PART ONE
THE HINGES OF DESTINY
Changing is what people do when they have no options left.
—HOLLY BLACK, RED GLOVE
1
BENNY IMURA SAT IN THE dark and spoke with monsters.
It was like that every day.
It had become the pattern of his life. Shadows and blood. And monsters.
Everywhere.
Monsters.
2
THE THING CROUCHED IN THE darkness.
It stank of raw meat and decay. A metal collar was bolted around its neck and a steel chain lay coiled on the bottom of the cage, looking like the discarded skin of some great snake.
The thing raised its head and glared through the bars. Greasy black hair hung in filthy strings, half hiding the gray face. The skin looked diseased, dead. But the eyes . . .
The eyes.
They watched with a malevolent intensity that spoke of a dreadful awareness. Pale hands gripped the bars with such force that the knuckles were white with tension. The thing’s teeth were caked with pieces of meat.
Benny Imura sat crossed-legged on the floor.
Sick to his stomach.
Sick at heart.
Sick in the depths of his soul.
Benny leaned forward. His voice was thick and soft when he spoke.
“Can you hear me?”
The creature’s lips curled.
“Yes, you can hear me,” said Benny. “Good . . . can you understand me? Do you know who I am?”
A fat drop of bloody spit oozed from between the creature’s teeth, rolled over its bottom lip, hung for a moment, and then dropped with a faint plash to the floor.