“Son of a Tink,” Jenks muttered. I never even saw what it was—Jenks was already three people deeper into the crowd. He went low, wings clattering as the shade of lunkers cooled us. I hung from Jenks’s arms, helpless, wide eyed, and feeling like I was on a roller coaster with no brakes. “Hold on!” he shouted as he jerked to a stop.

My head swung forward, then back, hitting his middle. The momentum of my legs pulled us forward, and I squinted at the sudden silver dust as Jenks back-winged us through it.

A haze of brown-tinted ever-after hissed in front of us. It hit the legs of a man. He turned. Shock registered, first at us, and then his legs, now encased in the brown goo. He shrieked, making everyone around him look. Horror filled him, and he tried to push it off, but it clung to his hands and crept up his arms. In seconds he was on the ground, unconscious in a widening circle of fear.

“Oh, that’s nasty!” Jenks exclaimed, and I lost my breath as he shot straight up, my ears popping. For an instant, the entire Fountain Square spread before us, a mass of noise and movement, and then he dropped.

“Je-e-e-enks!” I shrieked, terrified. I flopped like a rag doll, but we were almost there.

The pop of radio chatter was a blur as we headed for the stage. “Where in hell is the sticky silk!” someone shouted. Another voice demanded, “Get Kalamack out of here! She’s got something in her arms!”

They thought I was Jenks? Were they blind?

News crew lines lay across the gray granite, and the whine of electronics hurt my ears as we dipped and swooped. Adrenaline surged as we found the stage. People in suits fell back at Jenks’s darting form, as if he was a deadly bumblebee, and I found Trent at the podium. Two I.S. cops were with him: a vamp and a witch. I pointed to the plywood stage, and Jenks dove for it.

I stumbled as my feet found purchase. Jenks’s grip slipped from me, and I looked up to see Quen trying to hustle Trent away. Trent’s eyes met mine, and he stopped dead in his tracks, wanting his statue back, no doubt.

“Morgan?” he whispered, his voice finding me over the noise. His eyes narrowed, and Jenks flew up to protect me. There was a hiss of propellant, and he darted away, one wing tangled in sticky silk.

“Non sum qualis eram!” I shouted as brown shoes circled me, making the stage shake.