Conrad felt his beacon vibrate and he swore. He knew. He knew something wasn't right. That this was different. He'd received word that morning directly from Ghost. Rampage was missing, presumed dead like the others. Ghost was calling everyone in.

Minutes ago, he'd watched Carver disappear in a carriage with Clarabel, set for Solaris. He didn't trust Clara to go the journey alone for more reasons than one. Carver was irreplaceable, but he could spare him for a few days. Carver had served him for nearly fifteen years, and Conrad had trained him, taught him to think like a Spect under the simple guise of a butler. And while he'd never been given an apprentice—thank Light for that—he considered Carver to something similar. Though the man was nearly ten years his senior.

Shutting the drapes, shielding Dorwald Street from view, he sighed and turned away, leaving the drawing room. There was no telling what would happen tonight. Caution drove him to scribble a quick note to Prince Albert, nothing discernible should it fall into the wrong hands. A mere warning.

The summons was for thirty minutes from now, so he gathered his things and went to the Temple. The sky's light was already fading. He slipped through the atrium, his face hooded and shadowed, down into the bowels, donning his full mask as soon as was possible.

His entire existence was built around caution. Keeping his true identity hidden from the Spectrum, keeping his Spectrum identity hidden from his day-to-day life, was near impossible. Albert had helped some. But every day was a struggle.

With his full mask in plain view, he moved more freely and removed his hood. It was the only aspect of his life he appreciated—the anonymity. He entered Ghost's council chamber as Deadlock. It was nearly empty. Ghost stood in the center beneath the violet prism, with Sin and Flint beside him.

"Ah, good." Ghost turned to acknowledge his entry. "Deadlock, there's been a development."

"We have a traitor in our midst," Flint said, stepping forward. His mask was unnecessarily elaborate, made of finely molded metal. That of a face wearing its own quarter mask, topped with a tricorn, and finished with a head of metallic curls.

"A traitor." He kept his voice even.

"We need not fear," Flint added. "The threat is neutralized."

"Where's Reaper?" He feared the answer already. "Was it he...?"

"No, no." Ghost waived a hand. "He is with the rogue as we speak."

"And are you going to tell us who? Who has been hunting us?" Sin asked. His mask was molded in the shape of a skull, embellished with gemstones.

"I think it best you see for yourselves." Ghost's tone gave nothing away. "Follow me."

Conrad said nothing—could say nothing that might incriminate himself. There had always been a chance that Tabby might succumb to this fate. They had both discussed it. But she was clever, and resourceful, and he had hoped it would not happen.

Still, he braced himself for what he was about to see as Ghost led them from the council chamber.

***

Tabby opened her eyes. The first thing she noticed was the cold. It kissed her bare shoulders and made her shiver. The second thing she noticed was the smell—one she could never forget. Something moved around in a muted blur. She blinked, and blinked again, bringing everything into focus.

Then her heart stopped.

Her surroundings were horrifyingly familiar. Each of her breaths heightened until she was gasping. Memories sent her reeling backwards to another time.

She was in this very same undercroft, but now eight prisoners stood before her, dimly illuminated by the candlelight of wall sconces. They were tethered to the same stone wall before her now. Most of them trembled, cries muffled by gags. Cloth sacks were thrown over their heads, but she knew the males from the females by their bodies. Seven other acolytes stood beside her, forming a line. She refrained from shifting her weight and instead, steeled her muscles, squeezing her hands into fists.

The shadows around her danced like demons, eager to jump into their hearts and blacken their souls. It smelled of stale air and blood. Clora's faint breathing beside her was gentle, controlled. She paid Clora a sidelong glance, tracing the lines of her quarter mask, framed by a head of frizzy, blonde hair. They'd both made it through torture to get here, to get an apprenticeship and move on to this next stage.

Their newly appointed masters stood behind them in the shadows. She tried to pretend they weren't there. Reaper strode forward, squeezing through the space between them. Clora's master. His sinister three quarter goat mask was nearly all white, with splashes of embellished color—scales and vines—with ears, and two black horns that jutted from the top and curled once around. It was frightening in its own right—the kind of mask that might give children nightmares, herself included. Only the mouth and lower jaw remained open, exposing his lips, twisted with displeasure.

