Adam had every right to be mad. I’d have been outraged if he’d gone to battle without telling me. Without explaining himself.

“By rights, as the Master of Ceremonies, I should kill him for interfering,” Stefan told me. I jerked my head around to look at him. I’d forgotten about that, forgotten, truth be told, that there was anyone but Adam and me there. “But I suspect that the Lord of Night won’t stir himself to come punish me for a result that he himself desired. And”—he toed Frost’s body—“he was as good as dead when you stabbed him. Adam was overkill.” He bumped the body again. “Hmm. I thought he was older—but those of us who are really old turn to dust when they die. The sun will do the job.”

Asil knelt beside me with a wary eye on Adam. “You okay?”

I wiggled my toes and fingers. The fingers hurt. A lot. But they moved. “Look,” I said brightly. “No wheelchair. Last time I battled immortal monsters, I ended up in a wheelchair.”

I heard Wulfe giggling. He was propped up on the remains of a wall that had taken more damage in the fight. The broken areas showed pale cement against the blackened surface of the rest of the wall. I had been trying to lighten the atmosphere, but I hadn’t been as funny as all that.

Asil ignored Wulfe. “I like you—but I’ll say it for him”—he tipped his head toward Adam—“because he can’t. You aren’t a monster, and if you insist on fighting them with toothpicks because it’s the right thing to do, all the magic in the world isn’t going to be enough to save you.”

I looked him in the eye, ready to defend myself hotly—who did he think he was? And then I looked at Adam, who had quit growling. He was panting with effort—more effort than what he’d used to finish off Frost. How had he known? How far had he run?

My throat was raw, and my eyes were burning. It wasn’t because of the remains of the fire.