THE PROBLEM WITH BEING GIVEN THE KEY IS NOT knowing which door it goes to—or, in this case, what I’m walking into besides the trenches. From the frying pan and into the fire, except I’m trying to coax the fire into reminding me how it was kindled. The Crusader, Ismae—why would the Praedari wish to awaken Ismae the Bloody? How do they intend to? What does Zeke have to do with all of this? I’m not sure what I’m looking for or what I might find, but I know that if I use the key card someone somewhere might be alerted to my entry, so I stash it in my pocket as a last resort. Going black-ops seems the best bet for now. Besides, I came without the cavalry, so to speak.

The property seems almost surrounded by the rolling peaks, as though they stand sentinel—guarding what is within, perhaps, or protecting the world from what is within. The air smells of freshly-dug earth and sweet spices, like clove and cinnamon.

Come on, remember! A basement window that’s easy to pry open or a forgotten cellar door, something . . . I slink around the ranch house, illuminated from within in a welcoming way and somehow familiar, in the way that a dark shape at night reminds you of a person hulking in your doorway until you remember the robe hanging on the back of the door—that sense of immediacy gone, replaced with frustration. Every owl’s hoo, every rustling leaf, every twig cracking under my own foot giving me pause.

My movement triggers a flood light. I hold my breath, but nothing happens. No one comes. I count: one, two, three, four . . . thirty. Click and the lights snuff themselves out.

I press myself flatter against the building, crouching as I make my way inefficiently around its perimeter. It’s not long before that familiarity gives way to the unfamiliar—surely the house wasn’t this massive, this industrial all those years ago? Patches of soil betray where the grass has yet to come in. At the rear, oversized silos and sheds seem to be dropped haphazardly, flanking the large complex. New construction, but not so new that debris clutters the property—no, this has been meticulously cared for, its purpose hidden away from prying eyes while the estate itself remains nearly pristine, out in the open to be discovered or overlooked. Perhaps the previous owner—this Victor person?—sold it to one of those commercial agritourism companies that offers visitors a taste of local rural life for a hefty price tag.

Or maybe this hints at what the Praedari have been up to, what’s kept them off our radar until recently: hiding something awful out in the open. I shudder, wondering what I might find inside—missiles? Nuclear weapons? Biological weapons? What could be so monstrous within that it warrants such sanctity in presentation?

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring when my gaze drops to a boot planted near my left hand, then up to scan the muscular, husky form to whom it’s attached: a living embodiment of the Beast within, were the Beast as beautiful as it is monstrous. Red, wavy hair worn loose, short beard of the same hue, amber eyes reflecting the moonlight in that way all nocturnal creatures’ eyes reflect the ambient light, and fangs. Shirtless, I notice elaborate scarification, as if from ritual, adorning his chest and upper arms. Some symbols I recognize as Futhark, the Runic alphabet, though I know not what they mean.

He is not alone. They could be brother and sister, this man and the tall woman beside him who boasts leaner muscle than her companion and no visible, intentional scarification. Still, my eyes trace a jagged scar from her right ear down across her throat to her clavicle—possibly lower, were it not obscured from my vision by a bloodstained tank top. Whatever could leave a scar like that in immortality she could have just as easily not walked away from. She wears the same red hair as the man, done up in a series of braids and knots away from her face, loose and messy. On each a bicep strains against a similarly etched, thick, silver-colored band. They wear the same expression, though she does not show fang. She doesn’t need to—her predator within snarls so close to the surface I wonder if she isn’t mostly Beast. And yet, somehow I missed both of them; my predator within, until now vigilant, has somehow been subdued by the grace and ferocity exuded by these two.

“What have we here?” the woman asks rhetorically, nudging me with her boot. “A pretty little Keeper to play with?”

“Why, I believe so, Sister,” the man says, stepping closer and grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking me upward. I growl. “What might she be good for?”

“She is pretty,” the woman confirms, cupping my jaw in her hand and examining my now-emerged fangs as one might examine a horse at competition. “Good mortal breeding, too. Strong bone structure. Whatever vampire stock she’s from is purer than most. What are you?”

I snarl and try to turn my head. When I find I cannot, I spit, the foam landing just below her right eye. She cups my jaw more tightly. “I oughtta pry these fangs right from your pretty little mouth, you—” she hisses.

“Mina, we should probably bring her to the boss. That’s protocol with intruders,” the man interrupts.

The woman snarls at her brother, shoving me back into him. He doesn’t let go of my hair, catching me as if I weigh nothing.

“Throw her to the wolves.”

“Mina—you can’t be serious . . . ”

“I said throw her to the wolves,” the woman called Mina says again, slowly, deliberately.

I struggle against the man as he drags me towards one of the silos, Mina not more than a pace behind. As a generator whirs to life, I swear, for just a moment, I hear howling in the distance.