“Guess what, bitch.” I lunge for the Gray Woman. “I lied.”

Yes, the Sinsar Dubh whispers.

And everything goes dark.

I claw my way back to consciousness, gasping for breath. I’m on my knees, in a gutter—no real surprise there—I’m intimately acquainted with Dublin’s gutters, having puked in more than a few of them.

I hurt everywhere. I’ve wrenched my lower back, my arms burn, my knees are bruised, and I’m drenched.

I peer up, wondering if it’s raining again. It does that a lot here.

Nope, sun is still out, well, sort of. It’s kissing the horizon beyond the—I frown. What just happened? Where am I? Not in the Dark Zone anymore, I’m halfway across the city.

A soft chuckle rolls in my head. Land of the Free, MacKayla. Home of the Brave, Beautiful, and Homicidal. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that, the Sinsar Dubh says silkily.

Something splatters on my head, drips down my face.

I touch my cheek and pull my hand away to look at it. It’s covered with green goo.

And red blood.

My fingernails are stained. There’s stuff beneath them I refuse to examine.

Not looking up, not looking up.

Keep acting like this, Princess, and I’ll kill you myself. Don’t think I can’t.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, the Book says in a singsong voice and pastes an image of me, holding a gun to my own head, kneeling on the floor in Barrons Books & Baubles, on the inside of my lids. Just kidding. Never let you do it. I got you, babe, it twangs in a cheesy, over-the-top Sonny and Cher impersonation.

Grimacing, I open my eyes and peer warily up.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Impaled on the streetlamp beneath which I crouch, the Gray Woman has been tortured, flayed, and dismembered.

And left alive.

Bits of her wriggle in agony. Suckers open and close convulsively and she’s somehow still making noise: moans and whimpers of horrendous pain.

I drop my head, and nearly vomit into the gutter.

Onto a human hand. Torn off at the wrist.

He got in the way.

“No,” I whisper. I recognize the tatter of uniform attached to the wrist. It’s one of Inspector Jayne’s Guardians. I would never kill a human. Never harm an innocent. I may not like Jayne’s methods—he took Dani’s sword from her and would cheerfully relieve me of my spear if he thought he could—but he and his men perform a dangerous and much needed job for this city.

You did. And loved every minute of it. You are every bit as much a beast as you accuse me of being.

I shake my head violently, as if I might manage to expel the Book from my skull.

I’m in control, the Sinsar Dubh mocks in falsetto. I make the decisions. Lovely MacKayla, when will you learn? You’re the car. I’m the driver. But I can only drive you because deep down you want to be driven.

I shiver, chilled to my soul. I do not.

I watched the Book “drive” other cars. I count myself lucky there are only two dismembered human hands in the street with me. I crouch on my hands and knees, head hanging down, eyes closed, trembling from the exertion of the awful things I just did and from self-loathing. Part of me wants to lie down right here and quit. I was so sure of myself, so certain I was in control.

And so unforgivably wrong.

There are only two ways an enemy can defeat you, Ms. Lane, Barrons said to me the other night, more lessons at the bookstore like old times. You die. Or you quit trying. Then you die. Is that what you want? To die?

I want to live. I have so much to live for.

I’m sure the man I killed did, too. My chest is hot and tight, my muscles locked down. I can’t get a breath. I crouch in the gutter, trying to suck air, heaving soundlessly.

Get up, Mac, I can almost hear him growl. Get the fuck up.

The man orders me around even when he’s not present. I hang my head and try willing my rigid muscles to relax. It doesn’t work. I’m growing dizzy from lack of oxygen. Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe! I’m starting to panic.

Sometimes if you get too focused on a goal, Ms. Lane, you make an unwanted element of it sticky.

Not getting it, I’d said.

Fear of the power you believe someone or something has over you is nothing but a jail cell you choose to walk into. By obsessing over freeing yourself from the Book, you become more certainly its prisoner.

I force myself to do the counterintuitive, the opposite of what I want: exhale instead of inhale.

Air screeches back into my lungs so fast I choke. I crouch in the gutter, sputtering, panting.