"They were four. Sorak, demon king, and three warriors."

"Description?"

She sprawled in a chair, all legs and attitude. He looked more scholar than warrior now, working with his odd scroll and quill. Though she had never found scholar appealing before, this aspect of him was attractive to her as well.

He has brains as well as muscle, she thought. Intellect as well as brawn.

"Description," Harper repeated. "What do they look like?"

"They are deceptively human in appearance, and so often walk among people without detection. They are handsome, as you are. Though you have eyes blue as the marsh bell, and your hair is cropped short. Those who are foolish enough to be influenced by such things as beauty are easy victims."

"We've established that you're nobody's victim, baby. Be more specific."

She huffed. "They have good height, like you, but their build is less. It is more… slender. Hair and eyes are dark, black as a dead moon except in feeding or in attack, where they glow red."

"Glowing red eyes," he noted. "I'd say that's a fairly distinguishing mark."

"Sorak's hair curls." She demonstrated by waving a finger. "And is well groomed. He is vain."

"They outfitted like you?"

It took her a moment, then she glanced down at her hunting clothes. "No. They wear a kind of armor, black again, close to the body, and over this Sorak wears the tunic and cloak of his rank."

"Even in New York, body armor and tunics should stand out. Maybe there's something on the news." He picked up the remote and flipped on the television.

Kadra leaped up as if he'd set her chair on fire. Even before her feet were planted, her sword was out, raised high above her head in preparation for a downward thrust.

"Hold it, hold it, hold it!" He jumped and, as he might have done to save a beloved child, threw himself between the blade and his TV. "I don't give a rat's ass about what you did to the bathroom sink, but put one scratch on my TV and you're going down."

Her heart pounded in her chest, and her muscles quivered. "What is this sorcery?"

"It's not magic, it's ESPN." He hissed out a breath, then moved in to clamp his hands over hers on the hilt of the sword. She tipped her head back so their eyes, their mouths, lined up.

"It's television, which is arguably the national religion of my country. An entertainment device," he said more calmly. "A kind of communication. We have programs—ah, like plays, I guess, that tell us what's happening in the world, even when it's happening far away."

She drew a breath, slowly lowered the sword while she stared at the picture box where the machines called cars ran swiftly around a circle. "How is this done?"

"Something about airwaves, transmissions, cameras, stuff. Hell, I don't know. You turn the thing on, pick a channel. This is a race. You get that?"