“Naga cannot be summoned using these runes,” said Dad. “Honestly, I’m not sure what can be summoned using these runes, only that I’d rather you not meet it face-to-face, and especially not without backup.”

“Already told you, I have backup,” I said. “I just need you to find out whatever you can about these runes, and pass it along, so my backup and I have a better chance of staying alive.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “The two people who were eliminated tonight, they weren’t the first, were they?”

“See, you say that, but I know you’ve been watching the show,” I said. “I know because your mice have been sending Facebook messages to my mice. They really like the caps lock key. Someone should teach them about proper email etiquette.”

“Thanks for volunteering,” he said, before he sobered and asked, “The other people who have been eliminated . . . are they all right? Has anyone talked to them?”

I didn’t drop the phone. I may as well have. My mouth going slack, I stared off into the distance, considering the terrible implications of his words. Because we hadn’t heard from them, had we? Danny—he’d been eliminated in week three. He was a ballroom boy. We should have swarmed him with hugs, covered him with kisses, and sent him infinite supportive messages on social media. That was part of how this worked. You made a fuss over the outgoing contestants to remind America that you were still there, still alive and kicking. And we hadn’t done it.

Why not? Where the hell were they?

“Verity? Are you still there?” Dad’s voice turned sharp. “If you’re in distress, breathe in sharply twice. We’ll find a way to get help to you.”

“I’m fine, Daddy,” I said. The last thing I wanted was for my father to start mobilizing the troops. He’d start with Dominic—that was fine—but there was no telling where he would go from there. “I was just thinking about what you said. I wasn’t close to any of the people who’ve been eliminated. My season is intact. But it’s still weird that I haven’t spoken to any of them. I’ll look into it.”

“See to it that you do,” said Dad, and sighed. “You know, Verity, when you told us that ballroom dance was your life’s true passion, I thought it meant you would be safer than your brother. Basements full of bodies sort of go against that.”

“I am safer than my brother,” I protested. “I haven’t been bitten by a werewolf or turned to stone. Compared to Alex, I’m little Susie Safety.”

He chuckled ruefully. “I wish that weren’t reassuring. All right: your mother and I will stay here. But I’m sending backup, and you’re going to accept it, or I’m coming down there and carrying you home.”

“What kind of back—” I began.

It was too late. He had already hung up.

I dropped my phone on the carpet and began hitting my head against the couch. It was soothing. I was still hitting my head against the couch when Pax emerged from the kitchen again. He walked across the room to loom over me, a concerned expression on his face.

“It didn’t go well?” he asked.

I stopped hitting my head against the couch. “Dad says the runes are intended to summon a snake god, although he doesn’t know which one, and that they’re really old, which means they have a better chance of working. So he’s sending me backup, because apparently what I already have here is not sufficient. He also says we should be checking up on everyone else who’s been eliminated, because that’s the sort of thought that helps me sleep at night.”

“I see.” Pax sat down on the couch, still looking down at me. “What’s a snake god?”

I blinked. “Okay, that was something I hadn’t considered. Um. So most major human and cryptid religions have snakes in them somewhere. There’s the whole Garden of Eden shtick, the Rainbow Serpent, Medusa, all that fun stuff. And maybe that’s because of monomyths and things like that—ask my mother if you ever want to have your ear talked off—and maybe it’s because all religions are a little bit right, but it’s at least partially because there are a really disturbing number of dimensions filled with nothing but snakes.”

“Snakes,” said Pax slowly.

“Yup, snakes. You know how dimensions work, right?”

He looked at me blankly.

“You . . . don’t know how dimensions work?”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” he said, sitting up straighter. “I bet you don’t know how the benthic zones of the sea function, but I understand them intimately.”