I pulled back from the demon plane, and ordinary night settled around me again. I waited for my eyes to readjust to the dark. I put on a headlamp but left it unlit. Pryce probably wasn’t here. Butterfly had spoken of the screams of trapped demons, and it was so quiet in the woods that, if I did have the right place, the cauldron must still be cloaked. Tomorrow was the first night of the full moon, but Pryce might deliver another load of demons to the cauldron tonight. If he was here, I didn’t want to give myself away with a light. Of course, depending on how Pryce entered the park, he might see the Jag, which might as well be a neon sign flashing Vicky’s here! Vicky’s here! But there wasn’t much I could do about that.

I hoisted my duffel bag over my shoulder and set off down the road toward a trail I’d explored in the afternoon. It was drizzling a little, and the air felt clammy on my face. Tendrils of fog, ghostly in the dark, rose from the damp ground. I paused and removed a black, waterproof jacket from my duffel bag. I put it on, pulling up the hood. Juliet might be bored, I thought, but at least she was warm and dry. Sighing, I continued along the road.

The trail I wanted didn’t descend into the chasm but skirted it widely, meandering through the woods in a big, lopsided loop around the gorge. I found the path and followed it for a while, until I judged I was getting close to the Devil’s Coffin. At that point, I turned north and cut through the woods. The rain had dampened the ground, and I moved quietly over the soft earth. There was mud, but it didn’t suck at my boots like the stuff on the gorge’s floor. After a few minutes I could see the chasm ahead. I prowled along its edge until I spotted the Devil’s Coffin below me, in the opposite wall.

Crouching, I watched. Fog rose along the bottom of the gorge, but not enough to obscure my view. Rain dripped from branches. A night bird cried. There was no sign of Pryce. No sign of the cauldron in the human or the demon plane.

The night wasn’t over yet, of course. Near the chasm’s edge, I chose a bush that would provide some cover. No leaves—the buds had barely begun to swell—but the branches grew thickly enough that someone scanning the rim from below would be unlikely to see me. Lying on my stomach right at the edge, though, I’d have a good view of the Devil’s Coffin.

I checked the weapons I already wore—knives in thigh and ankle sheaths, a pistol in a shoulder holster, another at my hip. All set. Good to be prepared, but I didn’t expect to use any of those weapons here. I unzipped my duffel bag and took out a case. In it was tonight’s real weapon: a sniper rifle. If things went according to plan, it was all I’d need. One bullet, one carefully aimed shot, and I’d be rid of Pryce forever.

Earlier, I’d hesitated before packing it. Without his shadow demon, Pryce was technically human, and that meant I was planning a murder. Was it right to set up an ambush and take him out the moment he walked into my sights? I considered the evil Pryce had done. He’d tried to kill Gwen when she was just a teenager. He’d set loose a demonic spirit to feed upon Deadtown’s zombies. He’d almost taken down an airplane full of innocent people in one of his many attempts to kill me. Not three months ago, he’d injured Mab in the heart. I flashed back to my aunt lying on the ground, struggling to breathe, her lifeblood pumping over my hands as I tried to hold the wound shut.

And Pryce was barely getting started. The devastation I’d seen in that vision was his goal. He’d do everything he could to make it real.

Hell, yeah, it was right to kill him. Or if not, it was a wrong I could live with.

I took the sniper rifle from its case. I connected the barrel and housing, then attached the infrared night-vision scope. I folded down the barrel’s biped mount. Lying on the muddy ground, propped up on my elbows, I squinted through the sight and located the Devil’s Coffin. If Pryce stood in the middle of the coffin stone, on the spot where the InDetect had picked up that residual demon presence, I’d have a clean shot.

One bullet, one carefully aimed shot.

I settled in to wait, clearing my mind of everything except my focus on the Devil’s Coffin.

WHEN DAWN BROUGHT ENOUGH LIGHT INTO THE WOODS that I could see my hand in front of my face, I sat up. I was stiff as a slab of concrete, every muscle sore. My eyes ached from staring at the same spot for hour after hour. Pryce hadn’t set foot in the woods. I, on the other hand, felt like I was as much a part of Purgatory Chasm as its granite boulders.

I stood and stretched. I whirled my arms in big circles and twisted left and right, limbering up my spine. I jogged in place for a minute, my breath steaming the air, to warm my frozen limbs. As I disassembled the rifle and returned it to its case, all I wanted was a hot shower and a warm bed. And coffee. A mug of hot coffee would be the gateway to paradise right now.

