Steam filled the room. White and thick.

  Damon Rudd stood by the cast-iron clawfoot tub in the center of the concrete floor. Twenty minutes ago, this had been a storage corner for Dee Dee’s junk—stacks of National Geographic, boxes of tangled cables, a broken printer. Dee Dee had cleared the space into an altar now.

  The air was thick, suffocating. It smelled of rust, damp concrete, and the metallic tang of tap water boiling on a stove.

  “More,” Leilani commanded.

  Ted scrambled down the stairs, oven mitts on his hands, carrying two massive stockpots. Steam billowed from them, milky white in the harsh overhead light.

  He dumped the water into the tub.

  Hiss.

  The sound was angry. The water swirled, scalding hot. Dee Dee dipped a candy thermometer into the depths.

  “Two hundred and ten degrees,” she whispered. Her glasses fogged. “It’s boiling, Mrs. Rivera. It’ll cook her.”

  “She’s already cold,” Leilani said.

  Leilani stood by the workbench. She had wrapped her broken wrist in silver duct tape—brutal, tight, functional. Her face was gray, drained of everything but a terrifying, singular purpose. She clutched a utility knife in her good hand.

  She surveyed the table where Frankie lay.

  A wool blanket covered Frankie, but she had the wrong shape. Too still. And the piece of oak table leg sticking up from her chest was jagged wood.

  “Damon,” Leilani said. “I need you.”

  Damon stepped forward. His legs turned to lead. As long as she was on the table, still and pale, she was just sleeping. If they moved her… if they put her in that water… it became real.

  “The wood,” Leilani said. “It has to come out.”

  Damon stared at the stake.

  “If we pull it out,” Damon croaked, “she’ll bleed.”

  “She needs to bleed,” Leilani said. “The book says the vessel must be open.”

  She gripped Frankie’s shoulders. Her hands were steady.

  “Do it, Damon.”

  Damon reached out. His hand shook so violently he almost missed the wood. He grabbed the rough oak. It was solid. Anchored in bone.

  Bile rose in his throat, tasting of acid and fear.

  “On three,” Leilani said. “One. Two. Three.”

  Damon pulled.

  He braced himself.

  Squelch-CRACK.

  It came free with a wet, sucking sound that Damon rattled the roots of his teeth.

  He stumbled back, dropping the wood. It clattered on the concrete floor, rolling away, the tip dark and wet.

  A thick, sluggish clot of dark blood welled up from the hole in the red slip. It didn’t flow. It just sat there.

  Damon turned away, gagging.

  “Don’t you fall apart,” Leilani snapped. “Not now. Pick her up.”

  Damon forced himself to turn back. He wiped his mouth.

  He slid his arms under Frankie—one under her knees, one under her shoulders. Her head lolled back against his biceps.

  She was heavy.

  “To the tub,” Leilani ordered.

  Damon walked the five steps. The heat hit him like a physical blow, humid and searing.

  “Put her in.”

  Damon lowered her.

  He flinched, bracing for a scream or a twitch that didn’t come.

  She didn’t flinch.

  She broke the surface. The water rose, dark and steaming. It soaked the red slip instantly. It swirled around her black hair, fanning it out like ink. She sank until only her face remained above the surface.

  The water turned pink as it washed the blood from her skin.

  Damon kept his hand under her neck, keeping her nose above the waterline.

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  “The Anchor,” Leilani said.

  She moved to the side of the tub.

  “That’s you, Damon.”

  Damon looked up. Leilani’s eyes burned with a wild ferocity.

  “Hold her,” Leilani said. “Hold her hand. And you cannot let go. No matter what happens. No matter how hot it gets. No matter what you see.”

  “I won’t let go,” Damon whispered.

  He reached his free hand into the water.

  Pain.

  It bit him instantly. A sharp, searing heat forcing his muscles to recoil. He grit his teeth and pushed deeper.

  His skin turned red instantly. Blisters formed within seconds, bubbling up like boiling milk. He screamed, a raw, ragged sound, but he didn’t pull back.

  He found Frankie’s hand at the bottom of the tub.

  He gripped it.

  It was freezing.

  Even submerged in boiling water, her skin was ice.

  “I’ve got her,” Damon gasped, tears streaming down his face from the agony. The smell of cooking meat—his meat—hit him. He retched.

  “Dee Dee,” Leilani commanded. “Read.”

  Dee Dee stood at the head of the tub. She held The Tome of Shadows open with trembling hands.

  “It begins with the Offering,” Dee Dee whispered. Her voice was thin, terrified. “Blood for blood. Life for life.”

  Leilani didn’t hesitate.

