“Trent…” I backed up a step with my hands raised in placation.

Quen handed the gun to Trent. “You want her like that, you shoot her yourself,” he said.

Trent hefted the gun, taking sight at me down its length. “I can do that,” he said, then pulled the trigger.

“Hey!” I yelped when it hit me, stinging and painful. Damn it, twice in one day. But I didn’t collapse. It wasn’t a sleepy-time charm. Trent didn’t seem surprised when I didn’t fall but simply stumbled back, my impulse to flee coming far too late.

Trent handed the weapon back to Quen. “Honor is expensive, Quen. I don’t pay you enough.” Quen was not happy, and I stared at them, scared for what might happen next.

Voice cold, Trent enunciated clearly, “Rachel. Tell me where the focus is.”

“Go to hell.”

Trent’s green eyes went wide. Quen looked me up and down in shock, then relaxed, almost laughing. “She’s covered in salt water,” he said. “She said she pushed Ceri down. The woman obviously spelled her, and Rachel’s still wet from breaking the charm.”

That wasn’t quite what had happened, but I wasn’t going to enlighten him. Standing in my bare feet, I started to get mad. From Trent’s question I was forming the distinct impression that Trent had stocked his splat gun with subjugation charms. Illegal. Gray, seeing as you didn’t need to kill anything to make it, but very, very illegal.

Trent made a puff of noise and tugged his sleeves down. “Fine. Subdue her your way. Try not to leave any bruises. No traces mean no reason to dig for missing memories.”

Okay, not out of this yet… Pulse fast, I fell into a fighting stance, searching for the sound of pixy wings. Quen came forward, his earlier indecision apparently having stemmed from using magic, not force, to assert his right to dominate. Seemed if I couldn’t best him physically, I deserved to be used and discarded.

“Quen, I don’t want to have to do this,” I warned, remembering our last fight. He would have creamed me if my roommates hadn’t interfered. “Get out or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Trent said, standing sideways by the piano with an infuriating smile on him. “Turn us into butterflies? You don’t do black magic.”

Hands made into fists, I steadied myself.

“She doesn’t,” came Ceri’s voice from behind me in the hall, and Trent’s gaze shot over my shoulder. “But I do.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

“Damn it,” Trent swore softly, his eyes on Ceri as Quen halted.

The air seemed to crackle, but then I realized it was Jenks’s wings. The pixy hovered beside me, waiting for direction. I could feel Ceri behind me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Quen, standing with his lips parted and his arms slack at his sides in his black uniform.