It's Saturday morning, and Dad's been fixated on his phone since breakfast, scrolling with the kind of intense concentration usually reserved for his work projects or particularly challenging crossword puzzles.

  "Mannequins," he mutters, shaking his head. "Why mannequins?"

  "What about mannequins?" I ask through a mouthful of cereal. Every news channel has been running non-stop coverage of the dead bloodhound and Shrike's message, but I haven't heard anything about mannequins.

  Dad turns his phone toward me, showing a local news article. "Three fabric stores and a department store in South Philly were broken into last night. Nothing taken except mannequins." He pulls the phone back, scrolling further. "Seventeen total, all female figures. Police are calling it 'unusual but not high priority' given everything else happening."

  "That's... weird," I manage, a cold feeling settling in my stomach. Seventeen female mannequins stolen the night after Shrike left his bloodhound message? That can't be a coincidence. Right?

  "The crimes in this city just keep getting stranger," Dad sighs, setting his phone down. "When I was a kid, people robbed stores for money or merchandise, not display fixtures."

  Mom appears in the kitchen doorway, already dressed in weekend casual – jeans and a light sweater, hair pulled back in a ponytail that makes her look younger than she is. "Police update?" she asks Dad.

  "Nothing new about the bird killer - just strange robberies now," he replies.

  I wait until they're both looking elsewhere before discreetly checking my phone under the table. The Auditors chat has been blowing up all morning:

  Tasha: No new bird kills reported overnight. Think he's done with that phase?

  Lily: Lucy says Titans did extra patrols all night. Nothing.

  Maggie: DVDs are getting involved now. Too high profile to ignore.

  I glance up to make sure my parents aren't watching, then type quickly:

  Me: Missing mannequins. 17 female ones stolen last night from fabric stores in South Philly. Has to be him.

  The responses come immediately:

  Tasha: Are you sure? If he's going by foot that's a lot of travel between South Philly and North.

  Me: Call it a hunch.

  Tasha: A hunch isn't a lead. I'll look into it but we can't guarantee anything.

  Amelia: Oh hey I get some of my supplies from some of these stores.

  Amelia: ...The mannequins, really?

  Amelia: Why would someone steal a bunch of mannequins?

  Lily: I feel like this guy has a few screws loose maybe. If it is him?

  Maggie: Ya think?

  I slip my phone back in my pocket as Mom sits down at the table with her coffee. "How did you sleep?" she asks, studying my face with that look that means she already knows the answer.

  "Fine," I lie. The truth is I barely slept at all, my mind racing with uncomfortably vivid imagery. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that bloodhound hanging from the streetlight, the bells around its neck jingling in the wind.

  "Sam," Mom says, her voice gentle but firm. "We're going to get through this. The police are taking it seriously, the DVDs are involved, and even the NSRA is sending agents."

  "Great, so everyone except me is doing something about it," I mutter.

  "We understand your frustration," Dad begins, which is parent-speak for 'we're not changing our minds.' "But this is exactly why we have the restrictions in place. This Shrike person is specifically targeting you."

  "Not me," I correct. "Bloodhound. He doesn't know who I am." At least, I hope he doesn't.

  "Even so," Mom says, "the safest place for you right now is here, with us."

  I want to argue, but what's the point? They're not wrong about the danger. Shrike is dangerous. He spent fifteen years in Daedalus for a reason. But sitting here doing nothing while he's out there planning his next move makes me want to scream. I feel like my blood is itching.

  "I'm going upstairs," I announce, carrying my bowl to the sink. "Homework."

  In my room, I immediately open my laptop and start a video call with the team. Over the next couple of minutes, Tasha, Lily, and Maggie filter in through the chat interface, while Amelia lets us know she's out trying to see if any of the fabric stores have footage they're willing to turn over to her-as-Gossamer. I guess being a super-tailor gives you a good working relationship with fabric stores?

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  "We need a plan," I say without preamble. "Shrike is setting up something big with those mannequins. Something public that will force Bloodhound to respond."

  "The problem is we don't know where or when," Tasha says, her fingers flying over keyboard keys we can't see. "I'm scanning police frequencies and chatrooms for anything unusual, but nothing yet."

  "What about Jordan?" Lily asks. "They're really good at digging things up, right?"

  "Hold on," I say, sending Jordan a quick message. A minute later, their face pops up in another window of our call, hair messy and eyes bloodshot behind their glasses.

  "I've been digging all morning about Shrike mostly from personal curiosity after your message last night," they report, "but most of the detailed stuff about Shrike never made it online. Just basic case summaries and conviction records."

  "What we need," I say, thinking aloud, "is someone who can be out there looking for Shrike's next... art piece? While I'm stuck here."

  There's a moment of silence as everyone contemplates this.

  Lily's face brightens. "What about one of the Titans? Lucy might--"

  "No," I interrupt, an idea forming. "I think I know someone who could help. Derek. He can track by scent almost as well as I can with my blood sense. And he owes me for my Dad getting shot helping me trying to unfuck the Elias situation."

  Tasha looks skeptical. "But if Shrike is looking specifically for Bloodhound, what does Derek have to do with it?"

  I grin, already three steps ahead of her. "What if Derek wasn't himself? What if he was Bloodhound?"

  Everyone stares at me through their screens.

  "You mean... like, pretend to be you?" Jordan asks.

