He stands on a balcony before a lake of liquid fire, entranced by the roiling lava, the lashes of flame. The stone pillars of this once grand Manor hall glow red. The ceiling is ash-stained, crumbling. A lavafall flows from an upstairs gallery. There is a weakened gateway to an Otherworld up there. A world of fire.
The lava has surrounded his lair, creeping down corridors, burning through doors, but he doesn’t mind. There are volcanos in his home world, too. The dying, desert world he left behind. The lava reminds him of the sacrifices he has made. The flames remind him of her. Besides, the lava cannot harm him. Nothing can.
He made sure of that long ago.
The balcony is covered in a rough patchwork of rusted metal. So are the walls and floor behind him. Protection for the stone: not from the lava, but from his bitter, tainted breath. It ripples from the porcelain lips of his half-mask. A slow, rolling growl. His eyes burn with reflected fire.
Where is the third key going?
The question has plagued him since the incident on the train. He was so close—the child was almost his—but thanks to the traitor Hickory and the girl with the knife, she got away.
Not for long. Soon, he will have all the answers he needs.
Two Leatherheads march onto the balcony behind him, dragging a beaten man between them. His brown eyes are bloodshot, weeping tears. Some call him John Doe—others, Charlie Grayson—but Roth knows the man’s favorite name is Dad. The Leatherheads release him, stand to attention, and salute.
“Another chat so soon?” John coughs and wheezes. “You’re getting desperate, old man.”
The Leatherheads click-clack their throats and snarl into their gas masks, level their rifles at John’s head.
Roth takes another deep, death-rattle breath.
“You know, you might want to consider a nice mint tea now and then,” John says. “Get that breath under control.” He coughs again. Spits at Roth’s feet. “Go on, then. Do your worst.”
Roth would smile if he could. I always do.
He grabs John by the neck, lifts him to his feet, and peers into his pitiful eyes, just like he did on the train. And just like on the train, John’s feet start to jitter. He can’t breathe. He is choking.
Roth is reading him, invading his mind.
He wants to know everything. The location of the Cradle. Where John’s beloved Elsa might have taken the second key. The third key’s strengths, fears, and weaknesses: every little thing that makes the girl tick. He can feel John fighting back, scattering his thoughts, but Roth will uncover the truth soon enough.
Everybody breaks eventually.
A fresh trail of blood seeps from John’s nose. A red tear rolls down his cheek. Roth cannot push too far if he wants to keep the man alive, so he severs the connection and steps back. John collapses, but no matter. Roth has discovered something new.
The child doesn’t know.
“You’re right,” John wheezes. “I didn’t tell her she’s the third key. I couldn’t. But she’ll find out sooner or later, and when she does she’ll become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.” He grins. “You can’t win, Roth. You won’t. Jane’s brave. Smart. She has friends and a head start. With any luck, she’s stepping into the Cradle right now.”
This time, there’s no warning. Roth pins John to the steel-plated floor and forces his way into his mind again, growling into his mask.
I will find the girl. She cannot run forever.