There was a click as she put the call on hold; Sylvester picked up less than ten seconds later, tone vibrating with concern. “October?”

I took a deep breath, letting it rush out before I said, “Hey. Did you get my message?”

“What message?” He sounded honestly perplexed. “I’ve been waiting for you to call. Is everything all right? What’s going on?”

“No. Everything’s not all right. Everything’s not even a little bit all right. Listen.” And I told him what was going on. There was a lot of ground to cover, especially since he kept breaking in with questions. I did my best to answer them. In the end, there was a moment’s silence, both of us waiting to hear what the other would say.

Finally, subdued, Sylvester said, “I want to call you home more than anything. You know that, don’t you?”

“But you can’t. I know that, too.”

“No, I can’t. Toby . . .”

“I want to send Quentin back to Shadowed Hills. It’s not safe.”

He hesitated. “If this is some sort of political attack, as you say January fears, it isn’t safe to send him back alone. I’ll have to find someone who can come and collect him without angering Riordan. Can you make sure he stays alive until then?”

I laughed bitterly. “I’m not sure I can keep myself alive until then, but I’ll try.”

“Do what you can,” he said. “Just do me the favor of being careful?”

“I will. Check your phones, okay? I don’t know why our messages aren’t getting through, but it’s freaking me out.”

“I’ll keep someone by the phone night and day. Call every six hours.”

“Or what?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, flatly, he said, “I’ll think of something.”

There was nothing to be said after that. I made my good-byes and hung up, shoving Colin’s skin into the bag before leaving the room. Quentin was waiting in the lobby with his backpack over one shoulder, leaning against the wall by the elevators.

“What took you so long?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Come on. We need to find you something to hit people with.”

“What, we’re going to go steal me a brick?”

“It’s an idea.” I started for the door. The desk clerk winced as we passed; apparently, our appearance wasn’t improved by the addition of an aluminum baseball bat. I was just glad my knife was covered—he’d have had an aneurysm. I offered a genial nod, and he smiled tremulously. I was suddenly glad that we weren’t checking out. His nerves weren’t up to the strain of actually talking to us.