Whenever a mirror generates a Being, the event also creates a massive electrical field that can, with a little ingenuity, be harnessed to power just about anything. Everyone who deals with me is willing to risk the Beings to harvest its energy. All of them always believe they’ve thought through every extremity, taken every precaution. About a third end up dead anyway. Some of them take bystanders with them too, people in the wrong place at the wrong time. It sucks for those folks, but dealing mirrors is the quickest way for me to get where I need to go, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen.

Elliott doesn’t answer, but my words snap him out of whatever trance he was in. He lifts his eyes to mine. For the first time, I see real emotion there, though in the shadows I can’t quite make out what it is.

He lifts his hand and takes the mirror from me. He drops it into his pocket. Then he turns his head and glances at the front door like he’s planning to bolt.

I go on high alert. No way is he going to short me, leave without giving me the info he promised. I dip my hand into my pocket and curl my fingers around the precaution I put there. Another mirror. I tug the tape off its cover and hold it in my pocket, the silvered glass cool against my palm.

Then I go still. There’s a noise coming from the boardwalk, a scuff of wood, something quiet but familiar. Footsteps. Elliott must’ve heard it too, that was why he turned to look. I make out a shape ducking behind a booth across the way. It’s a person clad in a blue uniform. The muted light of sunset glints off the gun in his hands.

Cops. The cops are outside. The cops have found me during the middle of a deal.

Panic screams through me. I spit out a curse. I take a step toward Elliott—should’ve trusted my instincts, should’ve known he was a damn snitch, have to get the upper hand on him now before he can officially inform on me—but he’s too quick. He lifts up the back of his shirt, pulls his own gun out of his waistband, and points it at my chest.

“Marty Callahan,” he says, “you’re coming with me.”

CHAPTER THREE

DESPERATION RISES AT THE BACK OF MY THROAT. I can taste it.

Elliott jerks his head at the door to the boardwalk. “Move,” he orders, his voice dead calm.

I cough out a harsh laugh. “Make me, asshole.” I take a step toward him. Maybe I can force him to shoot me here and now, I think wildly. Take out the middleman. Sam was right: It would be better.