“Toby?” Quentin’s voice cut through Jan’s memories.

“Be quiet,” I said, and swallowed again, screwing my eyes closed. I’d already learned something vital: we were right when we assumed it was a “who,” not a “what.” Monsters don’t generally use fire axes. The magic stuttered, trying to catch hold, and started again. . . . here? I grab the ax handle, and pull, trying to free myself. I don’t want to die like this, I don’t want to die without answers . . .

Something’s behind me, it’s too fast to see (the room’s too dark too dark to see), grabs the ax out of my hands. Turn to run, run run run, too late, steel hits flesh, shoulder hits the wall, look for purchase, grab hold, flailing, losing blood so fast. It hurts, but I’m angry, so angry—how dare they hurt my friends, my family, my world—I catch the blade and they gasp, it’s a person, a person, not a monster, can’t see who, I can’t see . . .

The blade pulls free. I scream—so angry, so helpless—and the ax hits again and again, and it’s getting hard to breathe. Can’t see. Can’t taste anything but blood. Force the air through the lungs, out the lips, “Why?”

No answers. The ax hits again, and there’s a new feeling, a cold new feeling . . .

That was when the memories in the blood ended; my best guess was that she fell and died after that, while that “cold new feeling” drained the vitality from the blood still in her body. I shook myself, gasping, back to the present. “She fought,” I said, aware of how dazed I sounded.

“Toby?”

“It’s okay, Quentin. I’m okay. I just . . .” I looked at my bloody fingers, and shuddered. “I found part of what we’ve been looking for.”

“Did she see the killer?”

“No. Jan wore glasses, remember?” I allowed myself a bitter chuckle. “She had no night vision.”

Quentin deflated, saying, “Oh.”

“At least she had a chance to fight. That’s more than the rest of these poor slobs got.” I wiped my hand on my jeans—a little more blood wouldn’t make a difference one way or the other—and started for the door. “Come on. We need to get moving.”

“What are we going to do now?” Quentin asked, following me.

“First we’re going to move her down to the basement. I want all the bodies in one place.”

“And then?”

“Well, then, we’re going to find the others, and I’m going to call Sylvester.” I offered him a small, grim smile. “I think I’m done avoiding a diplomatic incident, don’t you?”

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-THREE

THIS TIME, THE PHONE RANG five times before it was answered: Sylvester again, out of breath and anxious, sounding almost terrified. “Hello? Who’s there?”

I paused. “Sylvester?”