Page 200 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“Thank you?”

His smile widened. “What was that little family object you wanted again?”

I stared at him. Quinn stared at him. Max sneezed.

Dimitris looked around at the ruined gallery, the dead sorcerer, the shattered display cases, the smoking remains of his own arrogance, and somehow seemed pleased.

“The incense burner,” I said.

“Ah, yes.” He brushed ash from his bare shoulder. “Take it.”

For one beat, the only sound was the distant alarm.

Then Quinn laughed. It was shaky and exhausted and alive, and it went through me more cleanly than victory.

Dimitris pointed at Max. “And the dog may have the venison treats in my freezer. All of them.”

Max’s tail wagged.

There were many things still to do.

But Quinn was alive. Max was alive.

The fifth relic was ours.

And when Quinn reached for my hand, I took it.

28

QUINN

MAX CLAIMS THE LOUNGING PAD

By the time the magical authorities arrived, Dimitris had put on a robe, accepted a blanket he didn’t need, and begun referring to the attempted heist as “an awakening.”

A woman from Olden Folk Crimes took his statement while three uniformed officers watched the smoking black mark on the gallery floor as if it might start answering questions. Luke Gildstein was gone, which had made one officer pale and another one quietly ask whether they needed a dustpan or a containment vessel.

Nobody laughed.

Except Dimitris, who laughed once and said, “Both, perhaps.”

Rafe stood beside me with one hand on my back. His shirt was ruined. Blood had dried along one shoulder and beneath his jaw. His hair was a mess from shifting back, and his face had settled into a calm mask.

“I’m fine,” he said for the third time. The paramedic who was assessing him glanced at me.

“He’s lying,” I said.

Rafe looked down at me. “You’re the one with a cut on your collarbone.”

“I have a decorative scratch. You got shot.”

“The bullet didn’t penetrate.”

“That’s a horrifying sentence that doesn’t help nearly as much as you seem to think.”

Dimitris drifted closer, robe belted loosely, face newly young and painfully pleased with itself. The fire had left him looking brighter, somehow. Less polished. More alive. It was deeply irritating that almost dying had improved his skin.

“My dear Ms. Bradley,” he said, “you are wasted on litigation.”