As we ran away, I also heard an especially loud cry of dismay from someone I recognized—Lia DiStefano. This was her shop, which explained Sydney’s sly smile. I felt a little bad . . . but also kind of not. Lia had made a gorgeous dress for Sydney once, a red gown inspired by ancient Greek styles. Sydney had been so beautiful in it, I’d thought I was dreaming. I had to give Lia credit for that. On the other hand, Lia had been so desperate to have Jill model for her that she’d covertly published an ad with Jill—the one that Alicia had included in the box Jackie had brought to Sydney. I didn’t entirely know the relationship between Alicia, the Warriors, and how that ad had connected them to Jill, but there was no question that the ad had put Jill at risk.

“Sorry, Lia,” I muttered as I raced past her shop. “Next time, don’t recruit models you aren’t supposed to use.”

A block away was a florist’s shop I’d been in once before. Without checking to see if we’d been followed, we quickly darted in through its door, which was propped open to enjoy the afternoon heat. Immediately, the overwhelming fragrance of roses and lilies surrounded us. Bouquets of every color filled the shop, but I looked past all of that for what I’d remembered seeing the last time I was here: a back door. The shop had two entrances, one that faced the main thoroughfare out front and this second one that led to parking in the alley behind the businesses. I nodded and smiled at the surprised florist, then hurried Sydney through to the back door as though what we were doing was perfectly normal.

In the alley, I paused and dared a peek through the door’s window, waiting to see if an Alchemist came bursting into the shop. No one did, so I crossed my fingers that destroying Lia’s display had caused enough confusion to cover the rest of our journey. Sydney and I ran down the back alley, past the doors of more businesses, some of which were public and some weren’t. When we reached the back door for Miguel’s Taqueria, it read DELIVERIES ONLY. I knocked anyway, wondering how we would explain my presence to whoever answered.

The guy who opened the door, however, didn’t seem surprised at all to see us. He waved us inside. “You must be Marcus’s friends.”

We entered and found ourselves in the entryway to the kitchen, which smelled delicious. A cook flipping a quesadilla glanced up, nodded like our presence was totally normal, and returned to his work. Meanwhile, our guide led us to a nearby storage room lined with shelves of food. There was a bona fide trapdoor in the floor. He opened it up, and down below, holding a flashlight, was Marcus. He waved up at us.