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familiar voice, for one. I stare at the mirror, willing my expression to travel through the thick glass the way my vision can’t, and all of a sudden the surface almost seems to turn transparent. At first I think it’s my imagination, but then something clicks and the lights on our side dim, and I know it’s not my tired body playing tricks on me; I can actually see through.
    A man in a dark suit is standing at what appears to be a long counter. His hands are planted on the surface, and he’s leaning forward in a manner so menacing it can’t possibly be accidental.
    I would have recognized him in an instant, even without his signature shades.
    Sunglasses Guy. The guy who followed me for two weeks in Portsmouth. Who shot at me, and terrified me, and dragged Benson away on that terrible night.
    And just over his shoulders, painted on a gray wall so obvious I can’t miss it, is a black symbol, at least four feet high. An ankh, with one side of the loop curled up like a shepherd’s crook.
    The symbol of the Reduciata.

FOUR
    I mean, I guess I knew. But seeing those two things in a juxtaposed tableau like that—utter proof that I’m in the jaws of the enemy—makes me understand how helpless my situation truly is. I’m certain of one thing though: when I leave this place it will either be through my own powers—and not a small amount of luck—or I’ll be dead.
    Three other faces join Sunglasses Guy, and they study me the way I would a strange bug or mold in the fridge. Like I’m inferior, something there only because they allow it to be.
    Which, admittedly, might be true.
    The anger inside me changes to a simmering rage as they observe me with amusement, as if I’m some kind of joke. I’m already planning an—admittedly childish—revenge when a beep starts to sound.
    “That’s the sign that your heart rate is rising,” a woman says, leaning down to speak into a small mounted microphone. “If you don’t want us to sedate you again, you’re going to have to calm down.”
    I take three seconds to hate them with every fiber of my being before I close my eyes and count to ten, taking long, deep breaths as I do. After about a minute the beeping stops.
    I haven’t given up. I’ve just reached a dead end in this maze, and the first step to finding another route is to pretend to abandon the search entirely.
    I raise my eyes; the woman is sitting in front of the microphone with a pen in hand.
    “Your name?” she asks.
    What am I supposed to say? I know they know who I am. I consider giving a fake name anyway. Maybe they’re not 100 percent sure.
    “Don’t kid yourself,” the woman says. The smile that curls across her face makes vicious butterflies take flight in my stomach. “We already know the answers to all the questions we’re going to ask. We’re just testing you. Seeing if you’re going to be honest with us.” An interested gleam flashes in the woman’s eyes. “And I hope you’ll play nice.” I’m not sure how, but she manages to be even more terrifying than Sunglasses Guy. “Name?” she repeats, leaning forward.
    “Tavia,” I finally say. I guess I have nothing to lose. If I answer, maybe they’ll give me some degree of freedom. If I don’t . . . well, the rest of my life might not be very long one way or another. It’s probably worth the risk. “Michaels,” I add, just to prove I really am trying.
    “Sum Terrobligatus; declarare fidem.”
    My eyes widen, and I stare at her. Those are the same words I shouted at Elizabeth two weeks ago—has it really been two weeks since I demanded answers from my former therapist? It feels like forever.
    But this woman isn’t screaming; she isn’t out of control the way I was. She’s calm; her voice is soft. Sinister.
    And I know what the words mean this time.
Sum Terrobligatus
: I am an Earthbound. Simple concept; you give information before you demand it back.
Declarare fidem
: Declare your loyalty, Reduciata or Curatoria.
    I remain