He shot a glance my way before turning, shoulders tight, to walk over to the coffee machine. Fine. If it would keep him occupied, he could make all the coffee in the world. “I take mine with cream, sugar, and painkillers,” I called. “That’s where Quentin was shot, Tybalt. You think you can find the gun?”

“How, precisely, should I do that?” The look he gave me then was very nearly amused. “Shall I simply wave my hands and call, ‘Here kitty, kitty’?”

“No.” I shrugged. “Follow the smell of gunpowder.”

Tybalt blinked, and then nodded. “Worth trying.”

“At this point, everything is,” I said, without humor. “Elliot, stay here. Get Tybalt anything he asks for. I’ll be right back for my coffee.”

The look Tybalt gave me then was anything but pleased. “Where are you going?”

“To check on Quentin,” I said, and slipped out of the cafeteria, heading down those newly linear halls toward the room where I’d left Quentin and Connor.

Connor cracked the door open on my second knock, peering out into the hall before opening the door all the way and stepping out. “Hey,” he said, voice soft. “Everything okay?”

“Sylvester’s on his way, and Tybalt’s here,” I said. “How is he?” I didn’t need to specify which “he” I meant. There was really only one candidate.

“Asleep.” A brief smile crossed his lips. “April brought him the Hippocampi from Colin’s office a little bit ago. Tank and all. I think she’s trying to make him feel better, she just doesn’t know quite how.”

“And they’re still alive?”

“Frisky as ever.”

“Huh.” If April could teleport living things, she had definitely become something very different from your average Dryad. “You holding up okay?”

“Sure, for now. What are you doing wandering around alone?”

I leaned over to hug him, briefly. “Just checking in. Stay safe.”

He kissed my cheek. “You, too.”

“Trying,” I said, and turned to return to the cafeteria. Once he was out of sight, I raised my hand, touching the spot where he’d kissed me. If Raysel had reason to hate me before . . .

There’d be time to worry about that later, when we weren’t dead. I stepped back into the cafeteria and into a tableau strange enough to stop me in my tracks, just blinking.

Three mugs of coffee and the last box of donuts were sitting in the middle of one of the tables, as decoratively placed as any tea party preparations. A bottle of Tylenol was sitting next to one of the mugs. Elliot, sleeves rolled prissily up to keep them from brushing the floor, was kneeling next to an open vent, peering into it. Tybalt was nowhere to be seen.

I cleared my throat.

Elliot looked around, and said, “Your coffee’s on the table,” before returning his attention to the vent.