"Welcome, acolytes, to your final task before you move out of the Temple. You have come a long way." His voice sent shivers down the back of her neck. "To earn your half mask and shed your number, you must prove your devotion to the Light." He motioned to the prisoners before them. "Each of you has brought a guest. Now you understand why."

His words turned her stomach to acid and she swallowed the rising bile. The man chained to the wall before her was here because of her. He would die because of her. There was no escape for any of them.

"Some of these men are fathers. Some of these women are mothers, lovers, sisters. Some are brothers. A few may have accomplished good deeds in his or her lifetime. Others might be naturally evil at heart. That is not for you to know or question. Death, like life, is meaningless. It is nothing. Simply another passage one takes."

Tabby watched their marks squirm, coming to understand what was in store. "As a Spect, it is your job to carry out orders. That is all. You need not think—only act. We have taught you how to spy, sneak, fight, lie... Now we must teach you to kill." He produced a dagger from his belt, absentmindedly twirling it between his fingers. Its handle was a deep blood read stone that glinted in the light.

"Each of you will take this dagger and kill the mark that stands before you. You will step forward and remove your mark's covering, look them in the eye, then execute your orders. No questions. No words. No exchanges." He pinned them with his black eyes. "You will act, or suffer the consequences. So ask yourselves this: are the lives of these prisoners more important than your own? I will leave that for you to decide. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Master Reaper," they spoke in unison.

A sense of absolute dread settled over her. She was a caged animal—absolutely powerless. The air in the chamber grew oppressive.

If she allowed her body to shake, Midnight would know. She was overly aware of his hulking figure in proximity to hers. She knew little of him besides what she had observed in the past few months. He was a better master than most, or so she hoped.

She glanced up and down the line of acolytes desperate to see how the others reacted. If they were smart—and they were—they would show no emotion. Everyone was male except for herself and Clora. Females were rare in the Spectrum. Most didn't make it this far. One-nine-six-seven and One-nine-seven-one hadn't. She forced their faces from her mind.

She sensed Clora's trembling. A new and sudden fear twisted her gut. She wanted so desperately to grab Clora's hand, to squeeze it, to offer her some form of reassurance or encouragement. Clora's target was a woman. Such a task felt more insurmountable than that of killing a man. Clora was no killer—neither of them were—but an acolyte had to kill to advance.

Reaper stepped forward and handed the dagger off to One-nine-seven-two, disappearing into the shadows. One-nine-seven-two did not flinch. He walked ten paces to his mark and pulled away the sack. A man's wide-eyed face stared back at him, with dark hair and beard to match. The man cried out, his voice muffled against the gag. One-nine-seven-two did not hesitate. He dragged Reaper's dagger across the man's throat, spilling blood that rushed out with each dying pulse of the man's heart. His head fell forward. Meaningless. Empty. Another path to take in the grand scheme of life.

The other prisoners' struggles grew more frantic. They knew.

Tabby squeezed her eyes closed. A tremor shook her body. It was a wonder she didn't piss herself. Instead, a single tear fell. She kept it hidden. There could be no weakness here. Weakness meant death.

One-nine-seven-two returned to the line and handed the dagger to One-nine-six-eight. He covered the distance to his mark. A woman this time.

She closed her eyes again, unable to watch. If she watched, she would lose her nerve. But she couldn't plug her ears. The woman pleaded. Reaper's dagger slid across her neck. And then silence.

Tabby's eyes flew open. She knew what came next. Clora.

Trembling, she tightened every muscle, straining against herself, hoping it wouldn't show. One-nine-six-eight walked over and placed the dagger in Clora's hand.

Clora hesitated. "I..." Her voice squeaked.

"Do it," Tabby hissed, unable to stop herself. "You must." Speaking could get them killed. Behind her, their masters remained silent. Even Reaper, who stood in the shadows.

Clora nodded and stepped forward. As much as she wanted to look away, Tabby kept her eyes glued to Clora's advancing figure. Her slight shoulders were rounded inward, tense. For someone of her small stature, she could bring down a grown man in a fighting ring. Tabby had seen it in the Temple's practice room. But this? Clora couldn't do this.

