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“You can drop me off here,” I tell the driver, and I wrap the hood of my coat over my head.

He shrugs and says in his strong Northeastern accent, “You sure? There’s nothing out here.”

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” he says and idles the car, waiting for me to leave.

I pause for a moment before exiting, resting my hand on the door handle. “Have you lived here long?”

He shrugs and peers at me through the rearview mirror. “Long enough. Why are you asking?”

I open the door. “I think you know why.”

He turns and faces me as I have one foot out. “If you’re concerned about dying, ma’am, then why are you asking to be left in the middle of nowhere where that football player got hacked up?”

I shudder despite myself. Good point.

I don’t respond as I leave the car, shutting the door and he peels out. I’m met with a frosty fall wind, so I wrap my arms around myself, wondering if I am indeed walking to my death.

I walk through the tall grass, and around the dead trees toward the abandoned Fresh Mart. Suffocating silence presses in on me.

I take the small path using my cellphone for light and shuffle toward where I think the warehouse is. My footsteps crunch on the fall foliage. A hint of something is burning nearby. Smoke. Definitely smoke. But it’s sweet, like the candles Lincoln burns in his bedroom. My chest tightens as the scent lingers.

I approach the warehouse, and its darkness and eerie silence pull me in. I snicker to myself, no longer caring how crazy I must look.

This is the epitome of cliché, which is why Mikael drew me here, so he can chase me into darkness. But I refuse to run, especially from him.

My footfalls barely make any noise as I creep to the warehouse door. My last memory of this place was different. The number of people in this building was suffocating. However, now in the vast emptiness of the room, I can hardly breathe.

I’ve never been so fucking scared.

The door opens easily enough, and more inky darkness greets me. I nearly trip, and as I find my footing, and something catches my eye on the ground beneath me.

A burlap mask.

Those dark, dead holes for eyes staring up at me from the floor.

I lean down and pick it up, pinching the fabric between my fingers before I pull it over my face. A flicker of excitement shoots through me.

Okay, Shadowface. I’ll play.

I can’t explain why the mask gives me power. Like somehow it evens the playing field between us. Like perhaps, in some way, it will protect me.

It is, after all, my birthright and not his.

I slow my breathing as I creep to the center of the room, trying to be as quiet as possible.

He’s here, watching me. His malevolent presence tickles all my senses.

“Mikael,” I say in a hushed whisper, as if there could be anyone else waiting for me on the other side of this darkness. “Are you here?”

Deathly silence greets me, as if he’s creating a black hole in this room, sucking anything that’s good and holy out of it.

A whimper sounds from the corner, and I turn toward the small flickering lights.

Lincoln’s scented candles—at least ten of them—surround a body on the ground.

Misty’s tied up in the corner. Her hands are bound behind her back, her pretty face smashed to the ground, but otherwise, she looks untouched.