“Not exactly,” a feminine voice said. A tall figure crawled through the mists, moving over a pile of bricks to reach him. As she drew closer, he could make out large eyes, jet hair, and a sleekly elegant gown—that was now missing the bottom half, below the knees. The woman from the party, the one who had tried flirting with him.

Wax flipped Vindication, reloaded, up in a smooth motion, pointing it at the woman’s head. The bullets outside stopped pounding the wall. The silence was far more ominous.

“Oh please,” the woman said, pulling up beside the wall with him. “Why would I save you if I were an enemy?”

Because you could be Bleeder, Wax thought. Anyone could.

“Um… you’re hurt,” the woman said. “How bad is that? Because we should really start running right now. They’re going to come charging in here shortly.”

Damn. Not much choice. Trust her and potentially die, or not trust her and almost certainly die.

“Come here,” Wax said, grabbing the woman and pulling her close. He pointed Vindication at the ground.

“They have snipers,” she said. “On five roofs, watching for you to Push into the mists. Aluminum bullets.”

“How do you know?”

“Overheard those fellows with the bows whispering as they moved around to come get you.”

Wax growled. “Who are you?” he said through gritted teeth.

“Does it matter right now?”

“No.”

“Can you run?”

“Yes. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Wax took off, the woman running at his side. The wound hurt like hell, but there was something about the mists… He felt stronger in them. It shouldn’t be so—he was no Pewterarm—but there it was.

In truth, getting shot was bad, but not as bad as people often made it out to be. This shot had gone through the skin and muscle under his arm, making it difficult to raise, but he wouldn’t bleed out. Most bullets wouldn’t actually stop a man; psychologically, the panic of being shot did the most harm.

The two of them charged out the back side of the building, past the man with a knife in his head. Behind them shouts rose in the mist, and a few of the ambushers trying to get into the building took wild shots.

The woman ran well despite being in a gown. Yes, she’d ripped off the bottom half, but she still seemed to run too easily, without seeming to break a sweat or breathe deeply.

Blue lines. Ahead.

Wax grabbed Milan by the arm, yanking her to the side into an alleyway as a group of four men burst out of a cross street, leveling guns.

“Rusts!” Wax said, peeking around the corner. This short alleyway ended at a wall. The thugs had him surrounded.

“How many men does Bleeder have?” Wax muttered with another curse, under his breath.