  "He still has that spare costume from the Sparkplug operation, right?" I continue, the plan forming as I speak. "We're about the same height now. In the mask and hood, with the right body language, he could pass for me from a distance."

  "That's..." Tasha starts, then stops, her expression thoughtful. "Actually not the worst idea."

  "Shrike wants Bloodhound," I explain, warming to the concept. "We give him what he wants - just not the version he's expecting. Derek draws him out, we get a location on him, and then the DVDs can move in. Afternoon operation so we don't get werewolf Derek. He poses as me for a few hours, max. Just long enough to get Shrike's attention."

  "And you're going to coordinate from home arrest?" Maggie asks, raising an eyebrow.

  "Tasha, I'm going to need access to your drone system," I say, ignoring the implied criticism. "The same setup you use for overwatch. I can monitor everything from here, guide Derek through an earpiece. I mean, if he still has our earpiece."

  Tasha nods. "I can set that up. But how do we get Shrike to show himself in the first place? He's been pretty careful about staying hidden so far."

  "We challenge him," I say decisively. "Jordan, how fast can you get a message out on every superhero forum, HIRC channel, and social platform? Something that looks like it's coming from Bloodhound?"

  They're already typing. "I can have it done within the hour. I've been busy playing with botnets while you guys are busy, uh, getting harassed by the amazing birdman."

  "Perfect." I lean closer to the screen. "And now we need to get Derek on board."

  After three attempts, he finally picks up, his voice rough with sleep or irritation or both. Probably just the latter, actually. He rises early.

  "What?" he growls.

  "It's Sam. I need your help with something."

  There's a long pause. "It's Saturday. Before noon. This better be good."

  "It's about Shrike. The guy who's been killing birds and leaving them all over Northeast Philly."

  "The psycho who hung up a dog? I didn't know we had a name. What about him?" Derek sounds marginally more alert now.

  I explain the situation as concisely as possible - Shrike's fixation on Bloodhound, the stolen mannequins, our plan to draw him out with Derek posing as me.

  "Let me get this straight," Derek says when I finish. "You want me to dress up as you and parade around hoping to attract the attention of a psychopath who's been impaling animals across the city?"

  "That's... basically it, yeah."

  "Absolutely not." His tone is flat, final.

  "Derek, please. He's going to keep escalating. Next time it might not be animals."

  "Not my problem," he insists. "I've got enough to deal with already."

  I take a deep breath. "You still have the Bloodhound costume from the Sparkplug mission, right?"

  "Yeah, so?"

  "My Dad got shot protecting me from Rush Order, which only happened because I was chasing down Elias for you. So I think you owe me one," I point out.

  This time the silence stretches so long I think he might have hung up.

  "Fuck! Fine. Four hours," he finally says. "I'll give you four hours, starting at noon. That gives me time to get clear before sunset. Text me the details and I'll be there."

  "Deal," I say, reaching out to shake a nonexistent hand that nobody else can see.

  "And then we're square. Don't bring up the Elias shit again. I don't like thinking about how he's fucking around with Rogue Wave," he points out.

  "Sure," I reply coolly.

  Click. Not even a bye?

  I sit back, a mixture of relief and anxiety churning in my stomach. It's a plan –- not a great one, maybe, but better than sitting here doing nothing.

  I spend the next hour coordinating with the team. Jordan crafts a message that will appear to come from Bloodhound - direct, challenging, with just enough insider details to convince Shrike it's authentic:

  "To the coward killing birds: I see you. Stop hurting animals and face me directly. Bloodhound."

  It's not Shakespeare, but it doesn't need to be. It just needs to get Shrike's attention.

  By 11:30, I have three camera feeds set up on my laptop, with Derek's position tracked by GPS on his phone. Tasha sent me over the program she uses to control drones - all the leftovers, passed down from Kate's time as Miss Mayfly, I think a little wistfully - and then spent half an hour teaching me wtf I was looking at.

  "Testing, testing," Derek's voice comes through my headphones. "This thing working?"

  "Loud and clear," I confirm. "Eyes in the sky. How's the costume fit?"

  "Tight in the shoulders, loose in the... other places," he mutters. "This is ridiculous."

  "Just remember to keep your movements fluid," I instruct. "Bloodhound moves differently than you do. More... I don't know, bouncy. Anyone ever tell you to get boxing lessons? You throw a stiff-ass punch."

  "I am not bouncing," he says flatly. "I draw the line at bouncing. Fuck you, also."

  I roll my eyes, even though he can't see me. "Fine, no bouncing. But try to look confident, like you own the space."

  "I know how to move," he says, irritation clear in his voice. "I've been doing this longer than you've been alive."

  "You've been a werewolf longer than I've been alive," I correct. "Being a superhero is a more recent development."

  He makes a noise that might be a laugh or a growl. "Fair point. I'm en route to that supermarket he strung up a dog at. Taxi says fifteen minutes"

  "Perfect. I've got eyes on you from above," I say, watching his dot move on the map. My drones aren't following him - they're already in place at the scene of the crime.

  I glance at the time: 11:56 AM. In four minutes, our challenge to Shrike goes live, and the clock starts ticking on our four-hour window to find him before Derek has to leave. My palms are sweaty, my heart racing with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

  "Here we go," I mutter to myself as the clock hits noon and Jordan's message blasts across every platform simultaneously. Somewhere in Philadelphia, Shrike is watching. Waiting. Planning his response to our challenge.

  Let the games begin.