But I’d gotten him here, and I couldn’t help but feel responsible for…whatever he was doing. What was he doing? I licked my lips and lowered my arms, trying to play the “I don’t care” game. “You’re serious about the dead thing?” I couldn’t help but ask.

He didn’t answer, and Jenks remained silent as he sat on the TV’s remote, his knees almost to his ears. I grimaced, realizing that Jenks had already slipped into backup mode. He never said much when I was on a run with him, either. He wasn’t wearing a scrap of red, and it worried me. Damn it, if Trent came back and Jenks didn’t…I’d make him suffer. If I did nothing else in this world, I’d make him suffer bad.

Seeing me ready to call the whole thing off, Jenks blurted out, “Ready, Trent?”

Trent looked at me, his hair slicked back and his green eyes holding excitement. “Yes.”

“You were just kidding about the dead thing. Right? Right?”

Jenks hovered by my shoulder. “Take a chill strip, Rache,” he said. “They’re faster than the pills and come in convenient dispensers. I’ve got this covered. He’s not doing anything that you wouldn’t do.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Crap, I was used to beating the 11 percent, but Trent didn’t believe it was possible. It was often belief that made the impossible real. Jeez, maybe I should go with them.

As if knowing my thoughts, Jenks’s expression darkened. Trent took off his watch, leaving it on the counter. His wallet was next, and he took most of the money out of it and tucked it in a small slot in the utility belt before setting the smooth leather next to his watch.

I took a slow breath. If I said anything now, Jenks would be insulted. Trust. I had to trust. But it was hard. “Where do you want to be dropped off?” I asked softly.

Trent was giving himself a last look, fussing with the hair about his ears. “Train station,” he said shortly. “Preferably on the platform, not the track,” he drawled.

Nervous, I pushed myself into motion. “Okay. I’ll call him.”

I headed for the living room. Trent followed with Jenks on his shoulder. Pierce was looking through the front closet as we entered, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it would be like working for Trent: amicable conversations in penthouse suites in foreign cities, the excitement of a run coursing through me, and the coming satisfaction of knowing I’d done something no one else had before. Very secret agent. Was this why Nick did what he did?

I sneaked a glance at Trent as I sat on the couch, thinking he looked fantastic standing there—his color high and that calm confidence he always had tightened by excitement. Twice he had called on a demon and survived; admittedly it had been a mistake, but he’d done it. He had the guts—or stupidity—to work with wild magic, elven and dangerous. He had a pixy on his shoulder and was ready to do something clever and dangerous—something that, if he failed, would mean his death. I didn’t know who he was anymore, and I felt a stirring inside.