The call finally came. Winter’s bodyguards scattered to the front and back of his path as he walked down the hall, adjusting his earpiece and the small mic curving around to his mouth. Already he could feel the electric pulse of his fans in the arena fueling the fire within him, bringing forward the strength he didn’t think he had even an hour ago. His steps turned more confident, and the young, unsure version of himself—the one that had sat on the pier all those years ago, laughing with Artie—retreated behind the carefully crafted version that the rest of the world saw: the curve of a seductive smile, a trained narrowing of his dark eyes, the swagger of his walk, the lines of his body moving with hypnotic grace.

  The music swelled in the arena, the bass of the beat so strong that it shook the floors. The screams of fans rose and fell. Winter ducked under the latticework beneath the stage, moving silently until he reached his designated spot. There, he bent into a crouch as workers hurriedly strapped him into a series of harnesses. He followed their instructions obediently, moving his limbs as they asked and checking his devices to ensure they were working. Every step the same as it’d always been for years. He worked mechanically, unthinking.

  At last, his team cleared away, leaving him alone. He bowed his head, bracing himself.

  The beat announcing his cue came.

  The platform he crouched on rose, vaulting him up onto the main stage.

  The audience exploded with cheers. The harnesses around Winter’s arms and legs suddenly pulled up, and Winter launched high into the air in a spin. As the beat dropped, the harnesses dropped with it. He landed lightly on his feet in front of his backup dancers, who had materialized on the main stage behind an enormous, neon-lit sculpture of his rabbit logo.

  The crowd shrieked their enthusiasm. Winter closed his eyes and breathed deeply, soaking in the tide of love that enveloped him. This was what he really craved, the only time he ever felt a true, fiery connection to the world, and it was never satiated.

  He raised a hand to the sky.

  “Are you ready?” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  The world roared back at him. He tilted his head up, his figure ghostly in the midst of the stage’s smoke and fog, and hurtled into his first routine.

  * * *

  As always, everything afterward felt like a blur.

  A dozen people swarmed around him the instant he stepped back down beneath the stage. He smiled numbly as hands patted his shoulder in congratulations and he thanked the crewmen unhooking the harnesses from his body. The post-concert haze draped over him, covering him in its weight. He could feel the tremors in the ground as the arena continued to cheer long after his disappearance, clusters of fans still breaking into spontaneous song.

  He’d done well. He was flush with the knowledge of it, even as he could already feel that rush seeping out of his limbs and giving way to bone-deep exhaustion. As he followed the crew through the same corridor from hours earlier, the roar of the stadium began to recede, until it sounded only like background noise against the echo of his shoes.

  Claire was at his side now. He couldn’t remember when she’d popped up. She was smiling at him, but in her eyes, he could see her concern. She knew how he got right after concerts.

  “That was legendary,” she said to him. Her cool fingers curled around one of his arms as she guided him down the hall.

  “Did she come?” he asked.

  Claire looked at him, then shook her head. She didn’t have to ask to know he meant his mother.

  Winter nodded, his expression blank. “Can you send someone to make sure her car’s in her driveway, that she’s home safe and isn’t stuck at the airport?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Claire reassured him.

  The dance crew streamed by around them, whooping at Winter when they saw him. He looked over as Dameon and Leo passed by, clapping their hands in the air.

  “Dinner in your room!” Leo shouted. “We’re gonna buy out the hotel’s champagne!”

  Dameon’s grin was more subdued. His eyes followed Winter, studying him in his quiet manner. He seemed to notice Winter’s expression, in the way that he always noticed everything about Winter, but didn’t comment on it.

  “Take your time!” he called to Winter.

  Winter’s eyes locked gratefully with his for an instant. Then Dameon and Leo were gone, moving with the tide of people down the hall toward the rear exit. Winter followed Claire to the greenroom.

  “Take some time for yourself,” she told him. “But I want to get you out of here way before we open up the lots. Ten minutes, tops. Okay?”

  He flashed her a grin as he wiped his forehead. He didn’t even know who’d put a towel in his hand. “Got it.”

  She grasped his chin firmly and gave him a gentle shake. “And for chrissakes, eat something.”

  “I promise,” he answered.

  Then she released him and left him alone.

  The greenroom was empty now. Winter found himself wandering around the space, past the tables and empty makeup chairs. The silence seemed overwhelming after the screams of tens of thousands of people.

  In about an hour, the headlines would start all over again. How his new concert had been. How he’d looked and who he was wearing. Alongside news about war and protests would be how many thousands of dollars his upcoming tour’s tickets could fetch for resale. New rumors and gossip. He’d linger over a late dinner with Dameon and Leo, recounting the best parts of the night. Then he’d lie awake, alone and listless, and feel his soul beating weakly in time with his pulse.

  He leaned against one of the tables and bowed his head. Sweaty strands of his hair hung across his vision. For some reason, he found his thoughts returning to the sight of the soaked fans who’d been standing outside the side entrance, waiting for him to emerge from the car. He thought of the little girl shivering in the rain just for the chance to get a piece of paper with his scrawl on it.

