Jeri Blainey’s blissful ignorance shattered before dawn on the morning of July 30th when the “Ride of the Valkyries” ringtone jolted her awake. She fumbled for the glowing iPhone, charging on the hotel room’s nightstand.

“Yeah? What? Who is this?” she asked, pressing the smooth glass to her cheek.

“What the hell did you do, Blainey?”

Even groggy and disoriented she recognized Brandon Meriwether’s voice. She sat up, wiped her eyes, and noted the clock’s red LED digits shining 5:04 in the dark. She managed the math . . . two o’clock in the morning in Oregon.

Why the hell is he calling at this hour?

The convention wouldn’t start for another five hours, her meeting with FiberNexSolutions wasn’t until eleven, and her presentation was at two. Any last-minute changes could wait.

“Mr. Meriwether?”

“Blainey, if this is an advertising stunt, you should have cleared it through Dickerson. Are you doing this, or is it someone on your team? People think it’s real. They’re freaking out. I want you to shut it down. Now!”

“I’m sorry. I . . . I honestly don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that, Jeri. This is serious. Have you seen the news? This isn’t the 1930s, and you’re no Orson Welles. Publicity is all fine and good, but people can be pretty unforgiving about having their chains yanked so hard. And oh how they love to litigate! It’s practically an American pastime. Amnesty International already has more than 68,000 signatures on a petition at the White House’s page. I just dodged a call from there—the freaking White House, Jeri!”

“The President phoned—and you didn’t pick up?” Her fingers groped across the top of the nightstand. Finding the lamp, she switched it on.

“No, not him, some staffer. I need answers first. If a petition gets 100,000 signatures in thirty days, the White House has to respond. Did you know that? I looked the damn thing up!”

Stolen novel; please report.

“Mr. Meriwether, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Are you running Troth?”

Troth? The Realms of Rah character? My god, is Brandon drunk?

“Troth? No. I was sleeping until you woke me.”

“Then who is? Ajit? Get him to stop. Shut the game down if you have to. But I want this nonsense to stop. Right now!”

“Mr. Meriwether, you’re not making any sense. No one on my team is in the game. We’ve been working sixteen-hour days the last five weeks. Everyone is exhausted. Maybe you should back up a bit and explain.”

A long silence followed. Jeri could hear him breathing—hard, heavy puffs.

Jeri stuffed a pillow behind her back and realized she needed to urinate.

“Troth is off the script,” he said, his tone deadpan serious.

Maybe this is a dream?

A software bug in a massive multiplayer role-playing game wasn’t cause for phone calls from the White House and petitions from Amnesty International.

“Troth?” she asked. “He’s the NPC that starts the Spectral Robe quest.”

“I guess.”

Jeri drew hair away from her face. “What do you mean he’s off the script?”

“Which word didn’t you understand?”

“Are you saying Troth isn’t giving out the quest anymore?”

Jeri couldn’t fathom how this could be a problem. The game always had glitches. If Meriwether had called to say the game was completely error free, that would be noteworthy. She couldn’t make any connection between the virtual world and the White House.

Unless terrorists are using the game as a meeting place to chat and plan. She’d heard of that happening, rumors at least. But what does that have to do with Troth?

“No, Jeri, he’s not giving out the quest anymore,” Meriwether said. “The last report spotted him in the Chimera Tavern in the Forest of Dim.”

She almost laughed. Being president of DysanSoft, Meriwether wasn’t a developer and didn’t know anything about the way things worked.

“That’s impossible. NPCs can’t—”

“And he’s been asking questions.”

Her desire to laugh died. “What do you mean he’s been asking questions? Asking who? Asking what?”

“Players. From the reports I’ve seen, he started by talking to other NPCs but gave that up because players have been more responsive.”

This was tripping well past bizarre, and Jeri doubted if even her unbridled subconscious could dream up this concoction. “What kind of questions?”

“Jeri . . . he asked, ‘Is this a game?’”

“No way.” Jeri switched on the phone’s speaker and dropped the device on the bed. Then she powered up her portable Wi-Fi hub and grabbed her laptop.

“I saw a YouTube video. Looked pretty authentic. I need answers, Jeri. You understand me?”

“Already booting my rig. I’m on it, and I’ll call you back.” She hung up. As bizarre as the conversation had been, one point was cause for real concern, and she was certain Meriwether had no idea what that was.