As suddenly as it had come, all of the rage went out of him, like a balloon that had popped under pressure. His entire body deflated, and he sagged against the bar, breathing hard, tiny drops of blood oozing out of the shallow cuts that dotted his knuckles. He looked at me again, his brown eyes dull and tired.

“All right,” he mumbled. “Go ahead. Get it over with. Do your worst. I know you want to, and honestly, I just don’t care anymore.”

I removed my boots from the top of his desk, set them on the floor, and got to my feet. McAllister tensed as I walked toward him, and his gaze flicked to the doorway, like he was still thinking about making a break for it. No matter what he said, he wasn’t ready to die. No one ever really was in the end. We all thought we had all the time in the world, and when we realized that wasn’t the case, we did whatever we could to prolong the inevitable, if only for a few more precious seconds.

I reached the bar and stopped. I was directly in front of McAllister, with him on one side and me on the other, just like it had always been. I stared at him for a moment, then palmed one of my knives. He sucked in a breath at the flash of silverstone in my hand, and his body swayed from side to side like his legs were about to go out from under him. But I had to hand it to the lawyer. He bucked up, lifted his chin, and stared me straight in the eye.

The seconds passed. Ten . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . forty-five . . .

McAllister’s breaths grew shorter and raspier, his left eye twitching in time to the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His body trembled, and his lips quivered, as he prepared himself to let out one final scream.

I stood there and let him sweat for a good three minutes. Then I tucked my knife back up my sleeve, crossed my arms over my chest, and leaned one hip against the bar.

“Relax, Jonah. I’m not going to kill you.”

He blinked. “You’re not?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

His whole body crumpled, and he barely managed to grab the edge of the bar to keep himself from doing a header onto the floor. For once, even his tight, smooth face had a bit of emotion in it: relief. Pure, sweet, unadulterated relief that he was going to get to keep on breathing.

His relief was going to be short-lived, though. I’d seen to that.

It took him a few moments, but McAllister pulled himself together. He straightened back up and regarded me with cold eyes once more.

“What do you want?” he asked. “The money I stole from Mab?”

I laughed in his face. Laughed and laughed. And then I laughed some more.