Somehow my stiff legs kept trudging forward, one step at a time, until I made it back to the Jag. If anyone had been around to watch me from a distance, my lurching gait would have them calling 911 to send the zombie removal squad. The car was covered with condensation in the cold morning air. I dumped my duffel bag on the floor of the passenger’s side, climbed in, and swiped the windshield wipers back and forth a couple of times. Then I cranked up the heat and hit the road.

But not for very long. A couple of miles up Route 146 was a motel. Two single-story wings of maybe a dozen rooms each stretched out on either side of a central office. Why drive all the way to Boston just to turn around and come back out here tonight? I pulled into the parking lot. Only three cars were in the front lot; one other sat out back. Plenty of vacancies, obviously. I’d stay here, rest up, and be back in place in my sniper spot before moonrise.

In fact, since the motel was so close to the park, I could leave the Jag here, parked out of sight, and hike in. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about Pryce spotting my car.

It sounded like a plan.

I removed all my sheaths and holsters and put the weapons away in their bag. A quick check in the mirror showed a smudge of dirt on my cheek; I licked two fingers and rubbed it off. I got out of the car and took off my muddy rain jacket, laying it on top of the duffel bag. Some mud streaked my jeans, but I was more or less presentable. I locked up the Jag and went into the office.

The clerk started to argue with me about checking in early, but since the motel wasn’t exactly overflowing with guests he grudgingly gave me a room. I paid cash and showed him a forged, out-of-state license—one that didn’t shout PARANORMAL in big red letters. It’s a felony for paranormals to misrepresent themselves as human, but lots of us who can pass carry phony IDs. Mine was made by the best forger in Deadtown. Anyway, I was here to kill Pryce, and murder was a felony, too.

I snagged a foam cup of lukewarm, bitter coffee from the lobby, then retrieved my duffel bag from the Jag and lugged it into my room. The room wasn’t anything special: a queen-sized bed with a pink-and-blue flowered coverlet, a dresser with a circa-1990 television on top, a couple of beat-up chairs, and a crookedly hung print of a spring garden. Good enough, though, for what I needed.

I got out a dagger and placed it under the pillow, then stashed my duffel bag under the bed. I pulled the window’s heavy drapes closed. Deciding to skip the shower for now, I stripped down to my underwear and climbed into bed. Despite the coffee, I was asleep within moments. No guilty thoughts, no tormenting dreams. Just the rest I’d need to get up and try again.

WHEN I AWOKE AT A LITTLE PAST TWO IN THE AFTERNOON, the first thing I thought of was Kane. He was in Princeton by now, had been there for a couple of hours. The law requires werewolves to check into their retreats by noon on the first day of the full moon, so he would have set out from Boston by ten thirty or eleven this morning to get there on time.

I wondered what he was doing right now.

He’d described the retreat center to me. A pack is a family unit, and each pack has its own cottage. Some packs are big enough to need a small complex of several buildings. Lone wolves, like Kane, stay in a dormitory. From what he’d said, his room there was a lot like the motel room I was in now, minus the tacky décor: a bed, a few furnishings, a window, a private bath. His room had a desk so he could work while he was in human form during the day. He was probably sitting there now, shuffling papers and typing on his laptop, until it was time to get ready for the change.

And where was Simone? She was still part of her family’s pack, Kane had told me, working her way up the hierarchy among siblings and cousins. That meant she’d stay in their family compound. Better than down the hall from him in the dorm, I guessed, but still too close. Especially when I was on this side of the silver-plated razor wire that surrounded the retreat.

Damn. I wanted to be there. The realization surprised me. For a long time, I’d believed that going on retreat with Kane would take something away from me, would force me to be something I wasn’t. Then, when Simone started making her move, I’d rushed forward in a blind panic and insisted on going. What a mess I’d made. Kane must think I was playing some stupid game. But the truth was, if I could be anywhere right now, I’d want to be with him.

Well, why not? This motel was only about twenty-five miles from the retreat center—a short drive into Worcester and then a straight shot up I-190 to Princeton. I could shower, dress, hop in the Jag, and be there in less than an hour. That would give me plenty of time to talk my way in, find Kane, and be at his side when the moon’s influence hit.

I could picture it now: me tapping on Kane’s door and cracking it open. Him looking up and turning in his chair. His expression changing from annoyance to a huge grin when he saw it was me.

Or not.

I could just as easily picture his expression going from annoyed to angry. I couldn’t assume he’d be pleased to see me there. I’d jerked him around enough to cause a serious case of whiplash. He had a right to be angry.

The image faded. There’d be no retreat for me this weekend.

Besides, I had a job to do.

During my long nap, I’d reported to Mab via dream phone. Not much to report. The cauldron, if it was there, was well cloaked. No sign of Pryce. When I told her I’d set up a sniper rifle, ready to kill him the moment he appeared, she nodded once and said, “Good.”