Page 194 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Still young, but no longer polished. Larger through the shoulders, hair burning at the ends without being consumed, eyes bright as coals. He looked down at himself, flexed one hand, and smiled with pure, vicious joy.

“Well,” he said. “That was rude.”

Luke backed toward the detonator.

Max growled.

Rafe moved to my side.

Dimitris’s smile sharpened. “Do you know, Rafe, I think I’ve been too restrained.”

Rafe’s gaze didn’t leave Luke.

I picked up Max’s leash as he leaned against my leg. “I don’t believe anyone has ever accused you of that.”

“I know. Isn’t it wonderful to surprise people?”

The sorcerer raised both hands, and the lights went out.

For half a second, darkness swallowed the gallery.

Then Dimitris burned brighter, illuminating all of us in gold.

Across the room, Luke smiled.

The real fight had arrived.

27

RAFE

YOU ARE QUITE DONE.

For one breath, the gallery belonged to fire.

Dimitris stood in the center of it, burning gold from throat to fingertips, his ruined suit blackening at the edges and then falling away as if even fabric had decided it wanted no part of him. He had been beautiful before in the irritating, curated way of phoenixes. Now he was something ancient. Heat gleamed over his shoulders. His hair burned without shortening, flames licking through the strands. His eyes were bright enough that looking at him directly felt like a mistake.

The phoenix smiled.

I had the brief, unwelcome thought that Quinn would have called it a villain entrance with excellent lighting.

Then Luke Gildstein raised both hands, and the floor between us split.

Stone cracked upward in three jagged lines. From the gaps, figures made of marble dust, broken tile, and old iron rose, their bodies pulling themselves together from the room Dimitris had built to worship his own acquisitions. A bronze mask slid across the floor and fused itself to one blank face. A carved hand from a shattered statue became fingers. One creature opened its mouth and made a dry grinding sound as if trying to speak.

Dimitris stared at them. “Those are mine.”

Luke stood near the detonator table, blood darkening one sleeve where Max had bitten him. His smile remained calm. “Not for long,” he said.

The first construct lunged.

Dimitris met it with a wall of fire.

The blast struck hard enough to throw heat across my scales. The construct didn’t burn, but the iron in it glowed, softened, and buckled. Dimitris laughed as it collapsed into slag and marble chunks.

“A little gauche,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “but effective.”

Two thieves who had survived the first burst of phoenix fire recovered enough to move. One grabbed the electric baton. The other reached for a rifle from the floor.