THE GPS SIGNAL LED US to a narrow passage between an art gallery and a boutique clothing store. Halfway down, a service door stood ajar.

Paige was at the other end of the alley, hidden under a cover spell. I would have preferred to discuss that open door with her, but I was stuck with Griffin. I’d cast a cover spell over him, but it was less than perfect—because of his size or my lesser competence with witch spells.

“I hope you aren’t thinking that door being propped open is a lucky coincidence,” he said.

“In light of what’s happened tonight, does Carlos think my father himself will come to his rescue?”

“Maybe. Or that maybe you will.”

I hadn’t considered that.

The door was barely ajar, enough to look accidental, as if someone hadn’t noticed it didn’t close behind him. Inside there could be anything from a lone assassin to a small army.

“I’m going in,” Griffin said.

I caught his arm. “You might be impervious to normal harm, but you aren’t immortal.”

“Maybe not, but it’s my job.”

He tried to pull away, but I held on. “There must be another entrance.”

I was breaking my cover spell to motion to Paige when the door flew open. I quickly recast.

A dark figure stepped out and eased the door all but closed, as if he’d left something jammed at the base to prevent it from shutting.

His build matched Carlos’s, as did his dark hair.

My mind wanted to leap to the obvious conclusion and balked when I resisted. I could not make any assumptions.

Griffin had backed into the shadows. His eyes were narrowed, obviously doing the same thing I was—studying the figure with uncertainty. All we could see from this distance was that he was dark haired and clean shaven, like Carlos.

I looked toward Paige’s end of the alley. When the man turned in the other direction, she peeked around the corner, breaking her cover spell for a look. Then she gave an exaggerated shrug, meaning she couldn’t confirm his identity either.

The man lifted a radio to his lips, seemed to think better of broadcasting in such a quiet alley and reached for the door again. Before he had it half open, Griffin flew down the alley, grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the wall, his hands pinned behind his back.

I knew immediately this wasn’t Carlos. My brother’s snarls of outrage would have echoed through the night. Instead, the figure only struggled, kicking and writhing in Griffin’s grasp. He yanked the man around to face me as I approached.

He was maybe half Carlos’s age. “Who are you?” I asked in English, then Spanish.