She hit the gas.

“Please, please . . .”

“Our father who art in . . .”

“What do you want . . .”

“Get off me . . .”

“Burn in Hell . . .”

“I haven’t done anything wrong . . .”

“Let me go . . .”

“Please . . .”

Humans, thought Sloan. Always talking.

There were eight of them, kneeling on the warehouse floor, men and women with bruised faces and hands bound behind their backs. They were filthy, half-starved, dressed in an assortment of suits and dresses and casual attire, as though they’d been snatched right off the street or out of their homes, which, of course, they had.

Late afternoon light streamed through cracks in the windows and doors, but there was work to be done. Besides, thought Sloan, letting a hand pass into a beam of light, it was important to remind the humans that while the sun may weaken him, a weak Malchai was still more dangerous than a strong human.

The sun turned his skin translucent and his bones dark, and for an instant, the prisoners stilled and stared, as if hoping he might burst into flame. They were quickly disappointed.

When he did not burn, did not so much as wince, the whining started up again.

“Please . . .”

“Don’t hurt me . . .”

“We haven’t done—”

Sloan let his hand slip back into shadow. “Be quiet.”

Behind the kneeling forms stood four more humans, unbound save for the metal collars circling their throats. The Fangs met Sloan’s gaze, hungry for approval, while those on their knees shivered in fear.

He rapped a nail thoughtfully against his teeth. “This is all of them?”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the Fangs, quick as a dog. “Engineers from the fridges, just like you asked.”

Sloan nodded, turning his attention to the quivering shapes on the concrete floor.

“The brightest minds . . . ,” he mused. A man began to sob. Sloan brought the tip of his boot to the man’s knee. “You. What did you do before?”

When the man didn’t answer, a Fang kicked him in the side. One of the other prisoners let out a short, terrified sound that only made Sloan hungry.

“S-software,” stammered the man. “Opendrive, internal access . . .”

Sloan clicked his tongue and moved on. “What about you? Come now, don’t be shy.”

“E-electrical,” answered the second.

“Plumbing,” said the third.

One by one they shared their expertise. Technical. Biological. Mechanics. Computers.

Sloan paced, his agitation growing.

And then the final captive answered, “Civil.”

Sloan slowed, coming to a stop before her. “What does that mean?”

She hesitated. “I . . . worked on buildings, construction, demolition . . .” Sloan’s mouth drew into a smile. He brought a sharpened nail to her chin.

“You,” he said. “And you,” he added to the one who knew mechanics. “And you,” he said, to the electrician. “Congratulations. You’ve all found new employment.”

The Fangs hauled the three engineers to their feet, and Sloan turned his attention to the rest of the captives, who clearly didn’t know whether to be distraught or relieved.

“The rest of you,” he said with a sweep of his hand, “are free to go.”

They looked at him, wide-eyed. He pointed at the warehouse door, fifty feet away. “Go on. Before I change my mind.”

That was enough to jog them loose. All five scrambled to their feet, hands still bound before them. Sloan rolled his head on his shoulders and watched them rise, stumble, run, racing for the door.

Three of them made it.

But then Sloan was moving, letting that simple, animal self take over as he slipped between shadows. He caught the fourth by her throat and snapped it cleanly before spinning to grab the fifth, catching the man just as his fingers skimmed the warehouse door.

So close, thought Sloan, sinking his fangs deep into the man’s throat. Somewhere, someone screamed, but for a beautiful moment, Sloan’s world was nothing but a dying heartbeat and a wave of red.

He let the body fall with a thud to the concrete.

“Changed my mind,” he said, drawing a square from his pocket and wiping his mouth.

The surviving engineers were sobbing into their hands or holding their heads. Even the Fangs had the good sense to go pale.

“Clean this place up,” he ordered the Fangs, turning away, “and bring my new pets to the tower. And if anything happens to them in your care, I will pull the teeth from your skulls and make you swallow them.”

He threw open the doors and stepped outside.

The Crossroads was a massive center, part shopping mall, part truck stop, part cafeteria, a palace of polished white linoleum. It was the first place you hit on your way into Prosperity, and the last place on your way out, and Kate hadn’t been there since the day she left Verity.

She found a pair of sunglasses in the car’s center console and put them on, hiding the silver crack as she went inside. She bypassed the food halls for a line of vending machines, and caught her reflection in a dispenser’s steel surface, her face distorted by the warp of the metal. She looked away and punched in the code for a cup of coffee.