He rubbed the palm of his right hand.

Several fledglings rushed past him and he reached out and snagged one kid by the scruff of his plaid school jacket. "Hey, what's the rush and why aren't you in class?" Erik scowled fiercely at the kid, more because he was pissed that he sounded like one of those teachers, the get-back-to-class-young-man kind, than that he actually cared where the fledgling was going.

Annoying Erik even more, the kid cringed and looked like he was going to piss his pants.

"Somethin's going on. Some fight or somethin'."

"Go on." Erik let go of him with a little push and the kid scampered off.

Erik didn't even consider following him. He knew what he'd find. Zoey in the middle of a mess. She had plenty of people to help get her out of her mess. She wasn't his damn responsibility, just like ridding the whole damn world of Darkness wasn't his damn responsibility.

It was as he reached for the doorknob of his classroom that his right palm began to burn. Erik shook it. Then he stopped and stared.

The spiral labyrinth-like mark had become raised, like a fresh brand.

Then the compulsion hit him. Hard.

Erik gasped, turned, and started jogging toward the student parking lot and his red Mustang. As the urge increased to a level that was feverish, he couldn't stay quiet and thoughts burst from him in jagged pieces of sentences.

"Broken Arrow. Twenty-eight-oh-one South Juniper Avenue. Walking. In thirty-five minutes. Gotta get there. Gotta be there. Shaylin Ruede.

Shaylin Ruede. Shaylin Ruede. Go go go go go..."

Erik knew what was happening to him. He'd been prepared. The House of Night's last Tracker, who called himself Charon, had told him exactly what to expect. When it was time for him to Mark a fledgling his palm would burn; he would know a place, a time, and a name; he would have an uncontrollable compulsion to go there.

Erik had thought he'd been ready, but he hadn't realized the depth of the yearning that would come over him-the singular power of the focus that pounded through him in time with the pulse beat he felt hot and urgent in his palm.

Shaylin Ruede would be the first fledgling he would ever Mark.

It took him thirty minutes to get from midtown Tulsa to the little condo complex tucked within the quiet suburb of Broken Arrow. Erik pulled into a visitor's spot in the parking lot. His hands were shaking as he got out of his Mustang. The compulsion pulled him to the sidewalk that ran in front of the complex, paral ell to the street. The condo complex had soft white lights that looked like giant opaque fishbowls resting on wrought iron poles, so pools of cream ill umination were thrown on the sidewalk. Mature cedars and oaks lined the street side of the walkway. Erik glanced at his watch. It was 3:45 A.M. A weird time and place to Mark a kid. But Charon had told him the Tracker compulsion would never be wrong-that all he had to do was to follow it, to let his instincts lead him, and he'd be fine. Still, there was absolutely no one around and Erik was starting to panic when he heard a small tap-tap-tap-tap. In front of him a girl turned the corner from inside the complex and came into view. She moved slowly down the sidewalk, coming toward him. Each time she walked through the bubbles of light, Erik studied her. She was small -a petite girl with lots of dark brown hair.

So much hair, in fact, that he was actually distracted for a moment by how thick and shiny it was and he didn't notice anything else about her-until the tapping sound broke into his consciousness. She was holding a long white cane that she kept continually sweeping in front of her, tap-tap-tapping, so that it was by sound and touch that she navigated her way. Every few feet she stopped and gave a terrible, wet cough.

Erik knew two things at once. First, this was Shaylin Ruede, the teenager he was meant to Mark. Second, she was blind.

He would have stopped himself if he could have, but no mortal power and, according to Charon, no magickal power, either, could take Erik from this kid until after he'd Marked her. When the girl was just a few feet in front of him he raised his hand, palm out, and pointed at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

"Hi? Who is it? Who is there?"

"Erik Night," he blurted. Then he shook his head and cleared his throat. "No, that's not right."

"You're not Erik Night?"

"Yes. I mean no. Wait, that's not right, either. This isn't what I'm supposed to be saying." His hands were shaking and he felt like he was going to be sick.

"Are you okay? You don't sound so good." She coughed. "Do you have the same flu I have? I've felt awful all day."

"No, I'm fine. It's just that I have to say something else to you, and it's not supposed to be my name or anything like that. Oh, man. I'm really messing this up. I never screw up lines. This is all wrong."