“Logan!” Riley lurched forward—too late. The instant Logan’s hand closed around the stock of the shotgun, the ghost flickered and reformed with Logan’s features superimposed on Balch’s phantom face. In Logan’s place, a young man in a PSU hoodie appeared and collapsed on the ground, curling into a fetal ball, and shielding his head with both arms. Danford let out a stifled sob.

Balch—no, Logan—moved toward the knot of townsfolk by the wagon’s tailgate. By his stuttered pace, it was obvious he was fighting what the story demanded of him, but equally obvious that he couldn’t stop the inevitable. Riley raced forward, passing him, hearing a faint protest as if Logan was calling to him from down a deep well.

He whirled and stood in front of Logan. “You can stop this, Logan, remember? Force of will. Belief. That’s what it takes.”

A hand like a steel band gripped Riley’s wrist, and he looked away from Logan to meet the cold eyes of Cuthbert Stump.

“Vengeance is the most forceful will of all,” Cuthbert crowed and yanked Riley into the thicket of ghosts. Cold jolted him each time he touched one. He resisted, tried to pull away, but Cuthbert’s strength easily overcame his own.

They stopped next to the ghost of a young man loading a sack of flour into a wagon.

Riley faced Cuthbert with a bravado that was totally fake. “I’m not afraid of you. If I don’t want to join the battle, then there’s nothing you can do.”

“Doesn’t matter what you want. I want it enough for both of us. ’Sides, you belong here. Smelled it on you the first time I saw you. Blood of my blood, blood of his. This here’s your place. Easy for you to slip in. All it takes is a little shove.”

Riley tugged against that steely grip, to no avail. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you worry.” Cuthbert’s breath gusted over Riley’s face, cold as January and stinking of the grave. “I’m right behind you.”

He shoved.

Riley’s nerves buzzed, his skin tingled, then went numb, as if he’d passed through a shower of static and ice. Suddenly, the scene wasn’t ghostly at all. It was real. Solid. Forest Park had faded to a pale overlay and instead he was in a frontier street, rutted and muddy, a bag of flour just leaving his hands to land on a stack of other supplies.

Damn it. I’m in the ghost war? How? Who . . .?

He glanced around wildly. If he squinted hard, he could still see the clearing, the Witch’s Castle looming against the hillside. Where he had stood, a young man in pioneer garb kneeled in the mud, bewildered alarm on his face.

In the next instant, the young man was joined by another man, older, dressed in a dark bulky sweater and rough work pants, who staggered several steps before crumpling to the ground.

A yank on his elbow forced Riley around. Cuthbert’s angular face sneered from under a flat-brimmed hat. A young girl, maybe in her mid-teens, cowered next to Riley, her eyes fixed on a spot over his shoulder.

Holy shit. She must be Anna Balch. And if she was Anna, that made him . . .

As if something had taken control of his body, Riley was forced to turn in the direction of Anna’s terrified gaze and saw Logan-as-Balch advancing toward him, an all-too-real shotgun tucked under his arm.

God. That young man in the park must be Mortimer Stump, reanimated within twenty feet of the man who killed him.

Which meant Riley had taken his place and was sixteen paces from having his face blown away by Danford Balch.

Only Danford wasn’t Danford. He was Logan and Riley was about to be murdered by his own lover.

Not just tonight, but forever.

Beyond Logan, Riley could still make out the shadowy form of the real Danford Balch in his tattered coat, watching with a combination of fear and shame. Logan’s face was twisted with his effort to stop, but Riley knew it wouldn’t help. Logan had taken the role willingly and he couldn’t escape.

Cuthbert’s laugh rang out in the street. “I know you can hear me, Balch. Don’t you recognize him?” Cuthbert gripped Riley-Mortimer’s shoulder in a viselike grip. “He fits right here. Blood of my blood.” The grip tightened further, and Riley whimpered. “Too bad it’s tainted by the blood of your whore daughter.”

In the shadowy park, Balch’s horrified gaze flicked from Anna to Riley.

“She whelped, your bitch of a daughter. Didn’t you know? While you cowered in the woods, she birthed a son. When we sold her off to Eli Morrel out in Hillsboro, she took the brat with her. Changed his name.” He shook Riley’s shoulder again. “He’s the last of the line. The line that mixes your filthy blood with mine. And tonight . . .” His fingers closed like a vise on Riley’s shoulder. “That line ends.”

Balch’s scream was audible through a century and a half of time. Baring his teeth in a grimace, he staggered forward, hands outstretched and fingers curled into claws.

But Riley’s attention shifted back to Logan-Danford, who raised the shotgun, his eyes his own, tortured behind the mask of the role he’d taken on. Riley strained to move, but between the bounds of his own role and Cuthbert’s grip on his shoulder, he couldn’t duck or dodge. He could do nothing but face Logan and wait for the end.

“I’m sorry,” Logan mouthed, even as his finger tightened on the trigger.

Riley nodded. “I know,” he whispered. “It’s all right. I love you.” He closed his eyes.

The shotgun blast ripped the air, deafening Riley, but he felt nothing. The accounts said Mortimer died instantly. Is this what they meant? No pain? Riley’s hand crept to his chest, and he opened his eyes.

Balch—with no overlay of Logan’s features—stood at the end of the wagon, townsfolk converging on him from all sides, his shotgun smoking in the chill air. Beyond him, behind the curtain of time, Logan crouched, a discarded bundle of matted fur and stained nylon on the ground in front of him.

Balch gestured at a spot near Riley’s feet with the barrel of his gun. Riley looked down. Cuthbert Stump lay moaning in the mud, his chest an open wound.

“I told them it was an accident, Stump,” Balch said, as the crowd hemmed him in and a burly man in a blacksmith’s apron yanked the shotgun out of his hands. “I was aiming for you.”

Cuthbert took one last gurgling breath, and in a flash brighter than a carbon arc spotlight, the entire tableau disappeared.