“The shape of his eyes,” Sawyer confirmed. “Longer.”

“He starts to wear dark glasses, all the time. Even in sleep. And every night he goes to her, and she puts more of this into him. She puts blood in wine, little by little, until she’s putting wine in the blood. He drinks. He drinks,” she repeated as she turned the page. “She rules him now. Some of the blood is hers, so she rules him now. My pet.”

Sawyer saw Bran come out, put his finger to his lips.

“He’s her creature, not fully changed, but hers. Through him she’ll have what she wants, what belongs to her. Perhaps she’ll keep him when it’s done. My pet. Until he no longer amuses her.”

Gently, Bran laid a hand on her shoulder. She breathed in, breathed out.

“Here he meets with the men. The torturer, the soldier, the assassin. He meets with others who will do what he says for the money he pays. He’s no longer bored, but he feels different. His mind gets clouded. He gets so angry. He kills a prostitute and gloats. His nails. Clip, clip, clip, every night, every morning. Is he losing his hair? But he’s so strong. And she’s promised him more, more strength, more power. Life eternal. She’s his god now.

“Now at the villa—he’ll have a palace soon, but this will do. But his skin, it feels so tight on his bones, and the light sears his eyes. See his eyes.”

“Changed,” Riley said, glancing over as Doyle joined them. “Reptilian.”

“He can see in the dark. He craves the dark. Together, they’ll extinguish the light. All the men, working, guarding. Helicopters bring in what’s needed, but he goes at night, only at night, and he runs. He’s so fast, fast as a snake. But she rarely comes to him now, not enough. He craves her like the dark.

“She’ll come now. Two enemies captured. She’ll come now, give him what he wants. What he needs.”

She turned the page to the sketch of the cave, of Sawyer bloodied and battered, hanging from chains. Of Annika trapped in the tank.

“He wants the compass, its power. He nearly had it once, and won’t be denied a second time. The traveler must pay for denying him, for defying him. She wants the stars, his queen. With the compass, he’ll have what they both desire. Kill them both, kill them all, but first, take what’s his. Find what’s hers. Oh, their pain thrills. Give them more.

“The light! The light! It burns beyond bearing. The heat scorches. He screams for her, but she doesn’t come.”

“Jesus Christ.” Despite everything, when she turned to the next sketch, Sawyer stared at it with horrified pity. “That’s Malmon?”

“He’s still between, but more beast than man. Trapped in the dark, the pain—the burning—terrible.”

“Mephisto demon. Lower demon,” Riley continued. “Often enslaved to a ruler demon or dark god. A shunner of light. Mythologically speaking.”

“There’s an actual name for this?”

“There’s a name for everything,” she told Sawyer, “if you dig deep enough.”

“She comes to him.” Again, Sasha turned a page. “He weeps bloody tears. She could destroy him, such is her rage. And there’s a madness in her, as in him. But she’s still canny, and he’ll be useful. She makes him beg, grovel, supplicate himself, but she gives him back his sight, and she takes him to her palace inside the mountain, to a chamber already prepared. It didn’t matter if he’d failed or succeeded, this was always his fate. The mother of lies promised riches, power, eternal youth. Instead he’ll live as she wills, as long as she wills, and have only what she wills.”

She turned the page. There birds pecked at flaps of blackened skin while mirrored walls of stone showed the horror Malmon had become. He sat hunched in a corner, wearing a mad grin.

“They say there are some things you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. Malmon’s definitely high on the enemy list.” Riley blew out a long breath. “But no, I wouldn’t wish this, even on him.”

“She denied him a clean death, and that’s a cruelty. But—” On a pause, Doyle studied the final sketch, coolly. “This is his true self, isn’t it? This is what he always was inside. She just brought it out, made it visible.”

“Yes. Yes,” Sasha repeated before anyone else could speak. “She recognized the monster inside him. Now he’ll become.” She picked up her glass, took a long drink. “And she’ll rule him. He’s mad—she’s driven him into madness and delusion, but he’s stronger, faster, and more vicious. He’s more dangerous now than before.”

She reached for Bran’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“You didn’t have your quiet day of painting.”

“No. But the day’s not over. His life is. All the wealth, the privilege, he traded it for her lies. No, not on even the worst of enemies, but he gave himself to her because the monster already inside him craved more.”

She took another drink, took another breath. “How do we kill him?”

“Demon disposal.” Riley took one last look at the sketch. “Beheading, mythologically speaking again, is tried and true. Otherwise, for some it’s fire, others water or salt or the right incantation. I can look into it. I’m pretty sure he’s on his way to the merphisto, but I’ll find out what I can.”