"You carry weaponized tree lubricant in your vest."
"It's not weaponized. It's a gardening tool."
"That Dwarf just did the splits."
"Unintended application."
Flynn stares at me. The bone meal cloud is settling around his shoulders like snow. A dead flytrap head dangles from his cargo shorts pocket. The tee shirt has a new tear across the front that exposes a strip of green skin and a glowing tattoo.
His mouth twitches. The corner pulls up. A dimple appears in his left cheek that I have never seen before. I've heard him laugh now, but a full, unguarded smile is still uncharted territory.Until right now. Right now, standing in a wrecked greenhouse full of stolen plants, unconscious guards, and enough HOA violations to fill a filing cabinet, he grins at me like I just handed him the sun.
"Move. Before they wake up."
He grabs my hand. His palm is rough and warm and enormous around mine. We bolt for the open window, and he lifts me through first, passes me the rosebush, then folds his frame with a grace that has no business belonging to someone his size.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket.
A text from an unknown number. Three words.
You're both finished.
The greenhouse alarm screams to life.
Not a buzzer. Not a bell. A full-throated magical siren that shakes the glass panes in their frames and sends a column of violet light spiraling into the sky like a beacon. Every ward Valerius embedded in this building activates at once. The stolen plants inside thrash against their pots, agitated by the magical pulse, and the two guards on the floor start groaning.
Flynn's hand tightens around mine.
"Side panel. Now."
He doesn't wait for agreement. His free arm hooks the burlap-wrapped rosebush against his hip like a football, tucking the root ball against his ribs with the casual confidence of someone who has carried heavier things under worse circumstances. His other hand stays locked on mine, and he pulls me sideways down the narrow gravel path that runs along the greenhouse exterior.
The violet light strobes overhead, painting the neighborhood in sick purple flashes. Somewhere inside, the Dwarf guard is cursing in a language that sounds like gravel in a blender. A heavy body hits a shelf. Glass breaks. More cursing.
"Flynn, the front gate has a ward lock, we can't just..."
He veers left. Not toward the gate. Toward the south-facing wall of the greenhouse where a series of decorative glass panels run floor to ceiling, each one etched with the HOA crest in frosted silver. Ornamental. Expensive. Probably custom-ordered from some artisan glassworks in the Elven Quarter.
Flynn drops my hand. He shifts the rosebush to his left arm, cradling it against him the way someone would hold an infant. His right shoulder drops. His weight transfers to his back foot. The cargo shorts stretch across his thighs as he loads his legs like springs.
"Cover your face."
I throw my arms over my head.
He hits the glass panel shoulder-first at full sprint.
The sound is extraordinary. Not the dainty tinkle of a wine glass falling off a table. This is a detonation. A concussive, full-body explosion of tempered magical glass that blows outward in a glittering cascade. The frosted HOA crest disintegrates. Shards catch the violet alarm light and scatter it into a thousand purple fireflies that spin through the dark air. The frame buckles. The support beam above it cracks. A section of greenhouse roof sags inward with a metallic groan that sounds like the building itself is offended.
Flynn bursts through trailing glass dust and wooden splinters. He stumbles two steps, catches his balance, and keeps running. The rosebush is still secure against him. Not a single root disturbed. His right shoulder is shredded. The tee shirt hangs in ribbons from his collarbone, and dark green blood wells from a dozen shallow cuts across his deltoid and bicep. Glass fragments glitter in his skin like terrible jewelry.
I scramble through the hole he made. A jagged edge catches my sleeve and rips it clean off at the shoulder. The night airhits my bare arm, cool and sharp, and then I'm running. Gravel sprays under my boots. My lungs burn.
"You're bleeding!"
"Cosmetic."
"Flynn, there's glass in your..."
"I said cosmetic. Move your legs."
