PREVIEW

... ater. Not in blood.

In visions.

The men in white coats had reached for me again—gloved hands, the smell of antiseptic and ammonia choking me. My adopted father was calling me sweetly, the way he used to when he wanted to do something horrible. Then Justin appeared.

Only it wasn’t him anymore. His face peeled, stretched, turned—mutated. His eyes were obsidian pits, and from his mouth spilled laughter that didn’t belong to him. That laughter belonged to the gods of nightmar ...

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