“Crap, Michael, she’s soaked,” Shane said, pulling his hand back from her wet skin. She was trying not to scream in horror from the tingle—rapidly turning to pinprick bites—all over her body. “Stay calm, baby, just stay calm—” He stripped off his jacket and tossed it to Myrnin, who caught it out of the air, frowning. “Hold that up in front of your face. If I see you drop it even half an inch, I’m blowing you in half.”

“What?”

“Just do it. Michael—”

“Yeah,” Michael said, and turned his back. “Got it.”

Shane grabbed Claire’s shirt from the hem and stripped it up over her head. She squeaked in protest, but it was too late. Myrnin had done as asked; his face was hidden behind the upheld leather jacket. Shane skinned off his own shirt, beaded with drops of water but far less compromised, and wiped her down with it to dry her off. Then he walked her over to stand behind a pile of boxes and went back to retrieve his jacket.

She stood there half-naked and shivering, feeling utterly exposed, until he came back and settled his jacket around her, then zipped it up. “There,” he said. He spread their shirts over a box to let them dry. “All better?”

It was. The warmth of Shane’s skin settled around her along with the fabric, and she hugged it close, breathing him in. “Yes,” she said, finally getting her head back together. “You’re cold, though.”

“Not that cold,” he said. “I’ll be okay.”

“No, you won’t,” Michael said, and stripped off his own jacket to toss it to Shane as he turned around. “Put that on. I won’t exactly catch my death.” The sound of the water droplets slamming down on the tin roof and walls was relentless, like a hail of marbles, and he had to raise his voice to be heard over the roar. “Myrnin! Do we have any leaks in here?”

“Yes,” Myrnin said. He seemed quite calm. “Several. Substandard construction, unquestionably. I believe there might be cause for a lawsuit.”

That should have put them all on edge, and it certainly raised shivers on Claire’s nerves, but Shane shook his head. “Trust me. We’re okay.”

“Shane—we’re not okay!”

“Want to see a magic trick?” he asked her, and kissed her, quick and light. For the moment at least, he was almost himself. “Come with me.”

Myrnin was standing well back from the door, frowning at the silvery trickles that had wormed their way through cracks and were blending together into a shallow little pool. Some of it was watershed that had come off the umbrellas, and their clothing; the rest was liquid forcing its way past the gaps. It wasn’t fast, but it didn’t have to be. It was relentless. Anyone who’d ever seen a flood understood how terrifying that could be.

“If you have more brilliant ideas, this would be an excellent time to divulge them,” Myrnin said. “Otherwise, I will do you the kindness of snapping your necks before Michael and I take silver.” He was very matter-of-fact about it, but when Claire looked closely she saw the wild, trapped, horrified look in his eyes, the rigid set of his body. This was, very literally, his worst nightmare. How long had he been fighting and fleeing the draug? Ages.