  She raised the utility knife. She placed the blade against the inside of her forearm, just below the elbow.

  She didn’t flinch. She pressed down.

  Damon flinched at the wet slide of skin parting.

  Leilani didn’t just cut; she carved. She dragged the blade down to her wrist.

  “Be careful!” Ted yelled from the stairs.

  Leilani held her arm over the tub. She swayed, her eyes rolling back slightly as the blood loss hit her. She gripped the porcelain rim to stay upright.

  Blood poured out. A dark curtain.

  It hit the water.

  HISS.

  It didn’t diffuse like normal blood. It curdled like spilled oil. The moment the red drops touched the boiling water, they turned black. Oily.

  The blackness spread. It swirled around Frankie’s body, coating her skin, sinking into the hole in her chest.

  “Read!” Leilani screamed. She swayed, her face turning the color of ash.

  Dee Dee chanted.

  “Urugal. Zi. Dingir. Gidim hul.”

  The language was ugly. It didn’t sound like words. It sounded like stones grinding together deep underground.

  As the words left Dee Dee’s mouth, the basement changed.

  The steam stopped rising. It hung in the air, freezing in place.

  The temperature in the room plummeted. Damon’s breath plumed in front of his face. The sweat on his forehead turned to ice.

  But the water in the tub boiled harder.

  Bubble. Bubble. ROAR.

  The surface churned violently, threatening to splash over the sides. The black liquid became tar.

  “Keep reading!” Leilani yelled. She gripped the edge of the tub with her good hand, her blood still pouring into the mix.

  “Nam-tar. Nam-erim. Zi an-na kan-pa!”

  The lightbulb overhead flickered.

  Buzz. Pop.

  It exploded. Glass rained down on the concrete.

  Total darkness.

  Except for the tub.

  The black water was glowing. A faint, sickly red light glowed from the water, illuminating Frankie’s pale face from below. She looked like stone sinking into a nightmare.

  Then, the shadows moved.

  Damon spotted them out of the corner of his eye. Anything did not cast them. They peeled themselves off the basement walls.

  Two-dimensional silhouettes. Elongated. Jagged.

  They stretched across the floor. They crawled up the sides of the clawfoot tub.

  One shadow lunged for Leilani, wrapping around her ankle. She screamed as it yanked her, her blood spraying across the floor.

  Another shadow rose behind Dee Dee, a hand made of darkness reaching for her mouth to stop the chant.

  “Don’t stop!” Damon roared. “Read!”

  “Zi ki-a kan-pa! BARRA! BARRA! TIAMAT!” Dee Dee screamed, dodging the shadow hand.

  Damon looked down at Frankie.

  He focused on her face. On the violet light dancing on her closed eyelids.

  “Frankie,” he whispered.

  The water burned his hand. The skin peeled away in sheets, exposing raw red flesh, but he squeezed harder.

  “Come back,” he begged. “Hawaii. Remember? We have a plan. The lanai. The pug. The waves.”

  Thump.

  Not a heartbeat. A jerk.

  Like a fish biting a line in deep water.

  “I felt her!” Damon shouted. “She’s there!”

  Leilani slumped. Her knees gave way. She slid down the side of the tub, leaving a smear of red on the white porcelain.

  “Take it,” Leilani whispered to the darkness. “Take it all.”

  The shadows lunged.

  They hit the water.

  Damon braced against a massive weight on his hand.

  It wasn’t gravity. It was suction. It was the void trying to drink her down.

  Frankie’s hand tried to slip out of his.

  “No!” Damon roared. He slammed his chest against the rim of the tub, bracing himself. “No you don’t!”

  He pulled back.

  The struggle tore at his shoulder socket.

  He endured a shockwave traveling up his arm. It wasn’t pain. It was… her.

  Visions: The ocean rushed in, a wave closing over his head into a hungry, freezing dark.

  She was drifting. She was unmoored.

  “Frankie!” Damon screamed. “Look at me!”

  He poured everything he had into the grip. His love. His fear. His future.

  Life for life.

  His heart stuttered. Life drained out of him, pouring into her frozen hand. His vision grayed.

  “Take mine!” Damon screamed. “Take mine, damn it!”

  The water roared. The violet light flared blindingly bright.

  And then—

  SNAP.

  The tension broke.

  Frankie’s hand clamped down on his.

  Her grip was iron. It crushed his fingers.

  Her eyes flew open.

  They weren’t green. They weren’t red.

  They were empty black. And then, a flash of solid, predatory gray. Pupils blown wide, encompassing the iris.

  Water displaced.

  BOOM.

  The world went white.