“I want to sell that pomander,” said Sir Ellery. “So you’re going to return it to me.”
And at his side, the hand with the gun twitched.
Sebastian let his magic loose.
Twin yelps of shock filled the alley as both Wesley and Sir Ellery went stumbling.
Except Alasdair—didn’t.
“And that must be your enervation magic,” Alasdair said, sounding delighted. “I wish I could hear it. Packs a punch, doesn’t it? Or at least, I’m sure it does when you haven’t been poisoned.”
So many thoughts rushed Sebastian’s mind at once he could barely sort through them: Alasdair was a paranormal; Alasdair knew Sebastian was a paranormal; Alasdair didn’t care that Sir Ellery was armed.
And Alasdair had just saidpoisoned.
“What are you—” Sebastian froze.
A searing burn was creeping through his veins, spreading from his core through his limbs.
“Sebastian de Leon,” came Wesley’s irritated voice, not nearly as weak as it should have been. “I had everything under control.”
Sebastian couldn’t answer. His magic had reversed itself, pulling back into him like the tide rushing back into the ocean. The alley had gone blurry, the bricks blending together. Sebastian’s breaths were starting to come too hard, sweat drops beading on his skin.
“I’m afraid your magic has a new target now,” said Alasdair. “Good thing, too, otherwise your enervation would have spoiled my illusion, and then Lord Fine would see me and my jig would be up.”
Sebastian tried to take a step, but his knees buckled. He stumbled as fever rushed him, chills and burning heat together, far too fast to be natural.
“Sebastian.” Wesley’s voice was strong, not touched by magic at all, not slurred. “Sebastian, what’s going on?”
Sebastian opened his mouth, but no words would come out. He shook his head helplessly, and then his knees gave out completely, and he was the one tumbling down to the pavement.
“Sebastian!”
“What the fuck was that?” Oh no. Sir Ellery was getting to his feet. He was still armed—and Wesley—
There was a thud, and a man’s grunt of pain.
“Watch where you’re aiming that thing,” Wesley snapped, and then there was another smacking sound, another yelp.
Sebastian tried to push up, to see what was going on. Down the alley, Wesley was shoving Sir Ellery up against the wall. Sebastian’s arms were trembling as he tried to start an army crawl toward the fight. “Wes—”
A boot wedged itself under his ribs. “Let’s let the Englishmen work it out, shall we?” Alasdair’s boot shoved up, flipping Sebastian over and onto his back. “Winner takes all.”
Shit. Sebastian tried to sit up. Alasdair planted his boot on Sebastian’s chest. “There’s nothing you can do to help now,” he chided. “Just enjoy it.”
Sebastian turned his head. He could barely make out Wesley and Sir Ellery, a blurred scene like a movie projector out of focus. Their voices seemed very far away.
“I know damn well how good you are with that weapon.” Sebastian had never heard Wesley so furious. “Don’t you dare point it at Sebastian.”
“Fuck off, Fine,” Sir Ellery spit out. “You stole from me.”
“I don’t have the bloody pomander,” Wesley snapped. “I don’t even know where it is. Give me that.”
Wesley grabbed for the gun. Sir Ellery took a swing at him, and the men began to fight in earnest. Alasdair watched them with an expression of delight, like he was at a sporting match. “I poison all my non-alcoholic drinks.”
What, Sebastian wanted to say at the non sequitur, but he could only loll his head to the side.
“It’s harmless to anyone without magic,” Alasdair went on, eyes on Wesley and Sir Ellery. “But when a paranormal swallows it, it goes into your bloodstream. Then you’ve got a little booby trap in your own veins, ready to be sprung as soon as you use your magic.”
