“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Twenty-first century, Henry; try to keep up.”

At 9:30, Tony had vetoed the idea of breaking into the wizard’s apartment.

“Look, if she doesn’t want to come, you can’t force her.”

“You can’t force her,” Henry had corrected. “I can.”

“And can you force her to fight when she gets there?”

“You’d be surprised how many people fight when cornered.”

“Yeah, like rats. She’s cornered now.” Frowning, Tony’d rubbed at his chest. “If we go in there, and if she’s home, she’ll fight us. If she wins, there’s no one to block the gate.”

“Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind; thrice thirty thousand foes before and the broad flood behind.”

“What?”

“ ‘Horatius at the Bridge.’ Lord Macaulay.”

“Fuck that. Just drive, would you.”

So Henry had pulled away from the wizard’s co-op wondering what had happened to change Tony’s attitude toward her from acceptance to sullen resentment. Immortal patience was a godsend as bit by bit the events of the morning emerged. As he pulled into the studio parking lot, he’d learned about the new circular bruise in the center of Tony’s chest, purple and angry amidst the not-yet-faded leftovers of the earlier beating.

With the gate unopened and battle delayed, he’d dropped Tony at his apartment and waited outside, out of sight, until he’d heard his heartbeat—too familiar to him to mistake—slow in the cadences of sleep. Henry could see from the street that all the lights were on and he’d snarled, frustrated by a battle that dealt in terror and left him nothing to fight.

At 2:15, after a quick drive into downtown Vancouver, he followed another of the co-op’s members into Arra’s building.

If the wizard had warded her door, she hadn’t warded it against brute strength. With the sleeves of his sweater pulled down to mask fingerprints, one hand on the door handle and the other up by the dead bolt, Henry gave a short, sharp push. The sound of steel flanges punching out of the wooden frame sounded like a gun going off, but he was in the apartment with the door closed behind him before any of the wizard’s neighbors had roused. From the hall, there would be no sign of forced entry.

The wizard was not in the apartment; he couldn’t feel her life. He searched every room regardless. Who could say what a wizard’s abilities encompassed?

The laptop was gone from the dining room table. In its place a stamped envelope addressed to Anthony Foster. On the envelope a Post-It Note that read, Vera, please drop this in the mail after feeding the cats.

Henry set the note aside and carefully ran his thumbnail under the seal of the envelope. The cheap glue parted with a minimum of protest.