  The last lyrics he’d written in his notebook echoed in his mind.

  ’Cause what am I doing here? What are we all doing here?

  They all came to see him, gave him their hard-earned money, handed him this magical life of his. What did he give them in return? Once, it felt like he offered them something substantial—his music, his performances, his heart. Something to help them forget about whatever worries might plague their lives. But now it felt less like that and more like … well, he didn’t know. Repetitive interviews and thick barricades. Meetings and attorneys. Fans who thought they loved him but didn’t get to know him at all. A never-ending cycle of rote actions: wake up, makeup, show up. Pose. Recite answers to the same questions. Rehearse smiles for the same photos. Eat and sleep in a hotel room.

  And the love he needed to thrive, to survive, felt more and more distant every day. Were his creations still creations, an expression of love? Or had it all just become business? Was he worth the world’s adoration? Was he deserving of their love that he so desperately craved?

  He was never sure. Just as he was never sure whether his mother would remember he existed, or when she might fail to take her medications, or if she was proud of his successes, or whether she loved him.

  Just as he was never sure why his brother had to be the one who died.

  Ah, Winter, Artie had once told him gently after a failed audition. You don’t have to be famous to matter.

  But Winter didn’t know how to matter without being famous.

  Artie had given his life for something that made the world better. What was Winter giving?

  Suddenly he couldn’t stand it anymore. The high from the concert had dissipated, leaving only exhaustion. The restlessness that always roamed inside him ached now, pulling forever toward some unattainable version of himself that was a better person than who he currently was.

  If he could just reach it, he would be worthwhile. He would be happy.

  But he couldn’t. So all he wanted to do was flee to a hotel room. Maybe he’d bail on dinner with the boys, too. Claire had said ten minutes, but he looked at the clock on the wall.

  “Five minutes,” he muttered.

  Long enough. Knowing her, the cars were probably early and ready for him anyway. He straightened and ran a hand through his messy hair. Then he headed out into the hall and away from the arena stage.

  His bodyguards hadn’t come for him yet; maybe it was too early, and they were all waiting somewhere near the back entrance. He walked alone down the corridor until he reached the small, nondescript side door leading to the back.

  Winter stepped out into the cool, wet night. His sight settled immediately on a sleek black SUV waiting right at the entrance. As he walked toward it, the car’s door opened automatically for him, revealing a plush interior.

  Winter let out a small sigh of gratitude as he slid inside. Claire must have upgraded the cars during the concert. This one had tinted windows that were currently playing some soothing video of an ocean scene, a feature that his other car definitely didn’t have, and new leather seats that were already heated to a cozy temperature.

  The door closed automatically behind him, sealing him in. Then the car pulled away.

  That was when he realized something wasn’t right. The woman sitting in the shadows beside him wasn’t Claire. And the driver wasn’t someone he recognized, either.

  Winter blinked. “Is this the wrong car?” he asked.

  “It’s exactly the right car,” the woman answered.

  And in that moment, Winter realized he was being kidnapped.

  2

  Those That Walk in the World’s Shadows

  It took another second for Winter to convince himself that he wasn’t jumping to conclusions. He’d rushed into plenty of black SUVs before where he didn’t recognize the driver or had to speed off for some reason or other. Claire didn’t always have time to tell him everything, and over the years, he’d simply learned to get in first and ask questions later.

  Maybe there was an explanation here, too.

  But something about this driver and woman dressed in impeccable suits seemed different. Winter felt his sixth sense prickling the hairs on the back of his neck.

  “Are we heading back to the hotel?” he asked them.

  They didn’t answer. The serene ocean videos continued to play on the windows, giving him the illusion of driving along a Mediterranean coast. Only the front window stayed clear. They were driving toward the wrong exit.

  “Stop the car, please,” Winter said instead.

  No answer.

  Now he knew he was in trouble. No driver of his had ever, in his entire life, not done what he asked. But the driver kept going, his gaze fixated on the gates at the far end of the stadium lot. The man’s brows were so dark and intense that they looked like they might smother his eyes entirely.

  “Stop the car,” Winter said again, sterner this time. “And let me out immediately.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that, Mr. Young,” he said over his shoulder. Streetlight outlined the scruff of his short beard.

  I’m being kidnapped. It’s finally happening. The thought rushed through Winter like a river of ice. It’d always been a possibility—and the real reason Claire seemed perpetually paranoid about his safety. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. Was this why none of his bodyguards had been around? Had these people done something to them?

  “And why not?” Winter asked as calmly as he could. As he did, one of his hands ran along the edge of the door, seeking the lock.

  “They’re all auto-locked from the driver’s side,” said the woman sitting beside him. She ran a light hand across the side of her blue hijab, then regarded him with a pair of calm, deep-set eyes.

  Winter’s hand stopped, and he reached instead for his phone, ready to trigger its emergency call feature. “If it’s a ransom you want,” he said quietly, “contact my manager. But I’m warning you. Claire won’t be happy to hear this, and you really, really don’t want to piss her off.”

