“Hang on.” Whatever was moving had to be mostly hidden or he’d have seen it; judging by the reflection, Quentin had a clean line of sight. It very well might have been invisible, using an illusion spell that wasn’t properly set up to include mirrors. Never trust anything that skulks around invisible in a building where people keep dying. “Actually, Quentin, come over here a second.” It had too clear of a line on him. I didn’t like it.

“Why? I’m already right here.” He stepped forward, saying, “I don’t—”

The reflection started moving again. “Get down!” I shoved him as hard as I could, grabbing a handful of Connor’s shirt and diving for the floor as the gun went off.

Two shots echoed through the room, almost drowning out the sound of Quentin shouting.

The first hit the wall where I’d been standing a moment before, flinging bits of tile in all directions. I didn’t see where the second hit. I was too busy flattening myself against Connor and trying to see behind me, searching for our invisible assailant or assailants.

There was no one there.

The kitchen door we’d discovered during the search for Jan’s body was standing slightly open. It swung shut as I watched. There would be no more shots, but I’d missed the shooter. As the rush of adrenaline faded, I realized that a chip of flying tile had opened a cut along my left cheek. I’d landed on my wounded hand, and blood was soaking the gauze. Just what I needed: more pain. I don’t like being shot at—it makes me cranky—but I liked what the shots implied even less. None of the victims were shot. This was either someone new trying to get revenge for our failure, or the original killer was trying to scare us away. Neither option was good.

“Connor?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” He laughed unsteadily as I pushed myself off of him. The color was high in his cheeks. “I forgot how exciting hanging out with you can get.”

“Yeah, well. Quentin? You okay over there?”

He didn’t answer.

I turned to face him, and froze. “Oh, oak and ash.”

He was sitting with his back against the soda machine, left hand clamped high on his right arm. Blood ran between his fingers, coming way too fast. His face had gone whey-white, bleached by shock. “Not really,” he mumbled.

“Oh, crap,” whispered Connor.

I scrambled over to Quentin, reaching for his arm. “Let me see.”

“See what?” he asked, eyes wide and glossy.

“Your arm. Move your hand and let me see.” Gunshot wounds require medical attention, no matter how minor they seem. The shock waves a bullet sends through the body are nothing to screw around with.