Ian stopped suddenly, and I ran into his back. “Excuse me,” he said to someone in front of him as a dizzying wall of scent washed over us. I grabbed a handful of his shirt to pull him back.

“Hey!” he shouted, ducking to avoid the swipe of a clawed hand. The girls in the row next to us screamed as Ian jerked his arm forward and punched the Mazikin in front of him, a skinny gray-haired guy who went flying into the laps of the girls.

“Go go go!” I barked, but it was unnecessary. Ian’s hand closed around mine, and he pulled me toward the exit. We reached it a few steps ahead of the ponytailed woman. I kicked her away as Ian ripped the door open and yanked me through it.

“What the fuck?” he yelled, spinning around to face the woman and the two teens who had followed us out.

The three of them had taken a few steps toward us when an usher from the theater poked his head out the door. “I’m calling the police!” he said in a tremulous voice.

The ponytailed Mazikin turned around and crouched low, hissing at him. The usher gave me a quick, scared glance before he pulled the door shut, locking us out.

“You heard the guy,” I said to the Mazikin. “The police are coming. You better get out of here.”

The Mazikin tilted their heads. “No sirens,” said one of the teenage guys, his shirt stretched tightly over his protruding belly. “Boy,” he said, pointing at Ian. “We are here to retrieve you.”

“This one. She’s one of them,” rasped Ponytail, pointing at me. She looked over at her comrades and began to cough and grunt in that hideous Mazikin language.

I cursed as three more Mazikin rounded the corner of the theater and assembled themselves on our right flank. This was a full-scale ambush. They’d been watching. They’d followed us, not knowing I was a Guard at first; their eyes were on Ian. Just as I’d suspected, Ibram had made him a target.

“Ian,” I said softly. “I want you to run. Get to your car.”

His hand tightened over mine as he backed up toward the parking lot. “You’re kidding, right?”

I squeezed his hand and then let it go. “I’m sorry about this.”

The skinny gray-haired guy burst out of the theater, wiping blood from his face. He bared his teeth, revealing that they had been filed to sharp points. “Girl with the hair,” he snarled at me, recognition burning in his eyes, “I didn’t realize you were protecting this one, but I’m glad.” He swept his clawed hands in our direction.