López smiles at her, teeth bright in the semidarkness. “Why do you act like you’re immortal?”

Like so many things he says in jest, it cuts close to the truth. Thora doesn’t want to admit that it has something to do with him, with the fact of his presence. While she’s with him, part of her believes she can come to no true harm. “You’re the one who thinks all this was meant to be,” she retorts. “Is God going to let us get stabbed by some random maniac?”

López looks troubled. Without meaning to, she has sent him off into one of his contemplative spirals.

Thora sighs. “We don’t have time for this. If he moves, we’re going to lose him in the crowd. You double back and take the other alley—”

López interrupts, completing her thought. “Head him off from the front.” He’s already on his way.

Thora feels an odd anxiety watching his silhouette diminish, the shadow that defines him blending into the greater darkness of the alley. Shit. She presses hard on her temples. Now is not the time for one of what Lily calls her cosmic migraines. It comes on her now, pushing her backward through the wall into a darkness filled with rushing noise. The world is unstable, flickering in and out of existence every time she blinks; they are collectively remembering it wrong, over and over. She holds her breath, hoping to stem it, but it only gets worse: towers crumbling and knitting back together like bad crochet, a burning hole in the center of it all like a hellmouth. This isn’t real, she tells herself, closing her eyes. It’s happening in your mind. Step forward. Open your eyes.

She steps forward. She opens her eyes. She’s back in the ordinary darkness of the city, the wall solid again behind her. In the meantime, her target has moved. He stands at the mouth of the alley, leaning out into the square. He’s going to make a break for it, too soon, before López can get around to head him off.

“No no no,” Thora says under her breath. As if he hears her, the man lurches forward into the square, shoving his way through the crowd.