desperate to wrench free of his grip, when he slams his other hand hard against my back and shoves me smack through the vortex.

thirty-three.

Dace I creep through the cave, relieved to find it free of undead Richters and demons-guess they were needed to set up the job fair-yet disappointed to find that I'm still in the Middleworld.

Another dimension of the Middleworld-but still a far cry from the Lowerworld I was hoping for. Though I'm sure it'll lead there eventually.

The place is luxurious. Plush. With its rare antique furniture and priceless art covering the walls, it's clear they've spent a great deal of time here. Plotting. Planning. Waiting for the entry to yawn open again.

Throughout history, whenever they managed to invade the Lowerworld, this is the place that served as their main point of entry. Once in, they immediately set out to corrupt the spirit animals by contaminating their land and stripping them of their power and light, rendering them incapable of guiding their human attachments. The loss resulting in horrific episodes of madness, chaos, and war across the Middleworld-and untold riches for the Richters.

Or at least that's the story according to Leftfoot.

And its just one more reason why I need to kill Cade.

Then as soon as that's done, Leandro is next.

With his sights mostly confined to ruling Enchantment, and not exactly interested in Cade's broader goal of world domination, he may not be as dangerous, though he still has to go. If for no other reason than I can't bear to look at him after knowing what he did to my mom. Despite what the elders say, keeping him balanced and contained just isn't enough.

Not for me.

Never will be.

It's time to redefine a few things.

Time to shake up the prophecy.

Time to make sure the whole lot of them dies.

This is so much bigger than my being with Daire.

And yet, while I know this is true, as I make my way through this long, hollow s.p.a.ce, ultimately pushing through the far wall, where I find myself surrounded by sand, Daire is all I can think about.

I stop. Gaze all around. Remembering what Leftfoot taught me-to seek the truth that lies beneath the things that I see. To question my sight just as I should question all of the thoughts I've been conditioned to believe.

There is much more to this world than meets the eye. A whole other truth people strive to deny. Don't be blinded like them. Look deeper. Think deeper. Allow yourself to go quiet and still, and allow the truth to reveal itself to you.

I close my eyes and do as he said, and when I open them again, it's as though a path has been laid out before me. Seeming to end at the crest of a very large sand dune that, once reached, drops straight into the Lowerworld.

I slip through the earth, ultimately landing hard on my side. I'm quick to pull myself up and survey the place. Not having been here since my last hunt with Daire-I'm stunned to see how much it's deteriorated in only a handful of days. The spirit animals, once happy and active, are now sluggish and listless-barely able to attend to their most basic needs. And the more I explore, the worse it appears. Every step revealing further corruption, spoilage, and ruin-all of it unfolding under an eerie hush that's soon broken by the unsettling sound of branches snapping, trees toppling, and the amplified hum of animalistic grunting and huffing reverberating all around.

I dart behind a large boulder just as a flash of beige fur and red glowing eyes bursts into the s.p.a.ce where I stood.

Coyote.

Cade's coyote no doubt.

He skids to a stop with his snout pitched high, catching my scent. And it's only a moment later when another coyote appears-its fangs and fur coated with blood and the slimy remnants of some unfortunate kill.

The second I see them I know Leftfoot was right.

While Cade may not be a skinwalker in the traditional sense, he is able to a.s.sume other forms.

My fingers snake into my pocket, in search of the blowgun Leftfoot once gave me that was given to him by Alejandro, a Brazilian jaguar shaman, who also happens to be the grandfather Daire never met. According to Leftfoot, the weapon was carefully carved from a rare wood found only in the Amazon rain forest. But before he agreed to hand it over, he forced me to promise that I would only use it for self-defense.

The coyotes crouch side by side-noses twitching, eyes darting-just seconds away from discovering the place where I hide.

So why let it get to that point?

Why wait for them to attack me-just so I can claim self-defense-when I can easily snuff them out now?

I reach for a dart, pinching it by its raven-feathered fletch as I load it inside.

Then I slide one eye closed, narrow the other in focus, lift the small tube to my mouth, and take aim.

Watching as Coyote snarls. Lunging in a flash of gleaming eyes, gnashing teeth, and hot rancid breath pelting hard against my cheek. His jaw widening, ready to take another chunk out of me- When he falters.

Stumbles.

Collapsing to the ground and howling in pain.

I smile triumphantly, though the smile soon fades when I lift my gaze to find Cade looming naked and bloodied before me, bits of animal carca.s.s clinging to his skin.

I've hit the wrong mark.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" He drops beside Coyote, cursing bitterly as he drags on the fletch, yanking the dart from his neck. And d.a.m.n if he isn't smart enough to know it doesn't end there. He lowers his head to the hit, molds his lips around it, and siphons the poison I'd placed on the tip, before spitting it onto the ground. "You're a real idiot, you know that?" He shakes his head and glares, watching as I reload the blowgun and take aim once again. "Trust me," he says. "You do not want to do that."

"You have no idea what I want." I wrap my lips around the tube, inhale a deep, purposeful breath, and blow once again.

Blow with everything that I've got.

Letting loose my own stream of curses when Cade dances free of the dart's path, and turns into a coyote again.

The other one now fully recovered, they stand in solidarity before me-shoulder to menacing shoulder.

Eyes blazing with vengeance, leaving no doubt it's my blood they're after. And before I can run, before I can reload and take aim-they descend on me in a frenzy of ragged claws and sharp fangs.

thirty-four.

Daire The first thing I notice when I burst through the wall is the demon.

Or should I say, demons. After all, there's an entire army of them.

The second thing I notice is how no one seems to be the least bit alarmed by the giant-sized, malevolent beings that surround them. Barely sparing a glance at the variety of tails, and hooves, and horns, and misshapen heads. Not to mention the faces that appear to be a grotesque mix of animal, human, and some other unidentifiable beast that originated in a very dark place.

The crowd just continues to shuffle along in their numbed and glazed state. And when it's my turn to pa.s.s, despite my best efforts to blend with the rest, it's not long before one of those long, ragged claws reaches toward me, as he shoves his face close to mine. Its dark slitted eyes peering so close, I break into a sweat.

This can't happen.

I can't afford to be outted.

Not now.

Not after getting this far.

I steady my breath and stare straight ahead, covertly wagging the pack of cigarettes before him as I send a silent prayer to my ancestors, the elements, my talismans, anyone who might be willing to listen. Praying the tobacco offering will work as well as it did the last time I was here, and heaving a sigh of relief when he accepts the bribe and tosses it into his mouth, plastic wrapper and all.

We pa.s.s through the tunnel that leads to the cave, then we slip through the entry and on past the den. Making our way down the long hall where we crowd into a semicircle, listening to, from what I can make out, some sort of initiation speech.

The words a bit m.u.f.fled from where I stand, though I'm still able to discern things like: Great opportunity ... rare blue tourmaline ... a fortune to be made ... free room and board ... None of which leaves me with any more insight than I started with.

Though one thing's for sure-the only fortune to be made will be for the Richters. These people won't see a dime of it.

A moment later, we're moving again. Pushing through the second wall that leads to the valley of sand, where we begin our trek across the desert terrain. My fellow travelers so glazed, so obedient, I wonder if they even realize what they're doing, where it is they're going. It's as though they're caught in a trance, programmed to do what they're told and not to react to anything unusual.

When we reach the point where the hill crests and the ground gives way, I'm careful to shield myself from the ma.s.s of flailing limbs as we tumble toward the Lowerworld, where I leap to my feet and scramble behind a guy twice my size. Adjusting my hood so it shields the better part of my face, hoping to go unrecognized until I'm ready to be seen.