Faith herded Elle toward the back of the shop, away from her goal. Elle briefly considered the back door, but Rune kept it barred and chained as well as locked, and she would never have time to get it open before Faith had finished the job she’d come to do.

Then, to her left, she saw movement.

Clarice stood holding one of the wooden staffs, the stoutest black walnut staff with the largest quartz crystal set in the head.

Thank God. With that staff, Elle stood a chance. She put out her hand and hoped Clarice gave it a good, steady toss—and at the last moment, some instinct made her take her gaze off Faith and the knife and glance at Clarice.

Clarice’s gaze was focused, her eyes were molten with hatred. Holding the heavy staff by the bottom end, intent on the back of Faith’s head, she swung with arms outstretched.

Elle hit the floor. She heard the staff whistle as it sliced the air, the crack as it struck Faith’s ribs under her upraised arm.

Elle raised her head enough to view Faith’s shock as her feet left the floor. Her head smacked the side of the shelf. For one moment, she struggled, then went limp.

The people outside battered at the glass in the door, at the door itself.

Clarice stood over Faith, who appeared to be unconscious, sprawled like a broken china doll. Like the warrior-woman she had proved herself to be, Clarice pointed the quartz crystal at the base of Faith’s throat, and her attention never wavered. In a guttural tone she said, “Elle, get me rope.”

Elle got to her feet. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell this Clarice that she didn’t have a clue where or if Rune had rope. Whatever had happened between Faith and Clarice had left its mark in pain, terror...and was that madness? Perhaps, or at least fury in its purest form. She gestured toward the front door. “I’ll let them in.”

“Rope, Elle!”

In a panic, Elle remembered the ties on the velvet curtains in Rune’s upstairs consultation room. “I’ll get something!” She ran through the beaded curtain.

Behind her, she heard Clarice declare, to herself, to Faith, to whoever listened, “I will finish this myself.”

Elle hauled ass up the steps.

The room looked as it had before the shooting, with unlit candles and the crazed tabletop—and velvet curtains tied back with gilded ropes.

Elle didn’t hesitate. She snatched four ropes and their tassels off their hooks and took the staircase down in three jumps.

The glass in the door cracked. Help was almost here.