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The clinic window shattered at eleven minutes past three.

Marcus threw himself across Del before the glass finished falling. A clay vessel struck the far wall and broke open, releasing black powder in a cloud. The powder ignited when it touched the lamp flame.

Blue fire rolled across the workbench. Marcus pulled Del to the floor and covered her with his body while heat passed over them. The prepared counteragent stood in twelve stoppered vials less than two feet from the flames.

“The vials,” Del said.

“Stay down.”

She shoved him aside and crawled beneath the edge of the bench. Marcus caught the back of her jacket, but she twisted free and reached the first rack as the fire spread along the spilled reagent. The wooden support beneath the vials smoked.

Marcus seized the rack and passed it to her. “Cold-storage box. Now.”

Del ran toward the cabinet. Marcus ripped the wool blanket from the gurney and threw it across the burning workbench, smothering part of the fire. The blue flames continued beneath it, feeding on something that didn’t require air.

“Magic.” Del shoved the vials into the insulated box and returned with a jar of salt. “Move.”

Marcus dragged the blanket aside. Del flung salt across the fire and spoke a word that made his teeth ache. The flames bent toward her, flattened against the bench, and went out.

The clinic fell dark except for the cold-storage unit’s blue indicator. Smoke filled the upper half of the room, thick enough to hide the rafters. Marcus opened the rear door while Del drew a containment circle around the remains of the clay vessel.

“Don’t touch the powder,” she said. “It carries a displacement working.”

“Meaning?”

“Anything prepared with intent is moved somewhere else when the fire consumes it.” Del examined the black residue without crossing the circle. “Someone wanted the counteragent removed, not destroyed.”

Marcus checked the cold-storage box. Eleven vials sat intact. The twelfth had cracked in the fall and leaked into the insulation.

“We lost one dose,” he said.

Del looked toward the broken window. A narrow trail of blood crossed the remaining glass on the sill. “Whoever threw it cut himself.”

They went outside together. The blood continued across the gravel in drops too small for a mortal eye to follow easily. Marcus tracked the scent toward the alley while Del carried a piece of chalk and a small iron blade.

The trail ended behind the abandoned print shop. A young woman crouched beside the wall with both hands pressed over her ears. Marcus recognized her from Del’s account of the coven meeting two years earlier: silver glasses, nervous hands, and a vote cast only after Rosalind raised hers.

“Clara,” Del said.

The woman lifted her head. Blood ran from her nose, and a deep cut crossed one palm. Her pupils were so wide that only a thin ring of brown remained.

“I couldn’t stop,” Clara whispered. “I knew what I was carrying. My body wouldn’t turn around.”

Del crouched several feet away. “Did Arrow speak your name?”

Clara nodded. “All of it. The one my mother gave me before the coven name. Rosalind wrote it down.”

Del reacted beside him. Her shoulders drew back, and the iron blade tightened in her hand. “Is he still inside your head?” she asked.

“No. The vessel broke, and the command ended.” Clara looked at the blood on her palm as though it belonged to someone else. “He said the doctor would choose the medicine over you. He said you needed to understand that.”

Marcus stepped closer, but Clara recoiled hard enough to strike the brick wall. Del raised one hand to stop him. “He’s not going to hurt you. Neither am I.”

“You should.” Clara’s mouth trembled. “I tried to burn the cure.”

“Arrow used your name.”

“I gave it to Rosalind.”