Every mobile in Blue’s body burned a warning at her.

Then Noah duplicated and singled.

Blue wasn’t sure how else to put it. There was a Noah, then another right beside him, facing the other way, and then the single Noah again. She could not decide if it was an error in Noah, or an error in how she was seeing Noah.

“We should all be afraid,” Noah said, his voice thin through the buzzing. “When you play with time —”

He was suddenly close to them, eye to eye, standing, or at least just his face was, and in a blink, he was a few feet away again. He’d pulled some of his Noah-ness – his boy-guise – over himself again. He had his hands on his knees like a runner, and every time he panted out, the hum reluctantly escaped him.

Blue’s and Gansey’s breath hung in a cloud before them, shimmering, like they were the dead ones. Noah was pulling energy from them. A lot of energy.

“Blue, go,” Noah said. His voice was strained, but he’d controlled the hideous humming. “Gansey … go. It won’t be me!” He slid to the right and then back again; it was not the way matter was meant to behave. A lopsided smile snuck across his mouth, utterly at odds with his knitted eyebrows, and vanished. There was a challenge in his face, and then there wasn’t.

“We’re not leaving,” Blue said. But she did begin to throw all of her protection up around herself. She could not keep whatever had Noah from drawing on both Gansey and Calla, but she could cut off her own considerable battery.

“Please,” Noah hissed. “Unmaker, unmaker.”

“Noah,” Gansey said, “you’re stronger than this.”

Noah’s face went black. From skull to ink in the opposite of a heartbeat. Only the teeth glowed. He gasped or laughed. “YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE.”

“Get out of him!” Blue snarled.

Gansey shuddered badly with the cold. “Noah, you can do this.”

Noah lifted his hands in front of him, the palms and fingers facing each other like a clawsome dance. They were Noah’s hands, and then they were scribbly lines.

“Nothing is impossible,” Noah said, his voice flat and deep. The darting sketch lines took the place of his hands again, corrupt and useless. Blue could see inside his chest cavity, and there was nothing there but black. “Nothing is impossible. I’m coming for him. I’m coming for him. I’m coming for him.”

The only thing that kept Blue planted, the only thing that kept her so close to this creature, was the knowledge that she was witnessing a crime. This wasn’t Noah being unintentionally terrifying. This was something in Noah, through Noah, without permission.

The buzzing voice kept going. “I’m coming for him – Blue! – I’m coming for him – Please! Go! – I’m coming for him —”

“I won’t leave you,” Blue said. “I’m not afraid.”

Noah let out a wild laugh, a goblin’s delight. In a high, sideways voice, he thrilled, “You will be!”

And then he threw himself at her.

Blue caught a glimpse of Gansey snatching for him just as Noah’s claws dug into her face.

The reading room went as light as it had been dark. Pain and brilliance, cold and heat —

He was digging out her eye.

She wailed, “Noah!”

Everything was squiggling lines.

She threw her hands to her face, but nothing changed. She felt hooked on to claws, his fingers dug in her flesh. Her left eye saw only white; her right eye saw only black. Her fingers felt slick; her cheek felt hot.

Light was exploding from Noah like a flare off the sun.

Suddenly, hands gripped her shoulders, wrenching her away from him. She was surrounded by warmth and mint. Gansey held her so tightly that she could feel him trembling against her. The hum was everywhere. She could feel it in her burning face as Gansey twisted to put himself between her and the buzzing fury that was Noah.

“Oh, Jesus. Blue, I need your energy,” Gansey told her, right into her ear, and she heard fear laced through his words. “Now.”

Pain exploded with every beat of her heart, but she let him take her slick fingers.

Gansey gripped her hand. She took down all the walls around her energy.

Crisp and certain and loud, he told the thing: “Be. Noah.”

The room went silent.

It was 6:21.

A little less than six hundred miles down the ley line, a million tiny lights winked across the dark, cold ripples of the Charles River. The toothful November air found its way in the balcony door of Colin Greenmantle’s Back Bay town house. He had not left the door open, but it was open nonetheless. Just a crack.

In they crawled.

Colin Greenmantle himself was on the ground floor of the townhome, in the golden-brown, windowless room he had reserved for his collection. The cases themselves were beautiful, glass and iron, mesh and gold, suitably outlandish displays for suitably outlandish objects. The floor beneath the cases was made of oak reclaimed from an old farmhouse in Pennsylvania; the Greenmantles always preferred to possess things that used to be someone else’s. It was impossible to tell how large the room really was, because the only lights were the spotlights that illuminated each unusual artefact. The bulbs glowed through the blackness in each direction like ships in a night sea.

Greenmantle stood in front of an old mirror. The edge was all carved in acanthus leaves and swans feasting upon other swans, and a brass-rimmed clock was embedded in the topmost frame. The clock face read 6:21 P.M. Supposedly, the mirror itself beaded tears on viewers’ reflections if they’d had a recent death in the family. His reflection was dry-eyed, but he felt he looked pitiful, anyway. In one hand he held a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon whose label promised notes of cherry and graphite. In the other hand he held a pair of earrings he had obtained for his wife, Piper. He was wearing a beautifully cut jacket and a pair of boxers. He was not expecting company.

They came anyway, picking their way across the crown moulding of the second-floor library, crawling over each other’s bodies.

Greenmantle took a swig of the wine directly from the bottle – when he’d selected it from the kitchen, he had thought it would look more aesthetically pathetic and desperate than carrying a solitary glass, and it did. He wished there was someone here to see just how aesthetically pathetic and desperate he looked.

“Notes of black powder and abandonment,” he told his reflection. He took another swallow; this mouthful he choked on. A little too much black powder and abandonment at once.