  “No ransom needed. It’s not money we’re after, Mr. Young.” The woman nodded at his hand. “Keep your phone where it is. It won’t work in here, anyway. This is just a CPU.”

  Winter’s hand stopped short of the phone. “A what?” he asked.

  She waved a flippant hand. “A car pick up. A meeting. We’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

  Now they sounded less like kidnappers and more like … solicitors? Winter frowned at her, his temper rising. “A few minutes? What the hell is going on? Who are you?”

  They had exited the stadium gates now and were heading up the street. The woman reached into her pocket to pull something out. Winter tensed, wondering for a split second if he was going to have to wrestle a gun out of her hand—but then the woman held up a badge and flipped it open to an ID.

  “Sauda Nazari, Panacea Group,” she said.

  Winter shook his head. His heart was still pounding in his ears, and he blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. “What?”

  “The Panacea Group. Panacea means a solution—”

  “I know what panacea means,” Winter snapped. “What’s this? Who are you, some kind of CIA agent?”

  The man up front snorted. “Close. But good guess.”

  Winter shook his head. This was getting more and more confusing.

  “The CIA hires us for the jobs they don’t want to do,” Sauda explained.

  “I really don’t need your jokes right now.”

  She looked at him. “These are not the eyes of a joker, Mr. Young.”

  He stared at her before she finally broke her gaze and glanced ahead at the windshield. Up in the front, the man sighed.

  “What did I tell you?” he grumbled. “There’s still time to return him to the stadium. Should we just drop him off and pick someone else?”

  “Give him some time, Niall.” She looked at the man through the rearview mirror and gave him a small, winsome smile. “Please, for me.”

  He muttered something unintelligible again, but settled back into silence.

  She turned to eye Winter. “We’re who the CIA calls when they’re looking to … outsource some work,” she said. “The Panacea Group is a private company, and we look for unconventional agents. We have a certain amount of leeway that our government-run cousin doesn’t. Less red tape, more funding, if you will. The ability to move faster. So we take on anything that slips through the CIA’s political cracks.”

  “You really are serious,” Winter muttered.

  “That’s what I said,” Sauda replied.

  “The CIA.”

  “The Panacea Group.”

  “Panacea. Okay.” Winter rubbed his forehead. “Is this standard procedure, kidnapping people without telling them what you want? Is that legal? Because I hope you know that in about half an hour, my missing status will be the top headline on every newscast in the world.”

  Sauda leaned forward on her knees. “Rest assured, Mr. Young, that as soon as we finish this conversation, we will drop you off wherever you want to be.”

  “And the conversation is?”

  “We need your help.”

  At that, a bubble of laughter rose in Winter and emerged like a bark. “Okay. That’s great.” He shook his head. “If this is one of Claire’s pranks, I’m firing her the instant I get out of this car.”

  The woman didn’t laugh. Somehow, something in her expression made Winter’s smile fade. There was an authenticity to her that he couldn’t quite shake.

  “You’re Winter Young,” she said.

  “Yes. Impressive espionage work.”

  “As you’re well aware, you’re one of the most famous superstars in the world, with quite a wide range of fans.” She crossed her arms. “And we are interested in one of those fans.”

  Winter crossed his arms. “Is that so?”

  “For the last few years, we’ve been tracking the activities of Eli Morrison. Do you know who that is?”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Not quite,” Winter said.

  “Eli Morrison is one of the world’s richest men,” Sauda explained. “Thanks to his shipping empire, he’s worth thirty-seven billion. The CIA has attempted to arrest him in the past, with little success.”

  “I didn’t know shipping things was illegal.”

  “Shipping some things is. Like drugs. And people. And weapons.” Her smile looked grimmer. “We prefer to call that trafficking.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

  Sauda looked unfazed. “Morrison’s daughter, his only child and the apple of his eye, is turning nineteen soon. Her father is planning a multiday celebration that will—pardon the accuracy of my quote—‘beat the shit out of any birthday party that anyone has ever had.’” She nodded at him. “And she’s your biggest fan.”

  Winter felt a weight drop in his chest. “I get that a lot,” he muttered.

  “I think this one might actually mean it,” she said. “In about eight hours, Morrison’s people are going to be reaching out to you and your manager. They are going to offer to hire you to put on a private concert for the celebration.”

  Performing for the daughter of a criminal tycoon. Well, this was new. “Where?” he asked. His throat felt dry. “When?”

  “In a month,” she explained, “in London. He is having ten thousand guests flown in, all on a fleet of private planes.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “I told you it was a big party.” She shrugged. “Security for the week, as you can imagine, will be extremely tight.”

  He looked back and forth between her and Niall. “You want me as your in?”

  “We want you as our in,” she confirmed. “You would attend this week of exclusive events.”

  “In order to do what?”

  “To help us get a crucial piece of evidence that we need to arrest Eli Morrison.”