Thomas shook his head and killed the engine and we sat for a moment in silence.

So I clearly heard a deep male voice outside the truck say, “Don’t either of you move.” There was the distinct click-clack of a shotgun’s pump working. “Or I will kill you.”

Chapter Nine

When there’s a gun pointed at you, you’ve got two options: Either you move, fast and unexpectedly, and hope that you get lucky, or you freeze and try to talk your way clear. Given that I had really limited room in which to attempt to dodge or run, I went with option B: I held still.

“I don’t suppose,” I asked hopefully, “that this is the full military model?”

“It has individually heated seats and a six-disk CD changer,” Thomas said.

I scowled. “Uh-huh. Those are way cooler than silly features like armor and bulletproof glass.”

“Hey,” Thomas said, “it’s not my fault you have special needs.”

“Harry,” said the man with the shotgun, “hold up your right hand, please.”

I arched an eyebrow at that. Typically the vocabulary of thugs holding guns to your head ran a little light on courtesy phrases like please.

“You want me to kill him?” Thomas murmured, barely audible.

I twitched my head in a tiny negative motion. Then I lifted up my right hand, fingers spread.

“Turn it around,” said the man outside. “Let me see the inside of your wrist.”

I did.

“Oh, thank God,” breathed the voice.

I’d finally placed it. I turned my head to one side and said through the glass, “Hey, there, Fix. Is that a shotgun you’re holding to my head, or are you just glad to see me?”

Fix was a young, slender man of medium height. His hair was silver-white and very fine, and though no one would ever accuse him of beauty, there was a confidence and surety in his plain features that gave them a certain appeal. He was a far cry from the nervous, scrawny kid I’d first met several years ago.

He wore jeans and a green silk shirt—nothing more. He obviously should have been freezing, and he just as obviously wasn’t. The thickly falling snowflakes weren’t striking him. Every single one seemed to find its way to the ground around him somehow. He held a pump-action shotgun with a long barrel against his shoulder, and wore a sword on a belt at his hip.

“Harry,” he said, his voice steady. His tone wasn’t hostile. “Can we have a polite talk?”

“We probably could have,” I said, “if you hadn’t started off by pointing a gun at my head.”

“A necessary precaution,” he said. “I needed to be sure you hadn’t taken Mab’s offer.”

“And become the new Winter Knight?” I asked. “You could have asked me, Fix.”

“If you’d become Mab’s creature,” Fix said, “you would have lied. It would have changed you. Made you an extension of her will. I couldn’t trust you.”

“You’re the Summer Knight,” I replied. “So I can’t help but wonder if that wouldn’t make you just as controlled and untrustworthy. Summer’s not all that happy with me right now, apparently. Maybe you’re just an extension of Summer’s will.”