Rage and fear didn’t mix well in my blood. I could feel both moving through me, crowding out thought. Quinn was too close to explosives. Too close to armed men. Too close to every consequence I had failed to prevent by letting her come with me.
Then she looked at me.
“Rafe,” she said.
Only my name.
I released the thief. He slid down the wall, dazed but breathing. I took the knife from his hand, crushed the hilt, and tossed it aside.
“Clear?” Quinn asked.
“No.”
Because the room had gone too quiet.
The fourth man hadn’t attacked.
He stood near the broken window in a black service uniform, face half-shadowed by a cap. He held no weapon. He carried no case. He only watched us with mild interest, as though measuring an experiment.
The glamour around him was excellent.
I felt it when he shifted his weight. Magic didn’t smell like fire or metal. It tasted like a lie held too long in the mouth.
“Luke Gildstein,” I said.
Quinn’s head turned sharply.
The man’s mouth curved. “That took longer than I hoped.”
Then he was gone. The air folded around him, light bending just enough to empty the space where he had stood.
Max snarled.
Quinn’s hand tightened on the leash.
I moved toward the window, but another sound came from deeper in the house: a crash, then Dimitris Burelian’s unmistakable voice shouting something furious in a language I didn’t recognize.
Quinn looked toward the hall. “He’s still alive.”
“For now.”
“Do we go after Luke or Dimitris?”
I hated the answer. “Dimitris knows where the secured room is. Luke needs him. They’ll be together.”
“Great. Love when the hostage is also a smug nightmare.”
A laugh rose in my chest and came out as a puff of air.
One of the thieves on the floor shifted toward the detonator bag.
Max’s growl dropped lower.
“Do not,” Quinn said.
The man stopped.
I looked at Quinn, really looked. Her hair had come loose from its pins. Dust marked one cheek. Her hands trembled around the bust, but her eyes were clear and fixed on mine.