Chapter Eight
Back in Rasputin’s apartment, I stare at Nero, Claudia, and Rasputin in shock.
Who was that guy? Why will he try to kill me?
Also—perhaps less important—why the hell was he dressed like that? And what was up with that hair?
I know some of the eighties’ fashion is back, but not to this degree.
And why was he holding a paper photograph? Is he the last person on Earth without a smartphone?
Before I can voice any of this, Rasputin’s face goes from contemplative to furious.
Opening his eyes, he jackknifes to his feet and smacks the table with his palm, all while muttering Russian expletives under his breath.
“What’s wrong with him?” Claudia asks, staring at him wide-eyed.
“Maybe he saw the same thing I just did?” I say. “Or maybe he didn’t see a way for me to escape falli
