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“I know the rules, Rhys.”

“I need to hear you say them.”

“And I need you to trust me.”

“I do.”

The answer comes easily. Dante nods. A shadow falls across the doorway. Callum stands outside wearing the Scarecrow mask. He has been dressed for an hour.

“You’re early,” I tell him.

“She arrived.”

Dante straightens. I feel the change inside myself. Anticipation becoming purpose. Callum disappears without another word. I retrieve my skull mask from the table. Sloane’s application rests beneath it. I’ve read every page enough times to remember the shape of her handwriting.

One answer remains with me. I want to feel hunted, but I also want to feel chosen. She doesn’t want cruelty. She wants certainty. A man strong enough to control her without forgetting that the control remains hers. I can give her that. I fit the mask over my face.

The Reaper looks back from the small mirror above the table. White skull. Black eyes. No expression to reassure her. No smile to reveal what I’m thinking. Dante fastens his Devil mask.

“Which ribbon are you taking?”

“Black.”

“I know what color you picked. I mean first, second, or last?”

“First.”

He laughs.

“Callum won’t like that.”

“Callum agreed to the order.”

“Callum agreed to share. That doesn’t mean he understands the concept.”

I put on my gloves.

“If he forgets, I’ll remind him.”

The first bell tolls. Sloane has crossed the gate. Dante moves toward the carnival section. Callum waits somewhere near the center of the maze. I take the northern path leading toward the equipment shed. Sloane asked to feel hunted. Before the Devil tempts her and the Scarecrow tries to keep her, I will teach her the difference between being powerless and choosing to surrender.

Prologue Three

THE DEVIL

Dante

Rhys thinks fear should be controlled. Callum thinks it should be silent. They’re both wrong. Fear should be fun. It should arrive wearing a wicked grin, slide a hand beneath your dress, and whisper something filthy enough to make you forget you’re supposed to be running. That’s why I built the carnival.

The public section of Blackwood Farm has smiling jack-o’-lanterns, actors wearing cheap masks, and enough fake blood to traumatize every white sneaker in the county.

My private section is different. A rusted Ferris wheel. Broken games. A carousel playing music backward. And one small booth surrounded by red lights.

The Devil’s Peep Show

Subtlety is Rhys’s problem. I’m testing the mirror when Callum appears behind me. He doesn’t make a sound. He simply materializes in the reflection wearing burlap and murder.

“For fuck sake.”