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hal way. More maps were taped to the wal s there.
    “You smel somethin’, Boo?” Linkubus senses were sharp, too. He inhaled deeply—pipe tobacco.
    Link fol owed the combination of licorice and oak until he reached the end of the hal way, where a door was cracked just wide enough to let a slice of moonlight escape. There were voices—no, one voice—fol owed by a low moan.
    A new smel flooded Link’s heightened senses—
    something more familiar. Copper and salt. Blood.
    He zeroed in on the thin space between the door and the frame. There was someone in the room, cradling an old man in his arms. Blood seeped onto the floor.
    Link would’ve known that leather jacket and slick black hair anywhere. It was Hunting Ravenwood. And the Blood Incubus wasn’t supporting the wounded man. He was feeding.
    “Hunting!” Link shouted before he could stop himself. He wasn’t sure what he was planning to do, but he was going to do something. Link burst through the door, brandishing his shears just as Hunting flashed him a bloody, satisfied smile.
    “You’re a little late, kid.” He dropped the limp body. “I’d kil you, too, but you don’t matter.”
    Link heard the sound of the rip. Hunting was gone before Link could make it across the room.
    The old man—a good twenty years older than The old man—a good twenty years older than Macon, judging by his white beard—was lying in the center of the room, where Hunting had dropped him.
    The moon shone through the window, casting a pale and eerie light on his features. His white shirt was streaked with blood.
    Boo barked, and the man stirred, tilting his head to the side. His eyes were gold. Obidias was a Dark Caster.
    Link slid to his knees at the injured man’s side and realized why Boo was barking. Obidias’ hand was lying across his chest, but it wasn’t a hand at al .
    When Link got close, the heads of five black snakes the length of human fingers hissed and struck the air.
    The snakes were attached to the old man’s wrist, where his hand should’ve been.
    “Holy crap!” Link jumped back.
    “Don’t worry,” the man said, his voice strained.
    “They only like to hurt me.”
    Link pul ed himself together. He could deal with a few snakes. But this guy was in bad shape. “Mr.
    Trueblood? What happened?”
    The man coughed. “Abraham Ravenwood sent me a visitor.”
    Link’s skin crawled at the sound of Abraham’s name. “But why? You’re a Dark—I mean, you’re one of them.”
    Obidias coughed, trying to catch his breath. “I am not one of them.”
    “I don’t understand—”
    “There’s no time to explain. Macon needs to know what Abraham was trying to confirm…” Obidias could barely breathe. He wasn’t going to make it.
    Link took off his black AC/DC sweatshirt and pushed it under the old man’s head.
    With his good hand, Obidias grabbed Link’s arm and pul ed him closer. “I know what’s coming—the consequences. The Order is broken.” Obidias closed his eyes and opened them again slowly. He was talking about the Order of Things, broken on the night of Lena’s Seventeenth Moon.
    “What’s gonna happen, sir?” Whatever it was, maybe they could stop it if they knew what they were up against.
    “The apocalypse. The end of the Mortal world as we know it—” Obidias was fading.
    “What do you mean by apocalypse? Like in the Bible?” Was there another kind? Link didn’t even know.
    Obidias’ eyes were glassy. “Unimaginable plagues wil rain down on the Mortal world until there is nothing left, and the Casters wil be powerless to stop the destruction.”
    “What should we do?”
    “There are some things too broken to be fixed,” he said, struggling to breathe. “Some that are inevitable. Tel Macon I’m sorry. For a lot of things…”
    The old man’s head rol ed to the side, his eyes stil and unfocused. The snakes stopped hissing and fel against his chest.
    He was dead.
    Link grabbed his shoulders and shook him gently.
    “Mr.