Clora removed the sack from her mark's face. The woman had dark hair that hung in thick tresses; she couldn't have been older than twenty-five. Her round eyes were filled with tears. They leaked down her bruised and dirtied cheeks. Behind her gag, she was pleading, wailing. The language of begging was universal—it needed no words.

Do it, Tabby wanted to scream. Do it and get it over with. The longer Clora waited, the harder it would be. In their world, hesitation was as good as death. Clora glanced back with frightened eyes, as if Tabby could save her from this fate—save her from turning into a monster.

Clora wasn't a monster. She was never meant to be. Tabby had always known it, feared it. But seeing Clora's expression...every ounce of her reserve crumbled. Her chest fell inward, crushed. She could no more save Clora's soul than she could save her own.

As if in answer— "I can't, Master Reaper. I can't do it." In the silence that followed, Clora might as well've screamed those terrible words. The dagger clattered to the floor. "I can't," she repeated, shaking her head.

"One-nine-six-seven, pick up your weapon," came Reaper's command from the shadows. Clora flinched. She mechanically retrieved the dagger but returned to her place in line.

More tears slipped down Tabby's face as Clora handed it over. "I...I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just...can't."

"I know," her voice came out choked. She held Clora's gaze, lingering over Clora's fingers at the exchange of the dagger. "I love you," she whispered. "I will always love you."

She took the dagger then, clenching her fist around the hilt, already sticky with blood. But she didn't for one minute take her gaze from Clora's blue eyes. She tried to freeze Clora's face in her mind forever.

"One-nine-six-seven, is this your final decision?" Reaper materialized beside Clora. "You have chosen the life of a mark, someone who will die no matter what, over your own?"

"Yes." It was an anguished gasp.

"Very well, you foolish, foolish girl."

Before Tabby could move, Reaper acted. He produced another dagger, took hold of Clora by the hair and plunged it straight into her heart. The final expression on Clora's face seared itself into her mind.

"No!" she screamed, reaching out to stop Reaper, but it was already too late. She froze, arm outstretched, as Clora's body crumbled to the floor. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of Clora's mouth. "No..." Her cry was strangled.

"Back in line, Acolyte, and be silent!" Reaper sounded ferrel, rounding on her. "You're lucky I don't send you to the grave with her." There was a hesitation, and then, "As punishment for your outburst, you will kill One-nine-six-seven's mark as well as yours."

Her breathing staggered. Her vision darkened at the fringes. The world around her began to spin, to blacken. If she fainted, she would never wake up. So she breathed—the first thing Midnight had taught her—and waited for her sight to clear, then faced Reaper, keeping her voice steady as she said, "Have I any other choice in the matter?"

"What do you think?" His lips curled. "Two marks. Or you can join your friend here. And next time, don't make friends." It was a hard lesson that no thirteen-year-old should be forced to learn. She glanced down at Clora's body one last time before nodding. There was no other choice. It was kill, or be killed. She had known that from the start.

She blinked and the present room returned. If she looked now, she could almost see Clora's dead face on the floor beside her. It had happened in this very spot. This. Very. Spot. But now the room was empty except for Reaper, who stood before her in his full mask, familiar dagger in hand.

"Reliving memories?" he asked, a knowing smile in his voice. "I thought this was a fitting place to end your existence. Where I should have ended it all those years ago."

"Bastard!" she hissed, struggling. She was on her feet, her hands chained to the ceiling above her. Reaper had stripped her down. She wore nothing but her binding around her breasts, and the pair of pants she'd donned that morning.

Her belongings were gone, displayed in a neat array on a nearby table. Even her beloved black prism necklace had been removed, though she couldn't be sure Reaper knew it for what it was. He cocked his head to the side when he saw her looking.

"Tabby!" Nit's voice steadied her. Her mechanimal sent an image of the Temple's roof where they awaited her orders. She could feel the desperation in Nit, the desire to find her—to free her. But there was little Nit could do against the Spectrum, so she blocked them. She couldn't have them in her mind. Not for this. Never for this. She couldn't bear for them to witness it. Reaper would kill her. And he'd kill her in the very same room she should have died in twelve years ago with her beloved Clora.