Ash hovers by my side, looking from Logan to the Dobermans and back again. And he sighs like this is all very tedious, which is basically the last response I would expect. “Either make a move or get your dogs out of our way.”

I assess the barn in a sweeping glance. Almost everything in it is a potential weapon—knives, swords, tools, oil for quenching steel. And just about every surface is hard and sharp-angled. There’s no way to get into a fight here without getting hurt. There’s just too much room for error and too many unpredictable factors.

“If this is personal,” Logan continues, still focused on me, “then you must know Christopher. And you’re too young to know him from his childhood in Europe, so it’s only logical to conclude that you know him from his time in hiding.”

It’s suddenly so hot that I can’t catch my breath. He’s inching toward the very piece of information Ash said he mustn’t discover.

“Right,” I say, “because you know everything. Why even bother making trades when you’re clearly omniscient?”

Logan’s focus doesn’t waver. “And then there was your emotional response to consider—fear and concern. Now, why would you be concerned for Christopher?” A small smile appears on his lips, but his eyes are just as dangerous as they were when we first walked in. “If you were with him in hiding…given your age…” He pauses. “Do you know who you look remarkably like?”

Damn it all! I look to Ash for help, and he’s already in motion, pulling his jacket sleeve down over his hand and grabbing one of the long metal rods out of the coals. It blazes red-hot at the end. Before I can even take a breath, the dogs start for me, teeth bared.

One of them lunges for my calf, his jaws snapping air, as I throw myself atop a tall worktable just in time. The four dogs circle below me, their lips pulled back, growling.

Logan scoops up his hammer and chucks it toward Ash, who manages to deflect it with the metal rod he’s holding. By the time Ash recovers his stance, Logan has grabbed a sword off the wall behind him. It’s immediately obvious that Ash’s metal rod, which appears to be an unfinished fire iron or a farm tool, won’t stand up to Logan’s long blade.

I glance at the knife in my boot, but Ash is positioned between me and Logan, leaving me with no clear shot and a good chance of giving up my weapon for no reason. Just then, one of the dogs jumps at the table, its paws scraping the wood as it strains to reach my ankles.